Colombia

The gold that glows quietly, the rhythm that remains

"If I had a different life, I would be Selemio.

and in that life, I would arrive in Colombia not with a suitcase, but with silence.

to listen, to feel, to be found."

El Dorado: The gold that glows within

They once told me of El Dorado as a postcard myth. But when I reached Lake Guatavita, I understood that the legend lives in the reflections of the water, in the circles that ripple across its surface, and in the wind that whispers ancient stories. Guatavita is a circular lagoon, 3,000 meters above sea level in the Cordillera Oriental of Cundinamarca, not far from Bogotá.

The Muisca considered these waters sacred. They did not hoard gold, they offered it. Jewelry, artifacts, golden dust, everything was surrendered to the lake as song, as vow. Their leader, the “El Dorado” the conquistadors pursued, would sail on a raft, his body covered in gold, only to be immersed and purified, returning himself to the spirits.

Standing at the lake’s edge, I realized that here, gold was never meant to be hoarded. It was meant to dissolve, to return, to become part of something greater.

And so, I began to see luxury in another way: in the golden light that spills over Bogotá at dusk, when the clouds above the mountains ignite in shades of fire.

I saw it again in Villa de Leyva, the colonial town of Boyacá, its cobblestone streets, vast main square, whitewashed walls, and sixteenth-century arches. A silence not of emptiness, but of presence, where time slows down and becomes visible.

In Colombia, I found that kind of luxury.

It shone not in objects, but in atmospheres.

The gold here does not glitter, it glows. Quietly. Patiently. Like the soul of a land that has never confused wealth with worth.

The Andes and the Coffee Axis: Where time tastes like earth

Leaving Bogotá, I followed the Andes down to the Eje Cafetero, where mountains unfold into valleys dressed in mist. The slopes are stitched with terraces of green, as if painted by the patient hands of old souls.

In Salento, the scent of roasted beans fills the air. Farmers’ hands brush the leaves of coffee plants, tracing the symmetry of rows across the hillsides. The sun filters through guadua bamboo, and I sleep in small rural lodges with windows open to the dawn. The rooster’s crow is the alarm clock, and the first sip of coffee becomes ritual: warm, bitter, sweet, alive.

The old haciendas tell stories with stone walls, inner courtyards blooming with wildflowers, and terraces that open toward endless mountains. Walking among the plants, I touch leaves still heavy with dew, listening to a silence made not of absence, but of wind, distant rain, and the memory of the earth.

Here, I discovered a different rhythm, the rhythm of patience. I drank coffee that did not taste like caffeine or energy, but like earth, rain, and waiting. Coffee grown by hands that know the soil intimately, hands that read the sky like scripture.

Luxury here was not fast, it was slow.

Like that farmer in Salento told me once, with eyes the color of roasted cacao: “Coffee is not a drink, it’s a memory.”

As I sipped from his worn enamel cup, I believed him.

Coastal Cities: Where the sea sings in Cumbia

When the fragrance of coffee fades into salt, I reach the Caribbean. Cartagena, Santa Marta, Barranquilla - cities that don’t simply live, they sway. A canvas of colors, colonial walls guarding shaded alleys, balconies dressed in flowers, streets curled up in the sun. Every stone speaks of resilience and beauty.

Here, -facing the sea- luxury is not silence, it is sound.

It is vallenato spilling from a dusty accordion at twilight.

It is cumbia danced barefoot on a terrace where the Caribbean sky melts into the horizon.

In Cartagena, I dined beneath cascades of bougainvillea, the air perfumed with salt and lime. Each dish was not just food, it was poetry, plated in color and rhythm.

In Santa Marta, I watched the Sierra Nevada rise out of the earth like an unanswered prayer. The Kogi people call it the heart of the world, and as I stood there, I felt my own heartbeat echo differently, as if tuned to a deeper frequency.

In Barranquilla, I abandoned the last notion of possession. Carnival dressed me not in jewels, but in joy. Feathers, drums, laughter, all woven into a single act of collective celebration. I realized that sometimes, the most refined luxury is not elegance, it is laughter that frees the soul.

Gastronomy: The taste of ancestry

Colombian cuisine is not fusion, it is ancestry layered in flavors. Every dish carries a genealogy, every spice a story.

It is ajiaco, a soup that warms from the inside out, rich with potatoes and guasca, tasting like the hearth of home. It is arequipe, sweet and soft, that recalls childhood afternoons sticky with caramel. It is ceviche, fresh and sharp, tasting of salt, lime, and unrepentant sun.

I sat with chefs who spoke of ingredients older than borders. They described yuca, guasca, bijao leaves as if reading from sacred texts. They didn’t invent, they remembered.

In Villa de Leyva, the local markets offered arepas boyacenses filled with cheese, or changua, an egg-and-milk soup with cilantro served at breakfast. Simple yet profound flavors. At the Museo del Chocolate, I learned cacao is not candy: it is root, soil, tradition. On the coast, I tasted the sea with every dish: shrimp ceviche, sancocho de pescado with coconut, fried mojarra, coconut sweets that left both my tongue sugared and my heart full.

Each dish was salty, sweet, pungent, alive…

And I understood: luxury in Colombia does not mean reinvention.

It means remembrance, carrying forward what has always been there, seasoning memory into taste.

Colombia’s whispered luxury, profound and true

Colombia never shouts. It whispers, it speaks softly, yet straight to the bones.

Through its mountains, its rivers, its myths. Through drums that carry centuries, through dances that remember freedom, through flavors that preserve ancestry.

Luxury here is not performance, it is presence. It does not ask you to look, it asks you to feel.

And so, Selemio stayed.

Not in a hotel, but in a moment.

Not in a room, but in a rhythm.

Because in Colombia, paradise is not a destination or a conquest.

It is a pulse, an inner shimmer

A rhythm that keeps you awake

A presence.

A promise that what matters most cannot be owned, it can only be lived.

Author: Saluen Art

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