Beautiful Bogota

Many thanks to my friend Chris for letting me use some of his fantastic pictures of Santa Fe de Bogota (DC). See, I told you it was a nice place . . .

El Weekendo

As I write this darkness has fallen over Bogota, and so Bruno is beginning to demand his dinner by fixing me with his button-black eyes and whimpering. I suppose I'd better feed him before I carry on writing, or I'll get no peace.

I had my second Spanish lesson today, and got bogged down in direct and indirect objects. So now feel like I will never master the language beyond what's needed to argue with taxi drivers and point out sandwiches. I've also had some dispiriting experiences when out and about. I've had shopkeepers and waitresses not understanding my versions of words like jugo (juice), cenicero (ashtray) and cigarrillos (uh?). But yesterday was the worst, when the lady in the laundrette asked for my name and I replied "Jorge". I'm sure I said it right (you have to think of an asthmatic Welsh donkey braying backwards to get something like "khhorr-khhayy"), but I ended up having to write it down - leaving her, no doubt, with the impression that us foreigners are so stupid we don't even know our own names.

Although, having said that, I should admit that there may have been a few moments over the past weekend when that was true. Things got off to an early start on Thursday when Hitchen Dave and I were invited to American Dave's posh restaurant for an invite-only Thanksgiving meal. Us English gourmands got there shortly after lunchtime to see if there was anything to could do to help, but the gigantic turkey was already being kicked into the oven and everything else was in capable hands. So we just offered enthusiastic verbal assistance from the bar while making a start on the bottle of House of Lords whisky we had found in San Androsito - the paramilitary-run blackmarket area where you can buy everything from next month's movies to next year's cameras. It's an amazing place and proof, if needed, that rampant capitalism is hard-wired into the human soul. The whisky is a good case in point - so far as I know it's only officially available from the distillery in the Scotish Highlands or in the Upper House bar at the Houses of Parliament.

Perhaps it was because of the whisky that Dave and I both found it rather touching when Dave, the host, asked us all to join hands to say grace. It was perhaps the first non-sarcastic or silly preprandial blessing I've ever experienced. Usually someone either says "grace, tee-hee-hee" or "for what we are about to recieve may God make us truly . . . immune, tee-hee-hee." But Dave's version was sweet and sincere and made sense of what Thanksgiving was all about. Previously I'd assumed it was because the gluttonous Yanks couldn't climb around enough turkey in one sitting on Christmas Day. Now I know it's something about, um, er, who am I?

Friday, and to a birthday party for Australian Nicole. Her boyfriend John had nagged and cajoled enough to get everyone round to their apartment on time, so we could all lie in wait to surprise her when she came in. It worked reasonably well, except that because of a mix-up with phone calls we all ended up squatting in the dark for a good half hour trying not giggle before she arrived back. The surprise-factor was heightened by the fact that she thought she had been burgled again (and was on the brink of having the screaming heeby-geebies) when we all jumped out, roaring our best wishes.

Saturday got off to a slow start after waking up at Nicole and John's apartment, hunched up the same place I'd previously been hiding - the foot of their bed. After a few welcome cups of tea and some peculiar soup I wandered round the corner to Dave's house, where he was settling in to watch the new James Bond film (available for weeks gone by at San Androsito). It seemed like a sensible course of action for the afternoon until his Norwegian housemate brought his visiting brother back from the airport and insisted we join them in Nordic-style shots of whisky. It's difficult to refuse a pair of identical looming things with glacial stares and no eyebrows.

I should perhaps explain why Dave, who married just a few months ago, now has a Norwegan lodger. Sadly, he and his wife, Margarita, have found it difficult to get on and have separated. It's a particular shame because they are expecting a baby together any day now. But when two people see their futures on different sides of the world, things can become fraught.

After a boozy afternoon of watching Bond and saying "skol" a lot, it was back to the pimp-palace in the sky to cook dinner for Nicole et al. As per her birthday wishes it was spagetti bolognaise and potato bake.

Sunday was a lot more civilised, as I met up with my friend Julianna for an art exhibition called, unpromisingly, ArtBo. The quality of the art and the sheer scale of the event were quite staggering, underlining just how much money there is in this city. Also apparent was in whose hands that money is - clearly one was walking among the elite. People were taller, skin was paler and more heads were blonde. I would challenge anyone dropped into that hall from space to have more than an inkling that they were in South America, let alone Colombia. As with all cultural events here, it was absolutely packed - as it deserved to be.

Here are two pictures from Nicole's party on Friday night:
PS - to everyone at home who asked me why I like Bogota so much, you may find some clues in the second picture. Oh, and the first, come to think of it.

Back to the Bog

I'm writing this in my flat in Bogota, still trying to get my bearings after the trip back. The weather outside is cool and pleasant, which everyone is pleased about because while I was away there was a month of uninterrupted downpours. Wafting through the window are the dulcet tones of our neighbourhood tramp, who shouts obscenities at passing cars while chasing them down the street flailing his arms. Face-to-face he's a different man, very quiet, shy and sweet. He's got some sort of nervous condition that leads him to constantly pick at a red raw scab on his forehead. I always try to give him money when I can, and he's similarly looked after by everyone else in the neighbourhood, despite the rudeness of his cursing. Perhaps he helps stop motorists using the street as a shortcut.

Bruno, Sam's dog, is sulking on the sofa, because no sooner have I arrived home than his master has left for a week in the states. Apparently, while I was away, he spent much of his time chewing my duvet. Whether this was in protest at my absence or out of longing for my return is impossible to say, but either way it now smells of dogfood and is in desperate need of a clean.

I got hauled up by police this morning when I took him for a walk on a field behind the flat. While I was waiting for him to do his business I leaned against a tree and smoked a roll-up. Before I was even half way through two policemen on a motorbike came roaring up the track and started babbling about marijuana. They spent quite a bit of time examining my packet of Golden Virginia before they grudgingly accepted that it was only tobacco. They were reasonably pleasant about it, certainly a lot more gracious about accepting my innocence than that peculiar plod in Worcester.

Much less charming were the officials at Miami airport. While putting my stuff through the x-ray machine I took my laptop out of my backpack, according to instructions. However, I had left it wrapped in its thin woollen cover. "We have a laptop in a bag!" shouted the machine operator. Heads snapped up all around, as the cry was taken up by several voices. It was quite surreal, and they were obviously acting in accordance with some sort of drill. "Is this your laptop, sir?" asked one particularly surly official, "then come with me, sir."

I went to a side table with him and he began to swab it and run tests on a variety of sinister-looking machines. At this point I had a lurch of horror - it was being tested for explosives. I wondered how long I would have to spend in a cell before they accepted that the huge amount of gunpowder, cordite and other explosive compounds were there for purely innocent reasons. Poor blighters have been hauled off to Guantanamo Bay with much more convincing stories than mine. "So let me get this straight. sir. You were working in a fireworks shop for one month, without payslips or any employment records, in commemoration of a thwarted terrorist attack?" I didn't fancy my chances, but incredibly, all the results were negative. This despite the fact that the keyboard is visibly sparkly with traces of black powder. After this I had to go through the 'blower machine', which hits you with high pressure jets of air to dislodge and detect any explosive particles on your person. Again, nothing was detected, despite everything I own being covered in the same twinkly dust as my computer. I didn't stop to point this out to them; I'm afraid American homeland security will have to to its best without my help.

I've pretty much caught up with all my friends since I've been back. Most of them were at the opening of Sam's first Colombian art exhibition on Saturday night. I happily admit that I only usually go to these sorts of things for the free booze, but here any cultural event is incredibly well supported. This was no exception, it was heaving with people and I think he even sold a few pictures then and there.

I must have been drunk, because the next morning it was pointed out to me that I'd invited half the city round for Sunday dinner. Fortunately Dave was happy to help, and so about a dozen people ended up stuffing their faces on leg of lamb, roast potatoes and treacle sponge with custard.

As I said, I'm still trying to get my bearings - adapting to a new hemisphere, missing everyone at home who I hardly, if at all, got to spend time with, adjusting to the altitude, working out what to do next and debating whether to have another cup of coffee or risk walking Bruno again.

Sky monkeys with exploding coconuts

I'm writing this from the comfort of the 'executive suite', the small pocket of warmth I've created in the middle of my fireworks shop. Once upon a time it was some sort of reception area, so I have to lift the hatch to get behind the counter, where my mattress is. I've also got a desk, some padded chairs (like teachers used to get in assembly) and a tea table made out of a Molten Krypton box.

Today has been my first really busy day - so tomorrow and Sunday (November 5) should be even busier. Luckily Jo, my school friend from Wales, and Claire, a half-Turkish Worcester girl who saw my job advert in the window, are doing a great job of doing all the work.

I've just had an encounter with an off-duty policeman. I sold some fireworks to a lad who has been in quite often, so when he got his driver's licence out to prove his age I just waved it away and said “Don't worry, I remember you.” Truth be told, I remembered him because his licence card seemed unusualy flimsy. Just after he left the shop a red faced little man in a woolly hat strode up to the counter and flashed his wallet at me. I must have looked confused, because my first thought was 'why has he got a milk bottle top squashed into his wallet?'. Then I realised it was a police badge. But he did look like a man who would hoard old bits of tin foil.

“Did you check that lad's ID?” By this time he had adopted the wide-legged back-leaning stance of someone about to mete out righteous justice.

“Oh absolutely,” I said, “I've seen it before, he's been in a few times, he's actually nineteen.”

“Yeah? Well there's eight of his mates waiting round the corner. Do you really think he's going to a nice little bonfire party with those fireworks?”

Now I was really confused. I wondered if it really was a foil top in his wallet, and if this was an autistic attempt at conversation. “But he was over eighteen, how could I refuse him? I can't make prior judgements about how people are going to behave – as I'm sure you'd understand.”

For some reason this rankled him, so he fixed me with a beady stare while his mouth moved freely over his face searching, presumably, for some words to show me who was boss. He turned on his heel toward the door. And then turned on it again. As he spoke he jabbed his finger for emphasis: “I'm wat-ching you,” he said, in a really deep and scarey voice.

I didn't know what to say. “Ooh, goodness me. Thank you very much.”

He walked crabwise out the door, his quivering finger was the last I saw of him. I still can't work out why he got so cross with me. Maybe he mistook my confusion for smart-arsedness. Perhaps it was because when I smiled and thanked him for 'watching' me I was absently fiddling with the end of a big pink rocket. I don't know. He could have been jealous because I had so much cardboard to hoard.