Wealth, like oxygen, can get thinner at altitude. The distribution of riches in big Colombian cities, for example, has been a surprise to me. I don’t mean economically. I mean topographically.
Basically, the higher you rise, the lower you rent.
Climb a hill in Los Angeles or Boston or even Birmingham, and houses get posher, lawns greener, gates more imposing. The wealthy live high on the hog, and high in the hills.
On a promontory in Bogotá or Medellin, though, dwellings get smaller, poorer, bleaker. High in the nosebleed section, people live in shacks of cardboard or mismatched planks with a rusted tin roof held down by a few stones. In such poor barrios, the criminal networks of the notorious drug lord Pablo Escobar took root and spread, back in the day.
It happens elsewhere in Latin America. The favelas in the heights over Rio de Janeiro and slums in the peaks around Caracas, in Venezuela, have perpetuated poverty and incubated gangs for generations.
In some places, though, churches claim the high ground. Catholics who founded Colombian settlements often liked to build churches as close to heaven as they could.
They put one great shrine atop Monserrate, the mountain that dominates Bogotá’s city center. Built in the 1600s and dedicated to El Señor Caido, The Fallen Lord, Monserrate Sanctuary occupies a site previously sacred to the indigenous Muisca people. Another shrine, The Sanctuary of Our Lady of Guadalupe, tops a neighboring peak. It too symbolizes lofty aspirations and high hopes, two miles above sea level and 1,000 feet over downtown Bogotá.
Another famous church tops a prominent hill in Cali, Colombia’s third-largest city. Adela and I made a visit to the Chapel of San Antonio last February. We approached on foot at twilight, the 2 million lights of Cali, one for each soul in the city, flickering on as we hiked narrow streets through the bohemian section.
We discovered One Way Pizza on a one-way street. Lured by a sound system playing R.E.M., we took outdoor seats with a view of the grounds of San Antonio Chapel, which welcomes thousands of tourists annually. Pablo, the proprietor, good with his English and better with hawking his kitchen, talked us into micheladas and then a smoking-hot pie with artichokes, olives, and mushrooms. A few locals joined us on the terrace—always a good sign.
We studied the 270-year-old place of worship through pine trees that rose on the nearby hillside, our next and final ascent. After the meal, we picked our way along a stony path to the cobbled plaza fronting the chapel. Overbright flood lighting made it feel like a movie set, the crews busy making ready for a shoot.
San Antonio didn’t look much different from a hundred other old churches in Colombia. It was stucco, some brick, old wood beams in walls and overhead, plain except for a few shiny metals on altars and crosses and such. But San Antonio has a special allure for Colombians – believers swear that San Antonio and the Holy Virgin will team up here to help a lovelorn soul find a mate. Think of it as a safe place for Catholics who mistrust online dating services.