English rose

I've just heard the sad news that my dear friend Jenny has died. She passed away peacefully in her sleep on Friday, in her own bed and surrounded by friends.

After discovering a few weeks ago that her pneumonia was actually inoperable cancer and leukemia, she took the brave and somewhat old-fashioned decision to 'take to her bed' and await the end. She told me when I phoned her a few days ago that any treatment at her stage would be nothing more than a form of torture.

Reflecting on that phone call now reminds me of everything so wonderful about Jenny. Despite what she was going through, it seemed to be her who was comforting me. "Goodbye, George my love, take care of yourself," she said as we made our final farewells.

Or maybe those farewells weren't so final. On Saturday morning I woke up with the distinct impression of her laughter. Apparently she found it funny that I've overcome the problem of having too large a bedroom by putting a tent up in it. Perhaps it's just coincidence, but I know that she would have found it funny. Jenny always enjoyed my oddness, and camping in your own bedroom is, on reflection, an odd thing to do.

But there was a sensible reason for the tent. Over the past week or so the house has started to spew water (often out of the sewerage system) from the most unexpected places. It all started with complaints from Jess that there was a smell of poo coming from her en-suite bathroom. Obviously, living with a bunch of blokes, she didn't get much sympathy or active assistance, just giggling mockery and insinuation. Then the source of the smell became apparent, as foul water began to bubble through the drain in the middle of the room. Then the ceiling of the room underneath her at the back of the palace opened up, and a filthy brown torrent began splashing down onto the concrete floor. We called the landlord's odd-job man and he came round with the plumber. I think they've fixed it now, I'm not sure how - but it involved pulling down seemingly random sections of ceiling and smashing holes in the basketball court.

Despite its diminished circumstances, the house continues to act as a magnet for the great and good of Bogota. We've had a film crew in asking if they can hire a room for a few days and we've been offered about a hundred quid to host a charity party. We didn't have to think about the latter offer too long; the charity is run by a group of socially-concerned lingerie models.

I've been meeting a fair few models recently. On Wednesday we were all invited to the 20th anniversary bash of Latin America's fourth largest agency. My goodness, but some of those girls are tall.

Anyway, today is St George's day, and I feel the need to go and raise a few glasses to Jenny; who embodied all the finest qualities of the English, none of the bad ones and a whole host of others besides.

resurrection

I've just enjoyed the laziest and quietest easter I can remember. The palace was more-or-less empty, with Dave in the coffee region, Jess on the Rio Magdalena and Chappy at the Caribbean coast. This left just Chris and myself, along with one key for a broken front door, that could only be opened from the inside. In the spirit of messianic sacrifice I agreed to sequester myself in the palace for three days, starting, like Jesus in his tomb, on Good Friday.

The door was out of order because of the landlord's botched attempts at improving the security of the palace. The thieves got in last week through the garage door, which he had left secured by a single external padlock, saying he wanted his own access to the front courtyard. Since the break-in he has festooned the front of the house with a baffling array of locks, which would take a Hindu diety to open, if indeed they worked.

So it was that I spent easter as a prisoner in the palace, like the Man in the Iron Mask, but without the mask, and wearing pyjamas.

Despite not leaving the house I still got to join in the easter celebrations, with the neighbourhood procession passing right in front of the palace on Sunday night. This was led by a marching band, playing a bizarre medley of music including, I think, Colonel Bogey and the Damnbusters' March. Behind the musicians came a long line of hooded men - exactly like the Ku Klux Klan but in colour-coded robes - carrying statues of Jesus, Mary and various saints. These seemed to sway drunkenly on their flower-laden biers as they were carried up the hill. There were also chaps dressed as Roman centurians, which added a surreal aspect to an already odd event.

Following up behind was a large crowd of local people, all wearing looks of grave piety. I got a feeling of hostility from them as they passed me, Chris, Sam and Bruno standing in our doorway, and I wondered if this was because Chris was taking pictures. On the other hand it could have been because we were the only people not crossing ourselves furiously as the garish plaster icons staggered past us.

Semana Santa

I´m Back in Bogota now. I wasn´t having much fun down in the jungle because of the bad news I had about my friend. I also discovered that in my absence the palace had been broken into and my laptop stolen. So I was angry as well. I had a mental image of myself floating down the Amazon in a foul temper, glowering on a boat, cursing the dolphins and the anacondas. I think it defeats the point of messing about on the river if you´re trapped in a muttering rage and annoyed by trees and monkeys.

Thankfully, I got what I went for, which was a free three-month tourist visa. The man from the DAS (department of security administration) seemed a bit suspicious of me and asked lots of questions, to which I replied "what? sorry? I don´t understand." It seemed to do the trick, as he gave up asking me what I was doing in Bogota and gave me the maximum amount of time - out of sympathy, I think.

So now a quiet Easter week in Bogota beckons. The city is beginning to clear out at the moment, so it will be a nice relaxing place to be for a few days.