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Somehow I´ve been really busy recently without really doing very much.

A plan is underway to rent an apartment for a month or so with a Lebanese American artist who is teaching painting here. The flat we´re looking at is quite amazing. It´s a penthouse overlooking the city with a wide terrace, a sauna and jacuzzi. People keep saying it´s quite expensive, but it´s cheaper than staying the hostel and less than 90 quid each a month. The only obstacle now is that Sam, the artist, needs to find two Colombians to act as guarantors for the rent. Each one will have to fill in long forms giving all the details about their financial history. I can´t think of two people at home I could ask to do this.

I had a nice time on Saturday when I went up to the north of the city to meet Juli, who had somehow discovered my blog while searching for information about Bogota Theatre Festival on Google. I was very nervous about meeting somebody in this way, but as it turned out Juli was absolutely lovely and I had a really nice evening. Juli, if you´re reading this, we must meet up again.

The elections here are in full swing. It seems that the sitting president, Uribe, is set for an easy victory, with opinion polls showing him head and shoulders above the others. But in this area of Bogota a candidate called Gaviria is really popular. He´s the choice of the left-wingers, union activists and students. Personally I like him because he looks so much like Father Christmas. I saw one of his political rallies on Saturday, it was basically a mardi-gras parade through the centre of town followed by a bit of flag waving in the central square.

I can´t help but think that Uribe´s chances could be damaged by a bit of chaos in the city over the past week. For a few days there was no gas after a landslide split the main supply pipe to the city. Then, after three days of waiting for a hot shower, the water itself was cut for 24 hours. Everyone was feeling a bit grubby and disgruntled, and it was just my luck that this was the day I had to go to DAS (department of security administration) to extend my tourist visa. This involved a retinal scan, lots of fingerprints, endless forms and about 15 pounds. I´m told it´s never a pleasant experience, but when the staff are all miserable after a morning without a wash or a coffee it´s even less fun.

I´m now trying to decide whether to scrap my morning class and concentrate on getting some private clients at more sensible times. My morning students are lovely and I really enjoy teaching them, but the 5.30 starts leave me knackered or sleeping all day - which is my excuse for not having written much on here recently.

Picture update

This the common room at the hostel where everybody gathers to drink the free coffee during the day and help themselves to the beer fridge in the evening. Even though I´m now living down the road this is where I spend most of my time.

This is this John and Nicole, the Australian couple who I work with at the Bavaria brewery.

This is the view from the wedding reception. You can also see something of Bogota in the background.

Here is the happy couple, Dave and Margarita. I just saw Dave and he´s quite annoyed about the behaviour of his bride´s family at the wedding. As well as everything I´ve already mentioned, many of them turned up late - hours after the service. Among the latecomers were an aunty and uncle who had their five-year-old daughter with them. She had got herself all dressed up in ribbons and bows to be a flower girl at the service. The grown-ups seems totally unconcerned as they breezed in, but the little girl couldn´t hide her disappointment at missing her moment. Funnily enough, the relatives all turned up in time for the food and plonked themselves down in the best seats. Incredibly they didn´t leave any room for the bride and groom, so they popped back to their flat for a cup of tea while everyone else stuffed their faces. Much later on they got some cold left-overs.

I´m not sure what caused this moment of hilarity.

I just bumped into the Swiss hippy (aka the Bolivian Baby Slayer) and he´s abandoned his mission, which is bad news for God´s creation. His plan to ride down through the continent to take part in the universal battle of good and evil was somewhat hampered by the fact that he had chosen a Yamaha 500 as his steed. Which didn´t have an engine. So when Christ´s 1000-year reign fails to happen you know who to blame - the mechanics of Bogota, who, as Frankenchrist said, are nowhere near so good as the Swiss.

The wedding

Yesterday I was invited to witness the nuptials of 'Dodgy' Dave Davies and his Colombian fiancee, Margarita.

I'm not sure if the informality of the event was typical of Colombia, but it was certainly unlike any wedding I have ever been to. It was a civil affair held in a partially-decorated restaurant, a lovely venue with views over downtown Bogota. The weather was also perfect, for the first time in weeks a bright sun was beating down on the city.

But it was the service itself that was odd. At all weddings and public events there is always someone who forgets to tun off their mobile and gets a call. This is usually cause for great embarrassment and a gently chiding joke from the vicar. But when this happened to a close relative of the bride, she stood up and with a loud "allo?" walked off down the aisle to take the call. Meanwhile a puppy (that somebody had thought it fitting to bring along) was barking and trying to tear off a section of a woman's dress. Adding to the surreal atmosphere was a small clockwork penis that from time to time hopped past the happy couple. It had been bought for Margarita's hen night but had somehow fallen into the hands of her six-year-old son. There was also a tense moment when it seemed that the union might not be confirmed. At the end of the vows the register had to be signed. Suddenly Dave let out a string of expletives and turned to the congregation. "They want me to give my fingerprints! What's going on? I'm not even a criminal . . . anymore."

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Time seems to be going by very quickly as a teacher here, even though every day seems like two because I sleep twice.

I´ve actually surprised myself by my ability to get up at half five in the morning, although it doesn´t always go to plan. Earlier this week I overslept and was woken up by John and Nicole, my colleagues from Australia, who had to wake up the whole house to get in and bang on my door. I felt quite bad about this, so the next morning I took no chances and got up early after an early night. I was cleaning my teeth when I thought I heard the doorbell. Even though I was sure it was indeed nice and early I knew there was a possibility that my alarm clock was wrong so I went to check. I peered round the threshold into the street and with a thud the door slammed shut behind me. I stood there for a few moments wondering how it is possible for any one person to be quite so stupid. The rain was coming down heavily at this point and the only other people in the street were a couple of homeless chaps who blinked at me from their cardboard nests over the road. I don´t suppose it´s every day that the light of dawn reveals a barefooted Englishman in a Jesus T-shirt waving his arms in self-recrimination and spraying toothpaste foam onto the pavement. I had to trot through the running rainwater to the main hostel and get a spare key. With my toothbrush still in my mouth the lady on the night desk took some time to work out what I was talking about - I´m not sure my mimes helped much. She must have wondered why I´d decided to treat her to a Mr Bean impression quite so early in the morning.

The weather here recently has been quite bad - lots and lots of rain. I´ve asked a few people when the better weather should arrive. They tell me there´s a Bogotano expression that in April it rains "a thousand". Even though it´s now May, they explain, it´s still only rained five hundred. They have also said that last year there wasn´t a summer at all and it rained solidly until Christmas. But I don´t really mind it - I can still look back to those buses in Central America where in scorching heat I kept myself going by fantasising about April showers.

Stag night

I´m still recovering from a very hectic weekend that got underway on Friday with a stag night for an English ex-pat here. Dave, variously known as Disco Dave or Dodgy Dave, is a geezer from Hitchen, Herts, who has been here for a couple of years and is tying the knot with a Bogotana next Saturday.

I´d like to tell you all sorts of hilarious stories about what went on, but I can´t remember. The evening started with a few beers at the hostel and then continued in the taxi with a bottle of rum, shared between Ozzy John, who I work with, German, the hostel owner, and myself. By the time we arrived at a Swiss chalet style restaurant on a mountain overlooking the city we were already on the wobble. We had been expected to eat, but instead more rum appeared.

Apparently we ended up in a girly bar called La Piscina, which had a swimming pool in the middle of it. Remarkably, I didn´t fall in - or at least my shoes were dry in the morning.

Saturday was also a heavy night. There had been a rumour that two former members of Talking Heads were playing a secret gig in an English pub in the north of the city. A few of us headed up there and were delighted to discover something that resembled British beer being sold by the pint. It took some time for the novelty to wear off. Sadly, the band didn´t include David Byrne, Tina Weymouth, Chris Frantz or Gerry Harrison, but they were very good nonetheless. They were a classic London pub band who belted out aggressive cover versions of classic songs. I particularly liked their interpretation of Gloria Gaynor´s I Will Survive - which they transformed from the gayest song in the world into a rumbling belch of heterosexual rage.

By the way, the four lads got out of prison relatively unscathed. They were held in a courtyard without food or water until after midday, but weren´t directly mistreated. They did see some shocking sights though, including people being chained to goalposts and beaten with sticks. As the arresting officer said to Chappie as he bundled him into the van: "Estamos en Colombia" (we are in Colombia). Since their adventure they keep bumping into other chaps they were locked up with and so have a strange camraderie with the dregs of central Bogota. One thing I found quite sad was that the local simpleton got a beating. This chap just walks around the area all the time laughing to himself, waving at people and doing nobody any harm. To arrest him, let alone beat him up, smacks of malicious sadism. Perhaps it was because he looks so much like Prince Charles that they picked on him.

Prison

This is where four lads I was out with last night ended up for the heinous crime of walking a few yards from a bar to the hostel without carrying any identification. On the way back from a few quiet drinks we were suddenly confronted by a vanload of police, who look like soldiers here because they dress in green and are armed. They told us to stand up against the wall and empty our pockets. As we were doing this they told us to put our hands against the wall. Then they told us to empty our pockets, with our hands against the wall. It was quite confusing, and I couldn´t help getting the giggles. After searching us they demanded to see our identity papers. I happened to have my press card from the Derby Telegraph, which, despite the fact that I look like Colonel Sanders on it, was accepted. I then had to help another English lad, Lee, argue that a photocopy of his passport should be enough. The policeman kept saying he needed to see the original, but eventually relented. Aviv also got by with his Israeli identity card, but the other four were bundled into the van and taken away. Herman, the hostel owner, has been running around pulling strings to help them out, but they´re unlikely to be released before the afternoon. If anyone is reading this who still believes that identity cards are a good idea for Britain, then please think again. It´s not so much the threat of being stopped without a card and thrown in prison that´s the main problem, more the fact that everyone´s right to exist is ultimately controlled by the government, or in this case by a shadowy government department known as DAS, which issues identity cards and other permits. I´m going to have to deal with this ministry myself before too long, to extend my visa. When I´ve mentioned this to Colombian people they actually shudder. They all have experience of the surreal inefficiency and corruption I´m going to have to face. They also know that without their identity in order they can´t function in society. In a sense they cease to exist. They´re totally stuck until they can persuade some civil servant to stamp a piece of paper for them. They are any number of reasons why this may not happen, ranging from individual incompetence to government harrassment. I can´t imagine the chaos in Britain that will follow the government experimenting with retina scans and suchlike. But they argue that it will stop terrorism. Perhaps they should visit Colombia, which has some of the strictest identity laws in the world but vast swathes of land controlled by tens of thousands of guerillas, who, presumably, have all been registered by the state at some point. To change the subject - I´ve managed to find out a little more about the Swiss hippy, or the Bolivian Baby Butcher as he´s now known. He calls himself Frankenchrist and, I´m told, carries a picture of himself dressed as Jesus but with Frankenstein´s flat head. The reason he´s expecting the Antichrist to pop up in Bolivia is because this is the geographical heart of the continent, which is what remains of the lost continent of Mu, the original home of the Atlanteans, the fathers of the Aryan race (or something like that). I still don´t know whether he´s batting for God or the Devil, but Brian, the English Christian bloke, confided in me that he felt a "great evil" in his company. "I´ve not felt anything like that since I was hugged by a Chinese albino," he added, bizarrely. Oh, and I´ve ended up in the national press here after being interviewed by a journalist from Colombia´s daily paper, El Tiempo. It was an article about the hostel. I´m not sure exactly what I said, I think this should be a link: http://eltiempo.terra.com.co/hist_imp/HISTORICO_IMPRESO/bogo_hist/2006-04-30/ARTICULO-WEB-NOTA_INTERIOR_HIST-2866745.html

I have added the English Version of the article in comment
The Mapper

Ley Seca

I´m back to work now after a long weekend for the May Day bank holiday, which is celebrated as Labour Day here. There was a lot of tension in the city, and rumours that the students were going to riot. Among their grievances was the fact that a popular professor from one of the universities was found murdered on Monserrat this week. As he was also an outspoken union leader and critic of the government, there is some suspicion about how he met his end. But despite this the riots didn´t really happen in the end. By the time I got to the main square yesterday afternoon the pigeons had reasserted control of their terroritory and were maintaining an uneasy standoff with a few bored paramilitary police.

One effect of the threatened violence was the imposition of a temporary drinking ban throughout the city on Sunday and Monday. These are called "ley seca" days (literally meaning ´dry law´) and are usually imposed before elections and other times of potential instability. The English contigent at the hostel (despite living with some of the world´s most stringent drinking restrictions at home) were outraged at this infringement of their god-given right to get plastered on a bank holiday Sunday. Particularly annoyed was a bloke from Middlesborough, Chappie, who was hoping to celebrate his birthday along with his football team´s semi-final victory in the UEFA cup. A plan was hatched to catch a taxi and ask the driver to take us somewhere with beer. As well as four English blokes there was also Aviv the Israeli and Clarabelle, perhaps the nicest French person I´ve ever met. The driver waved his hand dismissively when we gave him his mission, telling us there was any number of places he could take us to. We chose the Zona Rosa, the posh party zone in the north of the city, which is usually packed with people for 24 hours a day throughout the week. When we arrived we realised the taxi driver hadn´t been entirely honest as the place was deserted. He stopped to ask a passerby if he knew of anywhere. "You´ll have to take them to a girly bar," he told the driver. "They´re the only places open today." Clara told the driver in no uncertain terms that she didn´t want to spend the evening in a brothel, we just wanted to find somewhere to have a drink. The driver assured her that he understood, then drove to pink neon place called Exciting Girls, or something. As it was obvious that this was the only place open, we decided to give it a go. We were shown to a ´private room´, which was like a doctor´s waiting room, but with more mirrors and a wipe-clean leather sofa. It took quite some time to explain to the manager that we just wanted six beers - I got the impression he thought we were being euphemistic. "Just a beer, know what I mean? Nice little brown beer. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Hey? Hey?" When he finally believed that we were talking about actual literal beers he told us they would cost us about six quid each, but that we could have a bottle of whiskey for a hundred. We bolted at this point and as we disappeared down the street we noticed the baffled faces of the naughty ladies watching us through the window. They looked very confused and not a little hurt - it must be damaging to their professional pride to find themselves counted as less than a beer.

After this there was nothing to do but to catch another taxi back to the hostel. It was an expensive waste of time, but at least we tried, damn it, at least we tried.