POSTCARD FROM BOGOTA, COLUMBIA: The Magic of Soccer

BOGOTÁ, Colombia—My time in Bogotá has been a blur of long cab rides, huge libraries, quaint art galleries, cautious political commentary and, of course, soccer.

It’s just after five o’clock on a Monday, and I’m in a room with 36 strangers watching a soccer match between the Colombian National team and their Peruvian counterparts.

It’s the quarterfinals of Colombia-hosted Copa America ’01—the Western Hemisphere’s version of the World Cup—and though the game is exciting, I’m much more entertained by my surroundings. I’m not in some rowdy sports bar downing shots of the local liquor or at one of the theaters watching the game on a movie screen.

Instead, I’m in the multimedia center of Bogotá’s largest library.

A Colombian striker speeds past the slower Peruvian defender, and only the goalie stands between him and the goal. Uniformed library guards, bankers and—as in my case—students who have spent their afternoon researching eagerly rise in expectation of a can’t-miss goal...and groan loudly as the striker blows the shot.

In the back of the darkened room, someone hisses. A librarian, probably, trying to remind us that despite all appearances, we are in a library.

In the second half, the Colombian offense breaks loose and scores three quick goals. The library’s multimedia center explodes in shouts of joy and excitement that continues despite the strongest hisses and hushes from the librarians.

• • •

The cab ride from the library to my temporary residence in the safer, north section of Bogotá takes about 45 minutes. On the radio, a news anchor announces that the Colombian soccer team has advanced into the semifinals versus an upstart Honduras squad in the Cup of Peace, the tournament’s nickname.

Safer section? Peace? I haven’t watched the news much, and in two weeks of research on the nation’s history, I’ve forgotten that the country, always friendly and fun for me, is currently in bad shape.

My cabby is an affable middle aged man who drives too fast while keeping minimal attention on the road. The cab driver is a talker, and informs me that he was able to put his kid through college for a degree in sociology.

I ask, dreading the answer: “Where is he working now?”

The cabby nods, then a shake of his head: “He drives the cab at night. Helps pay the bills.”

My personal nightmare: out of college without a job. I stay quiet for a while, not really knowing what to say. Finally, the cabby asks me what I think about the Colombia-Honduras soccer game on Thursday. Ah soccer, Colombia’s solace.

If you live in the city, there are worse things to worry about than the civil war. The economy’s been shot and everyone’s fallen on hard times.

The cabby drops me off. The trip from the library to the apartment is just about the length from a trip to Logan airport and back. I pay 12,000 pesos, about six dollars.

• • •

It’s Thursday and the news on the radio is all about the evening’s soccer match.

There’s a crowd outside the gate of the U.S. embassy, huddling together under umbrellas. They wait hours before they’re allowed into the embassy vying for tourist visas they’ll probably never get.

I force my way to the front of the line amid grimaces and scowls, flash my U.S. passport and am ushered in. Inside the embassy, I report my presence in the country as all U.S. citizens are advised. I’m directed towards the safety information posted in the back of the office, where I learn that the State Department strongly advises against leaving city boundaries.

Later that day, I watch Colombia defeat Honduras 1-0. Colombia is happy.

• • •

Though the countryside is off limits according to the State Department, I visit a popular tourist town simply because the country is too beautiful too leave unexplored.

At Raquira—a Spanish relic that lives off tourism and still looks as if it were 1562—I buy a souvenir; a handcrafted Spanish Caravel. It’s two o’clock on a Saturday and they can’t make change. It’s their first sale of the day.

On the way back to Bogotá that night I’m asked about my research: anti-imperialist movements in Latin America during the 60s. Immediately, the conversation shifts to the current U.S.-Colombian relations and the controversial Plan Colombia.

Resignedly, one traveler comments that no matter the amount of help they receive, “we just don’t see any way for this to end peacefully.”

The bleak prospect for peace in Colombia quiets the car. Then the talk turns to soccer. The Colombians will face the Mexican national team on Sunday afternoon. It always raises spirits to talk about soccer.

• • •

Back in Bogotá, I begin to feel that the city is not so much safe as it is fortified. There’s a police officer stationed at every major intersection. Alongside a highway there’s an army barracks on display: vans, tanks and choppers lined up in a row. The message is clear: you’re safe here.

On Sunday, the Colombian soccer team defeats Mexico 1-0 in the final, champions in the Tournament for Peace.

Streets fill and merrymakers partied all night, a feeling of elation filling the country. It is, I imagine, much like what Boston will be like when the Red Sox win their World Series.

On TV, cameras focused on placards on the wall of the stadium: “We could handle the Cup, We will succeed with Peace.”

In Bogotá, a city where the dormant economy hurts as much as the violence from the civil war, a soccer tournament has taken a greater importance than tired peace talks. Because, however fleetingly, in Colombia soccer heals any wound.

Robinson A. Ramirez ’02, a history concentrator in Quincy House, is associate design chair of The Crimson. He is living in Colombia and Panama this summer, musing about sports and society while conducting thesis research thanks to grants from the David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies and the Weatherhead Center for International Affairs.