It was hard for the guy behind the immigration-desk to understand and accept that I arrived this day with absolutely no plans. I didn’t have a single adress in the fourth largest country of South America or a contactperson among the 45 million inhabitats of Colombia. Not even a return-ticket. So while trying to convince the guy that he should let me enter the country, a girl sticks a note in my hand with an adress. “Hey, this is my place!” I tell the guy. And the note gets me over the boarder. I’m in Colombia! On this last day of 2011.

The girl with the magic note, Lizzie, is a surfer from New Zealand sharing most of her time between the waves of Indonesia and Byron Bay, and now in the Latin Quarters of the world. The chick who has been on the road for 13 years is not a debutant traveler and has nothing planned for this day either. We decide both of us to look for planetickets further the same day. She to a wave-spot and me towards the windy Caribbean coast. But because of the Colombian superstitious belief that flying on New years eve gives prosperity, the flights are full and expensive. So Lizzie and I decide to make our way to the adress on the note and spend New years eve in Bogota, the capital of Colombia. The adress was to a not-so-ok hostel, but in an ok area. And Bogota itself was so much more than ok. It was like walking in a theatre-set from colonial times, where myth and modernity mingles. The buildings in the old city looks like they could be part of the Oxford or Cambridge Universities, Harry Potter style. And the scene is set high amid the midst of the Andes 2642 meters above the sea level. Part of the cast are oldfashioned-looking peeps with costumes to keep them warm from the crisp air, and with lamas as their props. Part of the cast are modern metropolitan intellectuals. And all the people in this theatre are beyond friendly.

So via, via, via a friend of mine, Lizzie and I are last minute invited to hang out with three Colombian guys on New Years eve; Diego, David and Carlos.

And with no hot shower, but with dry shampoo, hoodie and tights, we are being picked up at our shitty hostel and treated as princesses. We go to a few bars and end up for dinner and dance in Carlos’ aunts home with his whole family. The house looks like it’s in Disneyland, set in the awardwinning christmas decorated street of Bogota. And we’re met with an hospitality and warmth matching the service in an American themepark, except that this is actually real. They seem to truly enjoy taking care of us and to prove the opposite of their country’s fearsome reputation of relentless violence and civil unrest. These guys are well-educated young entrepeneurs with their own businesses, who could have stayed abroad after their studies but intentionally stay in Colombia to build their country… Supernice guys!

I had no expectations of this place, these people or this New years eve, but I was blown away. I was definately not feeling lost and feeling blue by myself in Bogota. I rather felt a warmhearted welcome into the new year in the freezing Andes-city. And the warm Caribbean coast followed the morning after…

PS: The photo-series of us was taken the minute before and until midnight New years eve 2011.