Rainy day

I´ve just had some terrible news from home. A very dear friend of mine has discovered that what she thought was pneumonia is in fact a lung tumour, with a dose of leukaemia thrown in for good measure. Suddenly, being by myself in a jungle border town feels lonely. That may seem like a selfish response to another person´s tragedy; but sometimes I suspect the essence of loneliness rests in not being able to help those you care about.

The rain began to fall today. Within minutes the streets were flooded, and soon the electricity supply was cut throughout the town. Some enterprising businesses turned on clunking generators, and I had to run back to the guesthouse to bring in the laundry I´d spent all day trying to wash in a museum-piece machine.

The downpour made a pleasant change to the scorching weather of yesterday, which left me terribly sunburnt after several trips to the Brazilian immigration office. I first got there shortly after noon to find a sign announcing that the office was shut from 12-2. With nothing else to be done I walked back over the frontier to Leticia, had lunch and wrote my last entry.

I walked back up after two and found a friendly chap behind the counter ready to help me. (Again, he spoke good English, which still amazes me about this place.) He took my passport and asked for my yellow fever vaccination form. I knew I needed it to get into Brazil, but in a fit of absent-mindedness I´d left it at the guesthouse. So it was another walk to and fro until I arrived, bright red and sweating, with every piece of paper I had in my possession.

He then asked me how long I needed the visa for. I could´ve just said "two weeks please, squire" but instead I poked my return plane ticket through the glass. He held it with his fingertips and regarded it with a look of perplexity. It was then I realised, or remembered, that it had "GOOD CRACK" scrawled across it in capital letters. As the immigration office was in the reception area of the federal police station, I didn´t fancy having to explain this message, which must have seemed to him like a very simple but highly illegal shopping list. He already knew that I was absent-minded, so he could well have assumed somebody had seen fit to remind me of what I needed to collect or something.

As it was he stamped my passport and I didn´t need to explain. I´m not sure if he would´ve understood or believed me if I´d tried: "Well, you see, er, last week we bumped into these Norwegan disk jockeys in the street, in Bogota, and invited them and their large female entourage back to our palace for a drink. One of them, the girls, used to live in the states and had a very annoying whining accent (that made her sound like a six-year-old asking to stop for a wee on a car journey) so myself and a friend from Middlesborough, yes, that´s right, the smog-bound industrial town in the north of England, decided to teach her some British turns of phrase. Including ´crack´, as in ´to have a good crack´. No, really, that´s why it´s written there. Please don´t do that to me with your truncheon . . ."

After finally getting all my paper in order, and officially being in Brazil at last, I headed back over the border to my guesthouse. I asked the lad there if he knew of anywhere to go for a drink. He said he was going out with his girlfriend and some other mates, and that I´d be welcome to join them. That sounded ok, so we went to call for his missus. When we got to her house we found ourselves in the middle of her ten-year-old sister´s birthday party. There was a huge cake on the coffee table and plastic cups full of alarmingly-coloured fizzy pop. (This stuff is actually made in the town, and carries the boast that it is "Leticialicious".) Despite my unexpected arrival I was suddenly designated as the guest of honour and given the first slice of cake. The mother underlined this hospitality by carefully retrieving one of the decorative sugar flowers and, using her little finger, poking it back onto the icing of my slice as she passed it to me.

The cake was soon demolished, and then it struck me that for the first time I was in the company of a family of fat Colombians. It was like a Botero painting. They were all cheerfully plump, except for the father who was as thin as a whip. Then I noticed that there were about a dozen sisters, and goodness knows how many cousins, and that he was the only one who didn´t have any cake. Perhaps the others trough their way through birthday treats on an almost daily basis.

After taking our leave with profuse thanks I was left on the corner smoking a tactful cigarette while the lad from the guesthouse had a whispered chat with his girlfriend. Later he told me that she was pregnant. "I am in such trouble. So much trouble. Her father is going to kill me. He´ll kill me!" There was nothing I could say to console him on that front. Her father did look like one of those wirey blokes with a penchant for sadism, and (judging by the collection of religious books and videos) was a bit of a bible-basher with high moral standards. Indeed, the first thing he said to me, as he handed me a cup of the bright pink Leticialicious stuff, was: "We don´t have strong drink in this house, except at Christmas." The poor lad is doomed - and all for a fat lass.

Leticia

As I write this near the banks of the river Amazon I am not officially in any country. I have been stamped out of Colombia at the tiny airport here, and haven´t yet made it to the police station over the frontier in Brazil. This isn´t a problem because the Colombian town of Leticia and the Brazilian town of Tabatinga merge into each other and it takes a trained eye to spot where they join. Movement across the border is entirely free, and all the shops here perform the mathematical miracle of taking payment in two currencies, often at the same time.

My main reason for being here is to leave Colombia for a few days and then re-enter the country as a tourist. The alternative would have been to spend a fortune sorting out a student visa in Bogota. I had to fly here as nobody has ever been foolish enough to attempt to drive a road through the miles and miles of jungle that surround the place. Apart from flying the mighty Amazon is still the main means of getting in and out of here. In the town itself everybody drives motorbikes or scooters. I suppose it´s hardly worth having a car when you only ever zip to the shops and back. It strikes me as quite a charming town, and surprisingly clean and orderly for an outpost in the middle of the jungle. The roads are broad and well-maintained with brightly painted shops and businesses along either side. I´ve also been struck by the amount of people who speak good English here - seemingly more than in Bogota. This could be because they all have to grow up speaking two languages - Spanish and Portugese - and so retain an aptitude for language learning. On the other hand I get the impression that they have long recognised that tourism is their main hope for the future here. This is also obvious from the amount of tour agencies and souvenir shops on every street. All they are missing are the tourists - but I think they are due to arrive in Easter, when Bogota and the other big cities empty out for the week.

I´m already being stalked by a tour guide who introduced himself as Mowglie when I arrived at the airport. I took his card out of politeness and asked the chap at my guest house if he would recommend him. ¨Well, he is a friend of mine, but I would not advise you to go with him. Last year he lost a German in the jungle. His parents came and stayed here to look for him, but nobody knows what happened to him. I think there are better companies to go with.¨

The last weekend in Bogota was, as usual, hectic. We ended up being invited to some sort of art show by a friend of a friend who is a famous soap opera star here. He´s obviously some sort of larger-than-life comedy actor in the shows, telenovelas as they´re called, and must be recognised a lot because he is constantly in character. This was a little wearing, as it was like spending the evening with a latino Frank Carson preparing for a season as Widow Twanky in the Birmingham Hippodrome pantomime. At the exhibition (which was in a pub near where I used to live) he was rather embarrassing. But I suppose because everybody else knew him from the telly they didn´t being roared at and crushed in giant unbidden bearhugs.

Hail!

The rainy season got underway today with a sudden clap of thunder and a fall of giant hailstones. This soon turned to sheets of rain which steadily filled up both of the patios, forming large pools in front of and behind the Palace. These began to grow and eventually the front lake began to spread into the Blenheim Suite (the living room), soaking the carpet. I had been worried that the Palace would leak, but apart from a few drips on the stairs we seem to be reasonably waterproof. Dave and Jess bravely dealt with the lake problem by rolling up their trousers and attacking the drains with bread knives. Amazingly this worked, and with a loud gurgling sound the waters began to subside. Now, for the next few months, life will be very different in Bogota. Umbrellas will again become indispensable items, and wet shoes a fact of life. In a way I'm quite looking forward to it - it was during the rainy season last year that I first fell in love with this place. The showers have the effect of washing the pollution out of the air and guarantee a daily show of rainbows that arch over the city and frame the green mountains beyond.

I'm also hoping that the rain and floods might help to stem the constant flow of visitors we have been receiving here. Hardly an hour goes by without somebody arriving at the door, which is nice, of course, but can get a bit much. The weekend was a case in point. Folk started turning up in twos and threes on Friday night, and before we knew it we had a full-blown party going on. We were all a bit bemused, because none of us had invited anybody. The same thing happened on Saturday, and throughout Sunday, when we had a roast pork dinner (with apple sauce, stuffing, roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese and gravy). There was no let up in the evening either. It was gone midnight and I was watching a film with Chris when the doorbell went. Standing there were two girls we know from the neighbourhood who announced that they were a bit tipsy, and just happened to be passing, and could they have a glass of wine or something? Naturally, we invited them in and had a pleasant chat for a few hours about the ghosts of the Candelaria. To be fair the girls earned their visiting rights with the bizarre and delightful assertion that their flat was haunted by the ghost of a 1970s hippy, called Fred.

At the moment we have a well-known author here interviewing a former child soldier who joined a paramilitary death squad after being rejected from the army because of his height. He wanted to enroll in order to avenge the death of his aunt, who was killed by guerrillas. I can't name the writer, because as soon as he finishes his book he will need to leave Colombia and never come back. He's been interviewing a few of these former killers here this week, charming fellas the lot of them, but I'm not sure how comfortable I am having them as house guests. I'm also beginning to question why he wants to do the interviews here, rather than at his luxury three-storey penthouse apartment in the north of the city. He says it's simply because his subjects all live in the south and the Palace is a good central meeting point. Hmm.

Sam has finally managed to emerge from his shamanic trance and has picked up Bruno. He said he didn't get to meet his 'power animal' or experience any particularly interesting visions. "The place was full of goddam hippies," he said, "and they all had their heads right up the asses of the shamans. These fat little dudes were sat around surrounded by gorgeous girls who were worshiping them. I gotta start a cult." He said the main effect of the drug was to induce vomiting. "It was like a symphony of puking, going on all around - bwah! bwah! bwah! You're supposed to vomit out all your negative energy, or whatever, but I just couldn't puke. The last night was horrible, I wouldn't recommend the experience. Too many hippies."

At the moment I'm entertaining a vain hope of having a quiet night tonight, but Wednesday in Bogota is a sort of mini midweek weekend. It's often busier than Friday and Saturday night, and going by experience the doorbell will start to ring at any time.

Aha! Right on cue; there goes the door. Let's just hope it's not another reformed murderer or a hippy from the spirit world. Whoever it is, I think I'll let them get rained on for a bit before I let them in. Ha!

Rat-rat-ratting

We've been looking after Bruno this weekend because his master, Sam, has been off taking ayahuasca (a potent hallucinogenic mushroom) with Amazonian shamans. They've traveled up from the jungle with their bags full of the stuff and are administering it to Bogotanos in some woods near the city. His thinking was that a visionary experience would provide him with some inspiration for his painting. I'm not sure it worked though; we spoke to him yesterday to ask when he wanted to pick up his dog: "Oh, right, hello," a weak voice croaked, "I'm sleeping. In a deep place. Can you keep him another day? I'm just . . .er . . . ok . . . yes . . . thanks." He didn't sound too happy about the whole experience, but then you never know what you're going to see when you peer into your soul under the stewardship of a wrinkled old cove in a pointed hat whose job is to hit you with a handful of feathers every now and then. Other people I've spoken to about taking the stuff describe moving encounters with their 'power animal'. Without exception these spiritual totems are creatures like panthers or wolves, the sort of animal that you'd be happy to show off to your friends. But what of those who end up with guinea pigs or Shetland ponies as their guides-to-other-dimensions? Maybe that's what happened to Sam; perhaps he was disappointed to discover that his inner being was inextricably linked to hedgehogs or flamingos or something. We'll find out later.

Whichever way, I'm sure he'll be glad to be reunited with his real power animal - a small, exceptionally greedy tan and white Jack Russell terrier called Bruno Diaz. He's already proved his worth here by keeping the inner-city rats at bay. On Sunday morning I found him running round and round the oven in a state of high excitement. Using the international language of terriers he told me, quite clearly, that there was a rat hiding underneath and, with my help, he might be able to catch it and and call down savage vengeance upon its small furry head. But something was going wrong; every time he stuck his nose under the oven he would leap back with a yelp of pain and confusion. At first I thought we had come across some sort of super-rat not afraid to sally forth into the jaws of death. Then I remembered, the cooker wasn't earthed, and a dog's cold wet nose is a splendid conductor of electricity. Our landlord, Peter, did try to sort it out last week, after we'd all had several shocks. He ran yards and yards of cable from the cooker, up the wall, across the ceiling and out the door to some sort of gas pipe in the patio. "It's rather a bodge-job," he said, "but it should work." It didn't, as Bruno discovered. Eventually, after Chappy and I had poked broom handles into the gloom the rat wandered out and trotted off across the patio. Bruno either didn't notice, or pretended not to - he just stood, quaking, staring at the oven. I think I should send the results of this accidental experiment to a medical journal of some kind. It would be the final proof of the value of electro-convulsive aversion therapy if it can quash a Jack Russell terrier's inbred enmity towards rats.

riot pictures

I have Little Dave to thank for these pictures, he recognised some people at his hostel who had also been caught up in the riots. So, I'm not sure who took these pictures, but all credit to them.

This next one shows the line of traffic cops who faced off with the demonstrators. Shortly after this picture was taken they wheeled round and speed off down the road. The crowd cheered and ran off after them. Only to be met with . . .
. . . these fellas. By this time we'd already headed up the hill to get out the way. But when this line of Robocops began to charge we found ourselves at the head of the fleeing mob.
The riot police here have remarkable uniforms. The designer must have been one of three things: an expert in bodily protection; a science fiction enthusiast or a sado-masochistic leather fetishist.
I didn't see any of this; but quite a few banks and shops were smashed up. I like the way the torn poster in the window is still displaying the V sign.

The Palace

My attempts at taking pictures of the palace were terrible failures. The rooms are so big it's impossible to get them all into one shot. But then Chris did something clever with his camera and got the following pictures of the front room. To give a sense of perspective and proportion, the dog in the foreground of the first picture is a particularly large Jack Russell.

it's a riot!

Tear gas really isn't that bad, considering the alternatives. But exposure to the stuff when you've got a cold anyway can be really messy. I'm hoping that the curry that's on the go in the kitchens will help matters.

Along with Jess, Dave and a chap called Little Dave (a traveler from England who, I think, is destined to always find himself in the company of another Dave and so have to be qualified as 'Little') I'd headed out to see if the flea market was open. All the centre of town was cordoned off and, apart from thousands of soldiers and riot police, was largely deserted. I wish I'd had my I-Spy book of Colombian armed forces on me, I'm sure I could have ticked off every battalion and regiment.

Everything had stopped for the visit of George Bush, who, we knew, was due to sweep into town at any moment. I'm still not sure if we saw the presidential motorcade, there were several over the period of about an hour. Eventually we realised that there was no way that the fleamarket would be open, being as it is on the main drag. Having got so far we decided to keep walking and call over to my old flat to say hello to Sam. As we got to the Bull Ring we could see that there'd been some trouble. The road was full of bits of brick and there were dozens of tense-looking riot police around. These chaps are some of the best equiped I've ever seen. They wear the sort of full-cover body armour that Batman would be proud of and the rest of their equipment would be just the ticket for the Terminator. Quite a fearsome bunch when they're ready to go, but if you spot them off-duty with their helmets off they are just jolly laughing lads seeing through their national service like everyone else.

We had no other way to go than through a line of these chaps and up the hill towards La Macarena. Dave headed the other way to go and visit his baby son, unsure if he would make it through the security ring to the south. As we walked through the police line some looked at us a little askance, but they didn't seem to mind that we were heading towards a crowd of rioters. These had gathered a few blocks up, on the edge of a very pleasant little park. We stood to watch a while as there seemed to be what football comentators call 'a carnival atmosphere'. There was a thumping beat from several drums and many demonstrators were picking out a salsa rhythm with whistles. Just as I was wondering how they ever remembered to bring them an old chap came up with a whole bunch and offered us one for a very reasonable price. I almost bought one out of respect for his entrepreneurial spirit.

At about this time a phalanx of motorcycle police roared up to the crowd and came to a stop just before the front line of the cheerfully jigging mob. There were a few catcalls and a big increase in whistling, but nothing else, and after a few minutes the biker cops swung round and headed back the way they came. The crowd took this as some sort of victory and, with another increase in whistling, streamed off after them. Despite my relative lack of experience in rioting, I got the distinct impression that they were being led on to some sort of trap, so I suggested that we head up the steep slope towards the Pimp's Penthouse. We'd got about half way up when there was a whistling roar behind us and the whole mob began racing up the hill behind us, followed by the Robocops, who were now backed up by armoured vans with water cannons. We started running at their head, and because I was back in my old neighbourhood, I led the way down a quiet street. The mob followed. Again, we turned a right, and the mob followed, but this time coming from both ends. It looked for a moment like we were going to be caught right in the middle of the action (by this time a few rock throwers had arrived) but another cry went up and the protest moved back to where it had started after having run round the block. By this time we were all exhausted - we've all got the same chesty cold since living together and running up hills at nearly 9,000ft through air misty with tear gas is never easy. Particularly not when you're laughing so much you've stomach cramps as well. We made it to the old pad and relaxed on the balcony with a coffee.

Now I'm being called to work my magic with a sag aloo - potatoes with spinach. It's not usually a very spicy dish, but I'm planning on extra chillie to try to clear my tubes.

Cartagena pictures

I'm writing this in the comfort of the palace kitchens, where we are now online. I can't spend too long on this as I have to go to the dentist. I had my first appointment yesterday with an English-speaking Hungarian who had been recommended by German at Platypus. His practice was in an unmarked apartment on the eigtheenth floor of a residential block. His wife let me in and I spent about half an hour flicking through old magazines in his living room. Finally he took me through to his consulting room, which seemed to be part of his kitchen. We had a bit of a chat and he told me that he fled to Colombia with all his family because of the Hungarian revolutions of the 1950s. I didn't like to question his choice of safe haven - but I've never heard of anyone coming here to escape political violence. He made a lot of disapproving noises as he examined my mouth and ran through what needed to be done. At this point I realised that because the chair was right up against a wall he'd only been able to check one side of my mouth. I craned my head round and said: "What about all these?"

He then betrayed how long he has been in Colombia by making their national noise of suprise and horror, which sounds something like "oo-weesh" and added to the list of things to do. At this point he told me I needed a temporary filling straight away. I was expecting this as I have had two fall out recently. The first was back in England when I was eating a cherry drop and going too fast over a speed hump. The second was during lunch last Sunday, just as I was explaining that the treacle tart I'd made shouldn't be so sticky. I was expecting to be injected, but instead he just told me to hold my tongue to one side with his mirror and started to drill away at my molar. "Don't worry," he said as smoke started to issue from my mouth, "this is only a very little drilling." At that point the phone rang, so he pushed his drill into my other hand and went to answer it. I was lying back on the chair trying to cool my tooth with my tongue while he stood at the phone for a full minute saying: "Allo? Allo? Con quien? Who is there? Allo! Allo?" He eventually gave up and came back to me, imparting the fairly redundant information that there was nobody on the line.

Anyway, back to Cartagena. Isn't annoying that whenever you take a picture of an interesting door you always get a gorgeous bird walk into the shot?

This little alley runs alongside the city walls, built to keep out pirates like Sir Francis Drake.
It's a colourful place, Cartagena.

I'm really not sure what this shop keeper was thinking with his choice of mannequin - particularly in a town where all the girls are so slim.
Ah, that would be it; a tribute to Botero.





This is the view from the city walls. In the distance you can see the new town. Just along from here is the Colombian branch of Cafe del Mar - the legendary Ibiza chill-out bar. It is a great place to relax; with the Caribbean on one side and the old town on the other. The DJ plays his LPs in one of the watch towers. We only stayed for one drink because we thought it was horrendously expensive - almost a quid and a half a pint. Oo-weesh!

Everybody at the palace has spent all week recovering from the housewarming, but hopefully this weekend should be more sensible - and all thanks to George Bush. Because he's coming to Bogota on Monday, there's a complete ban on alcohol sales all weekend - what's known here as a Ley Seca, or Dry Law. On the other hand, experience tells me that these attempts at calming the populace usually backfire where gringos, particularly the English, are involved. We have already had a stream of visitors asking if they can store booze here . . . so it could turn into another palace-bound weekend like the last one. It may be just as well, because we're only a block or two from the Presidential Palace the whole place is crawling with soldiers and American spooks. There have even been tanks spotted in the neighbourhood. So perhaps it might be wise to keep a low profile. Being searched is never very pleasant.

Casita

Sorry it´s been so long since I last wrote, but it takes ages to move into a palace, and even longer to perform the necessary house warming functions.

The move happened suddenly after I returned from Cartagena. I´d spent a great couple of days with John and the others, and even managed to get hold of pancakes on the Caribbean to make up for my Shrove Tuesday disappointment. This was thanks to Colombia´s best restaurant chain, Crepes and Waffles. The story of the company is quite heartwarming - a single mother down on her luck had the brainwave that crepes and waffles can both be made from the same batter, so she started her first branch. Now they´re all over Colombia and she is a multi-millionaire. Despite this phenomenal success she has never forgotten how she started and still employs only single mothers in all her branches.

It was sad to see John head off. We arrived in Bogota at about the same time and, along with Nicole, found work together at the Brewery. Now he is heading off to England to make good use of his two-year work visa to earn enough to buy a place in Colombia and settle here. We had a bit of a look around Cartagena, but were told by an estate agent that there was absolutely nothing available within the city walls for less than a thousand million pesos - which is about a quarter of a million quid. This seems an awful lot over here - but on British prices is it really too much to live in one of the most beautiful, cultured, atmospheric places in the world? I´ve never been so impressed by a town.

No sooner did I arrive back in Bogota than a message reached me that we had taken possession of our mansion, and that my help was needed to move stuff in. I rushed there as slowly as I could and was just in time to carry some cushions. I can´t remember if I described it before, but it is a quite amazing colonial house right in the very heart of the old town. There are two large courtyards, the one at the front surrounded with columns and the one at the back containing a basketball court. You can´t play a full game on it because a small garden has been planted in front of the far hoop, but this attracts humming birds, so it´s not all bad. The living room is gigantic, with stained glass windows, a baronial-style stairway and a granite fireplace with lions and heraldic devices on it. It´s also got a billiards room, but unfortunately the table was taken by the last owners. My bedroom is at the front of the house overlooking Monserrate. I think it used to be a ballroom. My bed looks very small and odd plonked in the middle of it.

We were lucky to find the place. Dave and Jess spent almost the whole month I was in England traipsing around the city looking for somewhere, but without success. Then Jess started chatting to an old English hippy bloke who she studies Spanish with at the National University. ¨Oh,¨ he said, ¨I´ve got a couple of little places you might be interested in renting for a while . . . ¨ He´s got more than that, he seems to be buying up the whole of Candelaria. He´s got plans for restaurants, cultural centres, hotels and all sorts. The amazing thing is he probably only needed to sell one of his places in England to buy all this. I think he paid about seventy or eighty grand for our palace. He´s had problems though, after all, estamos in Colombia. I won´t give the whole sorry tale of how he got ripped off, suffice to say the story started with ¨So I´d given this Colombian friend of mine, who I´d known for ten years, power of attorney over my finances. . .¨

As soon as we began to move in guests started drifting over. For some reason the place seems to be particularly attractive to the English, and more and more have been coming out of the woodwork. It can be a problem though - we got our first complaints from the neighbours after a game of cricket in the rear courtyard. To be fair some of the players were being a little over-enthusiastic with their appeals. And anyway, it was never leg before wicket.