When I arrived in Bogota one of the first things that kept coming up, that according to everyone I met in town I simply “had to see” was the salt Cathedral in Zipaquira. It came up so often in conversation I started to make my mind up that this was a part of the Colombian experience I was not going to join into. You see, I tend to avoid touristy places. I enjoy traveling off the beaten path. And the fact that so many people mentioned the salt cathedral, as well as the astounding number of tourist plans for gringos to go see the place, convinced me that this was yet another tourist trap or one of those things locals assume foreigners enjoy like chivas or Andres Carne de Res.
I blocked the whole thing in the back of my mind and figured I had absolutely no reason to ever go there. And as the months passed I discovered it was easier when asked if I’d been there to lie and say yeah it was really nice and move on. If I said I hadn’t been it would almost always lead to a whole speech about how I just had to see it. My best arguments of not being a very religious person with absolutely zero interest in churches or cathedrals were not heard, my comments about being from California land of earthquakes and not feeling comfortable underground were also quickly dismissed. So I lied and lied and said I’d been.
It wasn’t until close to my first anniversary in the country when my parents decided they wanted to come see me for a few days. They said after all the photos I sent and comments about me loving the country they wanted to come see. I think my mother’s motivation was actually to meet my boyfriend and give him the third degree, and to get photos of us together to show the rest of the family. My father came because…well, happy wife, happy life.
When the Gringo couple arrived, my boyfriend in true Colombian style insisted we got them at the airport and take them for a huge dinner with way more meat that they had ever eaten in their lives. That night during dinner he made the terrible proposal. He asked if they would want to go see the salt cathedral the next day and have a look around the sabana. He was doing a great job at charming the in laws and my mother jumped at the idea. She is also not catholic and not fond of underground spaces but I think he could’ve asked them to go n a trip to the gates of hell and she would’ve said yes. So against all of my complaints, and almost kicking and screaming they got me in the car and off to the cathedral.
When I got there I was grudgingly waking down the mine and tuning out all of the religious back story, and suddenly I found myself lost in the creases in the walls, the echoing of the voices, the chilly air and the mysterious look of the whole place. I did not lick the wall because I couldn’t reconcile the hundreds of tongues and hands that run over them daily but I definitely felt the charm of the place. The images speak for themselves.
 Photographs reproduce with the permission of the author |
 Photographs reproduced with the permission of the author |
 Photographs reproduced with permission of the author |
In the end I’m glad the opportunity arose and I ended up going in spite of my reservations, the place was definitely worth a visit. I’m not a full convert that now thinks everyone who comes to the country has to see this place, but if you get a chance and don’t mind going underground into a church, give it a go.