The Steam Workshop

The golden crest shines so brightly that it almost looks like real gold. Right at the front of the locomotive, in bold, raised letters, stands the name of its builder, along with its date and place of birth: Baldwin Locomotive, Philadelphia, 1949.

The history of these three locomotives brings back memories for Pablo, the chief engineer, a man who has been at the helm of life in the workshop for over 30 years.

Every day, the routine begins with an almost sacred solemnity. The machine, standing still, waits in silent anticipation. The young mechanics look at it with respect, while the more seasoned ones gaze upon it with a love forged in the heat of the boiler.

Life in the workshop unfolds as usual amid maintenance shifts. On Friday night, they fire up the machine for testing, ensuring it is ready at the boarding platform. Pedro, with tireless dedication, carefully adjusts its countless metal parts.

It runs on coal and water. The steam it emits evokes black-and-white images from the first film in history, The Great Train Robbery, or the daring sequences of Buster Keaton in The General. In an era where speed is everything, this machine—barely reaching 70 km/h—would likely draw an ironic smile from a typical passenger of China’s bullet train, which devours time and space along the Shanghai-Hangzhou route at an insatiable 461 km/h.

But the Baldwin 76 does not seem to care. Every weekend, without remorse, it carries 120 passengers—mostly families with children—on a serene journey that seems to last an eternity, from Bogotá to the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá, one of South America’s Seven Wonders. If Gandhi were to ride the Locomotive 76, he would be proud. Not coincidentally, one of the London Transport campaign posters reminded commuters of his words during the winter of 2009, displayed at Sloane Square Station and Fulham Broadway:

“There is more to life than increasing its speed.”

It is not the AVE, nor does it challenge the eternal snows of Tibet like the famous “Sky Road” line, which climbs to 5,000 meters above sea level. It does not hold a historic record like the first transcontinental train, which connected two oceans with a golden spike. The 76 did not inaugurate passenger service like the 1830 Liverpool-Manchester route, nor does it appear in literature, nor does it enjoy the cinematic prestige of the Orient Express.

Yet, every Saturday and Sunday at 7 AM, the 76 departs from Bogotá, heading for the savanna, fueled by a romantic enthusiasm that allows children to experience what a real train is—not just a Discovery Channel documentary.

In a country without a railway system, where trains were left to die, and where the capital city has only just approved the construction of its first metro line, two generations of mechanics at the Estación de la Sabana workshops fight to keep the 76, 72, and 85 from turning into mere tons of scrap metal. They keep the “iron mule”—as grandmothers once called it in the mid-20th century—running across the savanna, while Colombians continue to wait for the train of better times.