I liked Bogota. It sits at 2,600m high and is the third highest capital city in the world (depending which website you read) and was a great place to spend our final few days.

We didn’t, however, expect to stay in a room that smelled like feet. The main problem was that it only started smelling like feet once we had moved in. This concerned us. Why did we smell so bad? Was it actually us? What was happening? Was it my healing rash? It was a conundrum.

One of my personal Bogota highlights was hiking up Monserrate Mountain to the monastery at the top (the others may disagree with this) and mooching around taking in the graffiti and hunting for hot chocolate and cheese (a Bogota delicacy). One thing I will say though, is, that after many delicious margaritas in Colombia Bogota had shit cocktails. They were awful. But obviously we still had to keep trying…

On the first day we ended up at the central square and government area. Naturally we tried to walk past the armed guards down the parliament street (We’re not actually sure what street it was but it was barricaded off). The policeman stopped us and shook his head. Then he realised we couldn’t understand, got his google translate out and showed us his phone screen. 

The text translated to; “good stars wherever they may go.” 

Righty ho. 

I looked at him in confusion. The girls looked at me, as the Spanish speaker, in confusion. The policeman was not confused at all and wafted us off (presumably to chase the good stars wherever they may go.)

That was interesting. We’re still unsure as to whether we were in trouble or not.

We headed back to our room that smelled like feet because Gemma nearly shit herself. Once she had sorted her bowls out it was my turn. I had just settled in when there was banging at the bathroom door. 

“What?!” I shouted. The girls knew it was my turn, why were they harassing me while I was having a moment. More banging.

“WHAAAAAT!!” I repeated, becoming quite agitated. Leave me alone. A girl deserves her peaceful poo.

The banging stopped. As it should.

I finished my business and exited the loo to find Gemma and Lyvette watching me from their beds.

“I was having a poo”, I announced, stating the obvious.

“It wasn’t us banging,” said Gemma. “It was the little old lady that had come into our (four bed) dorm. She had been given a top bunk, and tried multiple times to climb the ladder to her bed but couldn’t make it to the top.” Oh. “She then tried to get into the bathroom. We told her it was occupied.” 

And then apparently the little old lady had shaken her head and gone back to reception to request a different bed. Goodness knows why they’d allocated her a top bunk. And myself and Gemma couldn’t swap, because, presently, we needed easy access to the toilet.

But it just goes to show. You’re never too old for a hostel. Or maybe it shows that you are. I’m not quite sure…

We googled rooftop bars and ended up in a multi storey shed (that google had not recommended). 

“Yes, yes! We have a rooftop!!!” the barman assured us. It didn’t appear that way to us but we decided to trust him anyway.

We went up one (very flimsy) spiral staircase to the first floor. Then we went up a second (very flimsy) spiral staircase to the second floor. We couldn’t locate the rooftop. 

But then we saw the ladder. Up the wall to a hatch in the ceiling. 

Oh, ok…now we see where this is going…

There was only one thing for it. And we climbed, single file, up to the hatch and popped out onto said rooftop. That’s where we found Edwin, quietly enjoying his beer watching the sky. Until we ruined his peace. He didn’t understand my spanish, but that’s probably because he was half pissed (god knows how he managed the treacherous journey down from the rooftop). We were too terrified to have more than one drink, for fear of falling the three flights of stairs down to the bottom of the shed.

The rooftop bar was quite the experience. And if I’m completely honest, one of my favourite rooftop bars. Mainly for the comedy value. And for the look on Gemma and Lyvette’s faces as they scrambled up the ladder after me.

The next day, Gemma had one final Colombian shit, said her goodbyes and left. 

And with her went the stench of feet..

Just kidding, the room still stank which suggested me or Lyvette to be the culprits. One down, two to go.

Lyvette and I spent our last day at the Salt Cathedral (which was pretty cool and definitely worth a visit). Our guide and driver, Sebastian and Jesus, were very informative and everyone in the van seemed very friendly. That is, until the van stopped for a break and an old man threw me out the door and then proceeded, very kindly, to help everyone else.

“Lyvette, that man just pushed me out of the van!”

“Did he? He helped me off the step.” What did I do wrong?

After the cathedral we were taken to a great lunch spot where we ordered margaritas (because every last day in Colombia needs a marg). When it was time to head home Sebastian very clearly said:

“If you need to use the toilet, it’s there. Go now.” 

We didn’t need the toilet.

No more than 5 minutes later he ushered us (like the children that we are) back to the van. 

“Heather,” Lyvette whispered as we clambered to our seats. “I really need a wee.”

“Oh my gosh, me too. I’m so desperate!” I replied, “That margarita has just gone straight through me.”

“What do we do?” Lyvette asked whilst guzzling down a bottle of water to further fill her bladder.

“Erm, excuse me, Sebastian,” we looked around the van sheepishly, “we really need the toilet…”

In all fairness Sebastian was very patient as he escorted us back to the restaurant toilet. I didn’t dare look at the man who had previously pushed me off the van though. He was not impressed at the lack of control we had over our bladders.

I woke up early the next day and left Lyvette sleeping in the room smelling of feet whilst I headed to one of the world’s most expensive airports, Bogota international. Lyvette later informed us that they sent a fumigator into our room, so we’re unsure if it was us or if the room did indeed have an issue. Either way I was sad to leave. I was hoping my rash would be so sad to leave that it would stay with Lyvette in the room until she departed later that day (it did not).

And that was Bogota. In fact, that was Colombia. All of the planning, all the excitement and the month was done and dusted just like that. We’d all ventured from different countries for this big reunion to celebrate our 40th birthdays and I can confirm, I had a hoot (except for the rash, that definitely was not a hoot). And the squirty (but controllable) poo’s on the last couple days. No one enjoyed them either.

I realised how much I’d missed travelling with a 10kg backpack, collecting rashes, speaking to random people and exploring new places with my friends. I realised how much I’d missed that sense of freedom, that ability to laugh at all the things that went wrong (and there were many) and not be phased by them. And most of all I have missed experiencing new cultures.

March 2026 – we’d completed our month in Colombia. 

Colourful, extremely loud and full of fabulous margs!