It's a beautiful not-too-cool day and we don our many-pocketed 'Scottivests' and carry everything zippered in safely on our bodies, hands free. You get a good education about the possiblity of street crime in Rio de Janeiro. Turns out most of the large avenues have been closed for various activities and we move amongst runners and bikers, little kids with their parents, and sullen teenagers on skateboards. We walk the 6 blocks over to the Museo del Oro, which hasn't opened yet, so we join the mass at the Iglesia de San Francisco and admire the old wooden roof and the nave in floor to ceiling gold, as well as the fresh flowers amassed in front of the images of the saints. Then we cross the avenue to stand in line to get into the museum. Sunday is free entry and there are a lot of people, including a fair amount of teenagers, which is really nice to see. The collection is both rich and beautifully displayed and we try not to take too many pictures of all the amazing things we see, including pieces reminiscent of Pomodoro, an Italian jeweller, we know from the gallery.
As a final touch a guard, of which there are many, more or less pushes us into a dark, round space, muttering something about a short show. It gets pitch dark for a long moment and then starts a fabulous lightshow illuminating hundreds of gold pieces to the sound of Indian chanting and water rushing by. Quite spectacular - also the fact of being alone in there. The next lot waiting outside looks to be about 20 random people and we wonder how they'll feel standing together in the total darkness.
We stop for a look at the museum store, where the one thing that stands out - a bright red hand-made hammock - turns out to cost almost $3.000. So, empty-handed, we head into the basement for a show about the Mayan culture, the ceramics of which we admire until we reach their offfering stone. Adults were sacrificed for their entrails and "children for their hearts" - all of which was put on the stone to appease the gods. After this our keen interest in that civilization diminishes considerably - in spite of the beautiful ceramics. We prefer the truly spiritual Muiscos of yesterday.
Out of the museum we head uphill toward the cable cars and funiculars which will take us to the Montserrate Sanctuary, high above Bogota. We haven't factored in that Sunday is family day, so we walk in the now hot sun with thousands of local people heading, perhaps, for the one o'clock mass on top of the mountain with their families. Street vendors line the avenue, hawking juice, sliced fruits, ripe coconut slivers with maple suryp, all manner of corn cakes, barbecued corn and meat, toys, cookies, hats, scarves - anything! We struggle uphill, again catching our breath in the richly scented air and eventually get to a a point where we can buy a ticket. The line is another question - reminiscent of Disney, where you turn a corner to see another endless line ahead of you. We'd planned to go up by cable car, but so had half of the population of Bogota, so we go by the much faster funicular. We emerge in a sea of people, going up more stairs to the sanctuary, or around to follow a Via Cruxis to taped music.
We choose to do neither, but find a secluded spot on the veranda of the pretty, old Casa Santa Clara restaurant appreciating the view of the city sprawled beneath us, and enjoying a shared $5 beer.
When it's time to go down, and the first splatters of rain fall on us, we realize most people thought they'd return by the funicular also. The line is impressive, as is the good behavior of the children, which we'd also seen on the plane going here. It appears Colombian children do not whine and carry on. They seem happy and flexible, and their parents very affectionate.
Once down we head down the crowded avenue, ducking into a flea market, and then into a deserted artesanato court, where nothing seems very interesting at all. We're going for dinner to the house of mathematician Xavier Caicedo and his wife Carmen with our old Venezuelan friend Carlos di Prisco, so we head home to get ready.
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