A Bogotana in Jardín: Discovering the Colombia I Didn't Know

I am going to tell you something that might sound strange: I am Colombian, I am 25 years old, and until three weeks ago, I had never been to Jardín.

I know. I know! A Colombian who has never visited one of her own country's most beautiful pueblos. But here is the thing about being from Bogotá — you grow up in this enormous, complicated, wonderful city, and somehow the rest of Colombia becomes this abstract idea. You know it is out there. You know it is beautiful. You see the photos on Instagram. But between work and university and the thousand small obligations of urban life, you never quite get around to actually going.

It took a friend's birthday trip to finally get me there. Five of us piled into a car in Medellín — where we were already visiting — and drove south. Three nights at Isla de Pascua hostel. Three nights that genuinely changed the way I see my own country.

The Drive: When the Mountains Start Talking

I need to tell you about the drive from Medellín, because it set the tone for everything that followed. Four hours of curving mountain roads, and with every turn, the scenery got more impossibly green. Coffee farms climbing the slopes. Little fincas with red roofs tucked into the valleys. Waterfalls appearing and disappearing around corners.

My friend Sofía, who was driving, kept saying, "Wait until you see the pueblo." She had been before. She was enjoying my growing impatience.

And then we came around a bend and there it was — Jardín, spread across the valley floor like something from a García Márquez novel. The colored houses. The twin spires of the Basilica. The mountains wrapping around everything like protective arms. I literally gasped. Sofía laughed. "Told you," she said.

Arriving at Isla de Pascua: The Perfect Surprise

I had expected a basic hostel. What I found was something else entirely — a place with genuine warmth, a beautiful pool, mountain views that made me want to cry, and a common area filled with travelers from around the world.

Here is what struck me most: the international guests at Isla de Pascua knew more about Jardín than I did. An Australian girl told me about the Cueva del Esplendor. A German guy explained the local coffee processing methods to me. A British man gave me a twenty-minute lecture about the birds in the area. I, a Colombian, was being educated about my own country by strangers, and I loved every second of it.

It was also a little embarrassing, if I am honest. How had I never been here? How had I not known about this place? I resolved to be a better Colombian and actually explore my own country more.

The Plaza at Night: Where I Fell in Love with Jardín

On our first evening, we walked to the plaza. It was a Friday night, and the plaza was alive.

Now, every Colombian town has a plaza. I have been to many of them. But Jardín's plaza at night is something different. It does not try too hard. There is no pretension. There are families eating ice cream. Old men in ruanas sitting on the painted chairs, talking about nothing and everything. Teenagers flirting on the benches. A guy selling obleas from a cart. The Basilica lit up from below, looking like it belongs in a fairy tale.

We bought beers from a tienda and sat on the grass. A group of local musicians was playing vallenato near the church. A child ran past us chasing a puppy. The air smelled like empanadas and the particular sweet warmth that Antioqueño nights have — something I had never experienced before, because Bogotá nights are cold and smell like diesel.

Sofía turned to me and said, in Spanish, "This is Colombia, Vale. The real one." She was right.

Tejo Night: The Most Fun I Have Had in Years

On our second night, somebody at the hostel mentioned tejo. For those who do not know, tejo is Colombia's national sport, and it is gloriously absurd — you throw a heavy metal disc at a clay pit lined with small packets of gunpowder, and when you hit them, they explode. Yes, really. It involves beer, loud noises, and moderate danger. It is the most Colombian thing imaginable.

The hostel staff told us about a bar with tejo near the plaza. We went — our group of five, plus a couple from Canada we had met at the pool, plus a guy from the Netherlands who seemed to be permanently reading in a hammock but emerged for the promise of explosions.

I should mention that I had never played tejo before. This is another embarrassment for a Colombian, but in Bogotá, tejo is something your dad does, not something young people seek out. In Jardín, though, it felt completely natural. The bar was packed with locals — farmers, shop owners, families — and they welcomed us like we were old friends.

I hit a mecha (the gunpowder packet) on my fourth throw. It exploded with a satisfying BANG and everyone cheered, including three old men at the next lane who had been watching our terrible technique with patient amusement. Jake from Canada hit one on his seventh throw and celebrated like he had won the World Cup. The old men applauded politely.

We played for three hours. We drank aguardiente. We laughed until our faces hurt. It was the most fun I have had in years, and it happened in a tiny bar in a pueblo I had never visited, surrounded by people I had known for less than 48 hours.

The Cultural Pride I Did Not Expect to Feel

Something happened to me in Jardín that I did not anticipate: I felt an overwhelming sense of pride in being Colombian.

I know that might sound strange. I have always been proud of my country. But it is a complicated pride — mixed with the frustration of inequality, the weight of history, the exhaustion of explaining to foreigners that Colombia is not just what they see in Netflix documentaries.

In Jardín, the pride was simple and pure. Walking through streets that have looked the same for over a century. Watching artisans weave baskets using techniques passed down through generations. Tasting coffee that is grown, processed, and roasted within kilometers of where I was sitting. Hearing an old woman tell me the history of the Basilica — how the whole town helped build it, stone by stone.

This is Colombia at its most beautiful. Not the Colombia of headlines or stereotypes, but the Colombia of small towns and strong communities and traditions that have survived everything. I felt proud in a way that brought tears to my eyes, and I am not someone who cries easily.

The Bilingual Perspective: A Strange and Wonderful Thing

Being a Colombian in an international hostel is a strange and wonderful experience. I became the unofficial translator, cultural interpreter, and menu advisor for half the guests at Isla de Pascua.

"Valentina, what is chicharrón?" "Valentina, how do you say 'the sunset is beautiful' in Spanish?" "Valentina, is it safe to drink the tap water?" "Valentina, this old man at the plaza is talking to me and I have no idea what he is saying — help!"

I loved it. Every question was an opportunity to share something about my country that I had taken for granted. Explaining to a German why we drink aguardiente (because we are brave). Explaining to an Australian why the painted chairs in the plaza are different colors (because beauty is important here). Explaining to a British man why the coffee is so good (because it is grown with love, obviously).

For the first time, I saw Colombia through the eyes of people who were discovering it for the first time, and that perspective is a gift. They saw magic where I might have seen ordinary. They saw wonder where I might have seen normal. They reminded me that this country — my country — is extraordinary.

What I Want My Fellow Colombians to Know

If you are Colombian and you have not been to Jardín, go. I am not asking. I am telling.

Yes, I know it is far. Yes, I know the bus from Medellín takes four hours. Yes, I know you have vacation days saved up for Cartagena or San Andrés. Go to Jardín anyway. It will remind you why you love this country.

Stay at Isla de Pascua because they will treat you like family — and because the international atmosphere is a beautiful reminder that people from all over the world are falling in love with Colombia, which should make every Colombian heart swell with pride.

Play tejo. Eat trucha. Drink tinto in the plaza. Walk to the Cristo Rey at sunset. Talk to the old men in the painted chairs — they have stories that will break your heart and put it back together.

And if you meet a group of confused foreigners trying to read a menu in Spanish, help them. Tell them about your country. Share the pride.

Because Jardín is not just a pueblo. It is a reminder of everything Colombia is capable of being.

— Valentina, back in Bogotá, already planning her return