The Platypus

Such is the name of the backpacker hostel where I´m writing this. Finding it was a struggle, as it´s down a bit of a back street and has no sign above the door, just a little picture of one of the creatures next to a discrete buzzer.

I was given the name of the place by the tourist information bloke at the airport, and the number of the bus I needed to get to the right neighbourhood. That part went well, but when I started to ask people on the street where - exactly - the hostel was, the difficulties began. I encountered the pointing problem. I noticed in Central America that many people don´t really understand the idea of indicating distant objects or directions with one´s hands. Particularly in Honduras I often dealt with people who, when asked directions, waved their hands in a circular motion above their heads saying: "It´s that way." I even even encountered a shopkeeper to whom pointing was revelation. I was trying to point at a pineapple, and rather than looking at the indicated fruit he just stared at the tip of my finger, as though I was showing it to him. Eventually I had to walk across the shop and prod the particular pineapple I had my eye on. Then he understood.

I did find the hostel eventually, but half an hour after it had started to rain and I was feeling a bit peaky due to the altitude here - Bogota is at more than 8,500ft.

The place is such a complete change for me. Over the past month or so I´ve spent much of my time in the company of ladies, but now I find myself in an overwhelmingly masculine environment. Elaborate stews are conceived and concocted, bottles of rum passed abount prodigiously and toilet seats splashed with abandon. The tales of the road here are grittier than I´ve heard so far. People talk of safe passages through guerilla-controlled regions or of which bus companies are bribing the FARC fighters to get safe passage. Perhaps it´s because there´s a much stronger English and Irish contingent here and they always like to get competitive. But the bottom line, that everyone agrees on, is that Colombia is nowhere near so dangerous as people make out. Perhaps because everyone who lives or visits here always keeps half an eye over their shoulders.

Bogota itself is actually quite a pleasant city - in the daylight at least. There are wide pedestrianised streets with shops that are modern without being dominated by chainstores. Today there are little flea markets in every square and jolly crowds of people out enjoying a weekend shop.

One of the main attractions here is the Museo del Oro, the museum of gold, which I visited today. It really was an impressive collection - apparently the greatest in the world. After all, the legendary El Dorado was supposed to be in Colombia. The legend was inspired by a sacred lake, I can´t remember the name, which the ancient tribes poured untold riches into. Apparently, although there´s no doubt the thing is full of gold, very little has been recovered. What was on show at the museum was just a tiny fraction of the wealth that had brought Europe crashing down on the Americas all those years ago.

Even outside the museum this treasure of the New World is still in transit. There are streets and streets of jewellery shops and entire arcades devoted to the emerald trade. These jewels are offered to you by old men in the street who present them on a white hanky like a little pile of cough sweets.

I´ll need to sign off now, because from the sound of it the lads in the kitchen are finally satisfied with their pork stew and mash potato.