I’ve been to over 70 countries. I’ve seen trains that run like atomic clocks in Switzerland and tuk-tuks held together by pure hope in Asia.

But Colombia? Colombia plays by its own rules.

Everything here has its own rhythm, its own logic — and sometimes, its own voltage.

It’s the kind of place that’ll confuse you, charm you, and eventually change how you see the world.

So here it is — ten things that completely threw me off when I first arrived in Colombia… and why every single one of them made me love this country even more.

Welcome to Colombia — where even the bathroom comes with a learning curve.

In the U.S., toilet paper goes in the toilet. Easy. Done. It’s the kind of thing you never question.

In Colombia? Nope. There’s a trash can beside you — your new, very personal paper graveyard.

Why? The pipes can’t handle it. Which is something I learned the hard way (and, uh, the wrong way).

It’s awkward at first. You hesitate. You overthink. You wonder if you’re performing some ancient ritual. But give it a few days, and you’ll start doing it automatically. You’ll even start to feel oddly proud — like you’ve earned your Colombian citizenship one piece of toilet paper at a time.

Welcome to plumbing diplomacy.

So you survive the toilet paper test… and think, “Okay, shower time. Something normal.”

Wrong again.

Colombian showers are electric. As in — there are wires. Above your head. In water.

It’s basically a science experiment that violates every safety regulation you’ve ever known. The showerhead looks like a small spaceship, and your temperature control isn’t a knob — it’s water pressure. Too much? Arctic. Too little? Boiling lava.

Finding the “sweet spot” feels like disarming a bomb.

But then — you get used to it. You start trusting it. You realize that, yes, the risk of electrocution is small… and the reward is a warm shower that somehow feels like a daily act of bravery.

In the U.S., meat lives in temperature-controlled glass cases, labeled, barcoded, and protected like state secrets.

In Colombia? It’s just… hanging.

Big slabs of beef, entire chickens, pig heads — all swinging in the open air at the local market.

No shrink wrap. No cold mist. Just hooks, machetes, and confidence.

At first, you panic. Then you realize — it’s fresh, it’s flavorful, and it doesn’t kill anyone. You start to trust the guy with the machete. You buy a piece. You make soup. You live.

And you start to understand why food here tastes like home — because it’s made by people, not factories.

You’re sitting at a red light, lost in thought — when suddenly, a stranger appears and starts cleaning your windshield.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t agree. You don’t even know where he came from.

And by the time you protest, it’s too late — he’s already halfway done.

Then comes the look — that universal “you’re tipping me, right?” expression.

So you pay him. Because you’re human. And because, somehow, your windshield does look cleaner.

It’s confusing, it’s funny, and it’s also pure Colombian hustle. The unspoken rule here? Nobody just waits for opportunity — they make it happen.

In America, names are delicate things. In Colombia, they’re descriptive weapons of affection.

If you’re tall, you’re Gigante.
If you’re blonde, you’re Mono.
If you’re chubby, you’re Gordo.

And they say it to your face — lovingly. Even your mom-in-law might call you Gordo.

It sounds shocking at first, but it’s all about closeness. Nicknames here mean familiarity.

If someone calls you by your actual name — you’re in trouble.

So when a Colombian calls you Flaco, Negrito, or Calvo — don’t panic. Smile. You’re officially part of the family.

Picture this: you’ve paid, bagged your groceries, and you’re ready to leave.

But not so fast.

Because a security guard — armed with nothing but a highlighter — is waiting to approve your exit.

He glances at your receipt, maybe at your bag, and marks it with a confident yellow swipe.

That’s it. No scanning, no verifying. Just one fluorescent blessing.

It’s entirely symbolic. It means nothing.
And yet — you find yourself needing it.

You walk out feeling like you’ve earned your diploma in Colombian Shopping 101.

Every Colombian driver lives by this strange game of license plate roulette.

Depending on the last digit of your plate — you may not be allowed to drive on certain days.

It’s supposed to help traffic and pollution. Which it does… sort of. Until people start buying second cars to cheat the system.

So every morning, instead of checking the weather, Colombians check if they’re legally allowed to leave their driveway.

It’s government regulation meets lottery.

If you look up in Colombia, you’ll see it — the tangled masterpiece of human ingenuity.

Telephone poles with hundreds of wires — crossing, looping, sagging — like a nest built by caffeinated squirrels.

Every new company just adds more cables. None ever get removed.

And somehow, it all works.

You’ll see a guy hanging upside down from a pole, twisting random wires with his bare hands — and suddenly your internet starts working again.

That’s not engineering. That’s magic.

You find a perfect parking spot. You’re proud of yourself. You’re nailing this parallel park.

Then — out of nowhere — a man materializes and starts “helping.”

He’s not official. He has no badge. But he waves you in like a NASCAR pit crew chief, yelling “¡Siga! ¡Siga!”

You park perfectly. He smiles. Then he waits.

You pay him. Not because he helped — but because… somehow, he deserves it.

It’s spontaneous street entrepreneurship at its finest.

Here’s the real secret to Colombia: it runs on duct tape, goodwill, and neighborly magic.

When something breaks, people don’t panic. They don’t file a claim or call a technician. They call a friend. Someone always knows how to fix it — or at least how to make it “work enough.”

And that’s the beauty of it.

Life here isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence — about community, laughter, and a shared “we’ll figure it out” attitude.

That’s Colombia. Imperfect, resilient, and completely unforgettable.

Colombia is one of those rare places where chaos and warmth coexist beautifully.

Where toilet paper belongs in a bin, the shower might electrocute you, and someone with a highlighter guards your groceries — but you’ll never feel more alive, more welcomed, or more human.

Because at the end of the day, Colombia doesn’t run efficiently.
It runs on heart.

And a little duct tape.