In a city where public space has become the stage for daily tensions between the need for survival and the right to mobility, the decision by the Mayor’s Office of Bogota to issue Decree 117 of 2026 opens a new chapter in a debate that has remained unresolved for decades, and that is gaining momentum by the day as a result of ineffective public management regarding street vendors.
The regulation, which seeks to govern the activity of street and stationary vendors on sidewalks and in high-traffic areas, arrives at a moment when many residents feel the phenomenon has grown faster than the city’s institutional capacity to manage it.
But beyond the announcement for street vendors, the inevitable question is whether measures like this can truly balance two realities that often seem to collide: Urban order and the informal economy. Is it possible to impose order without excluding? Can stricter regulations translate into better conditions for everyone, or will they end up deepening the vulnerability of those who depend on the streets to survive?
When organizing street vendors becomes an urban urgency
Bogota is no stranger to the growth of informal commerce. A simple walk-through areas such as downtown, Chapinero, Fontibon, or Suba reveals how sidewalks, transit stations, and pedestrian corridors have become shared spaces where street vendors and passersby converge — often alongside conflicts over how those spaces are used. What represents daily income for some becomes an obstacle, a safety concern, or urban deterioration for others.
Decree 117 of 2026 emerges precisely at this point of tension. The city administration proposes a structural shift: Moving from a fragmented model, where different agencies acted independently, to one based on clear rules, technical criteria, and territorial boundaries. Under the premise that “to organize is to protect,” the goal is to restore the functionality of public space without ignoring the social reality of those who depend on it.
Yet this is far from Bogota’s first attempt to resolve the issue. During the administration of Antanas Mockus, for example, the city leaned on educational strategies and civic culture initiatives to foster voluntary agreements between vendors and authorities. The idea was that order should not rely solely on enforcement but also on shared responsibility.
While these efforts improved coexistence and public perception, they had a limited impact on achieving a sustained reduction in informality.
Years later, under Enrique Peñalosa, the approach became more forceful. His administration promoted public space recovery operations that included evictions and relocations, aiming to clear sidewalks and prioritize pedestrian mobility.
However, this policy was strongly criticized by social groups and academics, who pointed to the use of police force in some operations and the lack of a truly inclusive framework within what was known as the economic use of public space decree.
Critics argued that while order improved in certain areas, the city failed to provide sustainable alternatives for those displaced, effectively shifting the problem to other neighborhoods rather than resolving it at its core.
More recently, the administration of Claudia Lopez attempted to combine both approaches: enforcement with inclusion. Programs promoting formalization, organized fairs, and productive alternatives for vendors were introduced, while control operations continued in high-pressure zones.
However, the pandemic dramatically altered the landscape, driving up levels of informality and making it far more difficult to sustain any long-term strategy. The public health crisis exposed the fragility of thousands of households dependent on daily income, helping explain why the number of street vendors surged in recent years.
This historical overview not only provides context but also raises an uncomfortable yet necessary question: If multiple administrations have tried — through different approaches — to regulate street vending without achieving a lasting solution, what makes Decree 117 of 2026 any different?
One of the decree’s central tools is zoning. On one hand, Special Management Zones are created where street vending will be prohibited due to safety concerns or high congestion. On the other hand, authorized areas are designated where vending will be allowed, though under strict conditions. This approach seeks to organize what has grown organically for years.
But even here, key questions arise. Who decides which areas are restricted and which are allowed? What happens to vendors who have built their customer base in spaces that will now be off-limits? Will they be offered alternatives in areas with similar foot traffic, or will they have to start over from scratch? The transition from one model to another is not only technical — it is deeply human.
Between technical planning and social reality
One of the decree’s most innovative elements is the introduction of the concept of “carrying capacity” for public space. The Administrative Department for the Defense of Public Space (DADEP) will be responsible for determining how many vendors can occupy certain areas without causing overcrowding or risk.
In theory, this is a tool designed to strike a balance: avoiding both excessive occupation and total exclusion.
However, applying a technical concept to a complex social reality is not without challenges. How is carrying capacity measured in areas where activity fluctuates throughout the day? What criteria will determine who can stay and who must leave? Will priority be given to seniority, vulnerability, or previous attempts at formalization? These questions, still lacking clear answers, will be critical in shaping implementation.
There is also a scale to this issue that makes any regulatory effort particularly complex. According to data from the Institute for the Social Economy (IPES), Bogota had more than 95,000 informal street vendors identified or registered by the end of 2025, a figure that reflects the magnitude of the informal economy across the city.
Yet within that universe, only a fraction actively interacts with institutional programs. In 2026, for instance, just over 2,400 vendors participated in formal district-level representation processes, illustrating a significant gap between those who are fully characterized by the system and the much larger population operating daily in public space.
This contrast raises a crucial question: How does a policy regulate a population that is both massive and partially invisible to formal systems? If only a fraction of vendors is actively engaged with institutional programs, what happens to the tens of thousands who remain outside those channels? And perhaps more importantly, can any decree realistically succeed without first closing that gap between policy design and social reality?
The decree also mandates registration in the system of the Institute for the Social Economy (IPES). This measure aims to identify and characterize vendors, understand their socioeconomic conditions, and, in theory, design more targeted policies.
But there is a crucial detail: Registration does not grant rights to occupy public space nor guarantee a place to operate. This point redefines the relationship between informal workers and the state.
What was once a de facto tolerated activity is becoming one subject to shifting conditions. For some, this may represent a step toward formalization; for others, it introduces an additional layer of uncertainty to an already unstable livelihood.
At the same time, the decree strengthens restrictions. The installation of structures that hinder mobility will not be allowed, nor will improper occupation of sidewalks. Activities that fail to meet sanitary standards or involve illegal goods are also prohibited. Even the use of gas cylinders will be strictly regulated, permitted only under exceptional and controlled conditions.
This raises another key question: To what extent are these restrictions feasible in practice? Past experience suggests that strict enforcement without sustainable alternatives can produce rebound effects. During previous crackdowns on public space occupation, many vendors simply moved to other areas, reproducing the problem elsewhere in the city.
There is also a broader economic dimension that cannot be ignored. Various labor market analyses in Colombia show that a significant portion of the urban population depends on informal work for income.
In this context, any policy that restricts access to public space must consider not only urban order but also the structural conditions of employment. Can a city truly reduce street vending without addressing the root causes that drive it?
A solution or a new point of tension?
The decree does not focus solely on restrictions. It also incorporates guarantees and alternative pathways. Authorities are required to assess and characterize vendors, evaluating each case individually while respecting due process and human dignity. In theory, this creates room for differentiated solutions, where not all cases are treated equally.
But this is where one of the most sensitive debates emerges: what makes one case more “viable” than another when it comes to remaining in public space? Will priority be given to those who have been in the activity longer? To those in more vulnerable economic conditions? To single mothers, older adults, or people with disabilities? And how can the process avoid being perceived as arbitrary or unfair?
The answers to these questions will largely determine the success — or failure — of the measure. Because beyond the design of the decree, its real impact will depend on how it is implemented on the ground, where decisions are often more complex than policy documents suggest.
Then there is the issue of alternatives. The administration has emphasized that the goal is not to remove vendors without offering options, but to create pathways toward formalization, training programs, and entrepreneurship opportunities. Yet experience shows that these processes are often slow, complex, and, in many cases, insufficient given the urgency of day-to-day survival.
So, the question resurfaces: Can this policy truly be sustainable? Or will it become another well-intentioned measure that falls short of the scale of the problem? Is Bogota prepared to support this regulation with a broader economic strategy that reduces reliance on informal commerce?
In cities such as Bogota, where informal employment remains a structural reality, any attempt at regulation must be accompanied by wider economic policies. Otherwise, the risk is clear; the problem is not solved but displaced or moved from one neighborhood to another, made less visible but no less real.
Ultimately, Decree 117 of 2026 poses a challenge that goes beyond organizing public space. It raises a deeper conversation about the kind of city Bogotá aims to build: one that is more orderly, yes, but also more inclusive—capable of recognizing that behind every street vendor is a story, a need, and often a lack of opportunity in the formal labor market.
Because if anything becomes clear in this debate and in light of past administrations’ efforts, it is that this is not simply about vendors and sidewalks. It is about thousands of lives, families that depend on an activity that, while informal, is profoundly real. And it is about a city once again searching for balance between order and equity.
Will this be the turning point Bogota needs? Or just another attempt that, over time, fades against a reality stronger than any decree? The answer, as has often been the case in the city’s recent history, will not lie solely in the regulation itself, but in its ability to translate into real solutions for those who live — and survive — in public space.