The eyes of the world briefly turned towards Bogota last week as President Uribe was sworn in for his second term. As all the news reports I saw emphasised, security was very tight. Througout the city centre soldiers outnumbered cilivilians by at least two to one. There's good reason for this; the first time Uribe was installed as president in 2002 Farc guerillas fired rockets at the inauguration ceremony. They missed and the rockets fell on a poor area nearby, destroying a homeless shelter and killing thirty tramps. Take that you fascists!
Just about everybody got searched at some point or other in the days leading up to the ceremony. Jon was particularly worried when he was patted down in the centre of town. The soldier looked as though he was going to make a fuss that he didn't have his passport with him. He came very close to carting him off - which, as he has outstayed his visa, could have meant deportation back to the Israeli army. "Why are you shaking?" asked the soldier.
The news seems better from the Middle East, particularly as Sam's mum and dad managed to escape from Lebanon. They had arrived from the States just before the hostilities and then found themselves trapped in their ancestral village. Eventually they managed to find a car, which they drove to the relative safety of Syria, from where they caught a flight to Paris and then home to Virginia. Quite an adventure for a quietly retired couple.
The day before the inauguration was another Ley Seca - a total ban on the sale or public consumption of alcohol. As is now traditional this was the cue for the expats of Bogota to get together for a boozy party in Platypus Two. I left early and, as I walked home ,had one of the most disconcerting experiences of my time in Bogota. Although it was late the streets are usually fairly busy throughout the night. But as I walked through the city centre this night I was the only living soul to be seen. I was aware of homeless people eyeing me from the shadows, but to all intents and purposes I was walking through an abandoned city. Perhaps all the Bogotanos stay in and get drunk during Ley Seca as well.
Time continues to fly by here. Yesterday I went to the DAS office to renew my visa for my sixth month - which means I've been in Bogota for five months. Five months! Blimey.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
War
The weather in Bogota has been unusually nice for the last week - whole days of sushine without any rain.
Today I sat outside the National Museum (which has the exhibition of Chinese terracotta soldiers that I still haven´t seen) and watched an anti-war demonstration go past on the way to the Israeli embassy. It was quite an odd assortment of people led by a man in a smart business suit riding pillion on a motorbike waving a huge Lebanese flag. Most of the marchers were your usual studenty types who, really, are most angry at being born to parents rich enough to send them to university to study international political science or whatnot. Capitalist pigs.
It´s strange just how close this war is to my life in Bogota at the moment. Sam is Lebanese Druze and very worried about his Mum and Dad, who arrived at their ancestral village in the Lebanese highlands the day before everything kicked off. Apparently they´re fine, but they can´t get back to the States and are watching nervously as thousands of displaced people arrive in their area every day. John also has concerns - he was late renewing his visa, so he´s technically an illegal alien here. If he´s found out it could mean being deported - straight back into the care of the Israeli army, which he had enough of the first time round.
Happily, there´s no bad feeling in the house, despite a disaster that could have tipped Sam over the edge and seen him strangling John to death.
To cut a long (and possibly sordid) story short, John brought a girl back to the flat and lazily asked her to let herself out in the morning. This she did, taking with her Sam´s laptop computer, his camera, my camera and John´s jacket - with his credit card, cash and copy of the house keys in the pocket.
Obviously, I´m devastated at losing my camera, particularly as the memory card was full and saving the pictures was top of my to-do list for the day. But Sam was hardest hit, as he had only recently bought his computer and finished downloading years and year´s worth of information onto it.
But, fortunately, everyone has remained sensible and we´re still getting along fine. Perhaps this is in large part thanks to Bruno - Sam´s Jack Russell terrier who seems delighted with his move from Virginia to Bogota. It´s hard to be annoyed by anything in particular when faced by such a creature.
I´m becoming increasingly concerned by how quickly runs the passage of time here in Bogota. I can´t believe that I have been in the apartment for a month and a half now. It seems like two weeks. Another strange thing is that every day I seem to be busy, with a list of tasks that need doing. But somehow at the end of each week it´s hard to think of anything that has been achieved. Bogota has a way of knocking you back two steps every time you take one forward. If you think of Salsa dancing you´ll get the idea.
Today I sat outside the National Museum (which has the exhibition of Chinese terracotta soldiers that I still haven´t seen) and watched an anti-war demonstration go past on the way to the Israeli embassy. It was quite an odd assortment of people led by a man in a smart business suit riding pillion on a motorbike waving a huge Lebanese flag. Most of the marchers were your usual studenty types who, really, are most angry at being born to parents rich enough to send them to university to study international political science or whatnot. Capitalist pigs.
It´s strange just how close this war is to my life in Bogota at the moment. Sam is Lebanese Druze and very worried about his Mum and Dad, who arrived at their ancestral village in the Lebanese highlands the day before everything kicked off. Apparently they´re fine, but they can´t get back to the States and are watching nervously as thousands of displaced people arrive in their area every day. John also has concerns - he was late renewing his visa, so he´s technically an illegal alien here. If he´s found out it could mean being deported - straight back into the care of the Israeli army, which he had enough of the first time round.
Happily, there´s no bad feeling in the house, despite a disaster that could have tipped Sam over the edge and seen him strangling John to death.
To cut a long (and possibly sordid) story short, John brought a girl back to the flat and lazily asked her to let herself out in the morning. This she did, taking with her Sam´s laptop computer, his camera, my camera and John´s jacket - with his credit card, cash and copy of the house keys in the pocket.
Obviously, I´m devastated at losing my camera, particularly as the memory card was full and saving the pictures was top of my to-do list for the day. But Sam was hardest hit, as he had only recently bought his computer and finished downloading years and year´s worth of information onto it.
But, fortunately, everyone has remained sensible and we´re still getting along fine. Perhaps this is in large part thanks to Bruno - Sam´s Jack Russell terrier who seems delighted with his move from Virginia to Bogota. It´s hard to be annoyed by anything in particular when faced by such a creature.
I´m becoming increasingly concerned by how quickly runs the passage of time here in Bogota. I can´t believe that I have been in the apartment for a month and a half now. It seems like two weeks. Another strange thing is that every day I seem to be busy, with a list of tasks that need doing. But somehow at the end of each week it´s hard to think of anything that has been achieved. Bogota has a way of knocking you back two steps every time you take one forward. If you think of Salsa dancing you´ll get the idea.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Beer and loafing in Bogota
At the moment I´m casting around for some longer-term plan that involves staying in Bogota beyond the end of my tourist visa in two months. Like many other people, I´m at a complete loss as to why I´m so fond of the place. It´s such a common occurence that people come here for a couple of days and end up staying for months. One such example was Geir, the Norwegian bloke I met in Mexico (when we drove for hours with the 74-year-old to the lost city in the jungle and got menaced by whooping monkeys). He was adamant when he arrived that he was just going to see the sights and head on down to Ecuador. That was two months ago - and he left last Wednesday. We organised a farewell barbecue for him at Platypus Two and I burned my shoes (don´t ask).
Like everyone else Geir could not quite explain the attraction of this city. Of course, you can live really well on little money, the people are amazingly friendly, the women beautiful and there´s a real sense of optimism in the air. It reminds me of when I was living in Leeds about 15 years ago and I witnessed, as they say in Yorkshire, a city "pull itself up by the bootstraps".
But I think the main thing is the sense that almost anything could happen at almost any time. This can be a bad thing, like a mugging, but more often it´s something deeply odd. One such example was how my friend Jess asked me to help her design a Gay Pride carnival float for the homeless transexual prostitutes of the city.
Jess, from Cornwall, arrived about a month ago looking for voluntary work and wasn´t having much luck finding anything. Then, one Sunday, we went for lunch at Dodgy Dave´s where another of the guests was the national director for social inclusion - basically President Uribe´s Jiminy Cricket, whose job it is to keep whispering in his ear about the plight of the poor. He said he could help, so Jess went to see him at the Presidential Palace and was given a large pile of phone numbers for charities in Bogota. After days of phoning round she eventually had a meeting with one of these groups, which she thought was a homeless shelter. What they didn´t mention was that it´s a shelter for homeless transexual prostitutes. No sooner did she walk into the door for an interview than she was told she had four days to create a float. "Do you have access to lorry?" asked the charity´s director.
After this she came over to the apartment (sorry, I mean the pimp´s palace in the sky) in a bit of a panic. We worked out a design that involved a few bits of chipboard, some sheeting and lots of crepe paper. Basically, it depicted a ship full of sailors landing on a tropical island - Transexual Homeless Prostitute Island, I suppose. All credit to her, she managed to get it done on time, and when completed it looked, I´m told, magnificent. And then the transexuals clambered aboard; dozens of strapping six-footers in giant heels shaking their boney backsides at the crowds. Apparently by the time the float reached the city´s main drag, it looked like the theme was ´rubbish dump´ - the trannies had reduced Jess´s lovely design to a pile of matchwood and tinder.
I didn´t see the parade myself. I´d been buying plants at the flea market with John, my Israeli housemate, and I wasn´t sure if I could bring myself to join a Gay Pride crowd holding matching potplants with a man in a multi-coloured hat.
Like everyone else Geir could not quite explain the attraction of this city. Of course, you can live really well on little money, the people are amazingly friendly, the women beautiful and there´s a real sense of optimism in the air. It reminds me of when I was living in Leeds about 15 years ago and I witnessed, as they say in Yorkshire, a city "pull itself up by the bootstraps".
But I think the main thing is the sense that almost anything could happen at almost any time. This can be a bad thing, like a mugging, but more often it´s something deeply odd. One such example was how my friend Jess asked me to help her design a Gay Pride carnival float for the homeless transexual prostitutes of the city.
Jess, from Cornwall, arrived about a month ago looking for voluntary work and wasn´t having much luck finding anything. Then, one Sunday, we went for lunch at Dodgy Dave´s where another of the guests was the national director for social inclusion - basically President Uribe´s Jiminy Cricket, whose job it is to keep whispering in his ear about the plight of the poor. He said he could help, so Jess went to see him at the Presidential Palace and was given a large pile of phone numbers for charities in Bogota. After days of phoning round she eventually had a meeting with one of these groups, which she thought was a homeless shelter. What they didn´t mention was that it´s a shelter for homeless transexual prostitutes. No sooner did she walk into the door for an interview than she was told she had four days to create a float. "Do you have access to lorry?" asked the charity´s director.
After this she came over to the apartment (sorry, I mean the pimp´s palace in the sky) in a bit of a panic. We worked out a design that involved a few bits of chipboard, some sheeting and lots of crepe paper. Basically, it depicted a ship full of sailors landing on a tropical island - Transexual Homeless Prostitute Island, I suppose. All credit to her, she managed to get it done on time, and when completed it looked, I´m told, magnificent. And then the transexuals clambered aboard; dozens of strapping six-footers in giant heels shaking their boney backsides at the crowds. Apparently by the time the float reached the city´s main drag, it looked like the theme was ´rubbish dump´ - the trannies had reduced Jess´s lovely design to a pile of matchwood and tinder.
I didn´t see the parade myself. I´d been buying plants at the flea market with John, my Israeli housemate, and I wasn´t sure if I could bring myself to join a Gay Pride crowd holding matching potplants with a man in a multi-coloured hat.
Spud-U-Like
It´s ironic that this journal has prompted such a lively debate about spuds. Only the other day I was in one of the big markets here (buying ingredients for a steak and kidney casserole) when I was struck by the incredible range of potatoes on offer. One stall had nothing but; and they were red, blue, orange, black, white and green - with many colours inbetween. Some were spotted, some striated, some variegated and others shimmered with an unearthly iridescence. They are particularly fond of very small yellow potatoes here, that closely resemble early Jerseys. These are often grilled with coriander and salt and served instead of French Fries in hamburger joints.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Penthouse
I´m sorry it´s been so long since I last wrote an entry - for the past couple of weeks I´ve been running around organising moving into the penthouse. Yesterday the process was completed with the purchase of the most remarkable livingroom suite I´ve ever seen. It´s black leather with white leather piping. If you try to imagine what an intergalactic pimp of the future would sit on you´ll get the idea.
Things took so long to organise because in Bogota you have to know exactly where to go to buy any particular thing. For instance, if you want a fishing rod you have to go to a certain street in a certain district. I will be going there on the suggestion of the man who runs the shop underneath the flat. He said that if we needed anything we should lower a bag with a note of what we want and the appropriate cash. He can then take this and replace it with our order.
I´ve started to get to know my new neighbourhood, La Macarena, a little bit better. It´s right in the middle of the city but retains a small town feel. The community, for some reason, revolves around a little shop run by a woman who looks like Tweedledum (or is it Tweedledee?). Although she runs a grocery store she also sells beer and has a small, dark back room which is always filled with people chatting and drinking. In a strange way it´s the closest thing I´ve found to an English pub since I arrived in the New World. Other oddities of the neighbourhood include a restaurant with hundreds of dismembered dolls and other old toys crawling all over the ceiling. It´s quite disturbing. If that weren´t enough the toilets have a hell theme - complete with urinals made of upended coffins with sinister bat heads to aim at. I think it´s something that needs to be seen, I´ll try to take some photos.
Sam, who has taken a lease on the flat for a year, left for the States today to pick up his dog, a Jack Russell terrier called Bruno who he can´t manage without. Before he left we decided to take another housemate.
So, now I find myself living with a Lebanese Virginian painter and a six-nippled Israeli who is teaching English on the basis of an encyclopaedic knowledge of Pink Floyd lyrics.
Things took so long to organise because in Bogota you have to know exactly where to go to buy any particular thing. For instance, if you want a fishing rod you have to go to a certain street in a certain district. I will be going there on the suggestion of the man who runs the shop underneath the flat. He said that if we needed anything we should lower a bag with a note of what we want and the appropriate cash. He can then take this and replace it with our order.
I´ve started to get to know my new neighbourhood, La Macarena, a little bit better. It´s right in the middle of the city but retains a small town feel. The community, for some reason, revolves around a little shop run by a woman who looks like Tweedledum (or is it Tweedledee?). Although she runs a grocery store she also sells beer and has a small, dark back room which is always filled with people chatting and drinking. In a strange way it´s the closest thing I´ve found to an English pub since I arrived in the New World. Other oddities of the neighbourhood include a restaurant with hundreds of dismembered dolls and other old toys crawling all over the ceiling. It´s quite disturbing. If that weren´t enough the toilets have a hell theme - complete with urinals made of upended coffins with sinister bat heads to aim at. I think it´s something that needs to be seen, I´ll try to take some photos.
Sam, who has taken a lease on the flat for a year, left for the States today to pick up his dog, a Jack Russell terrier called Bruno who he can´t manage without. Before he left we decided to take another housemate.
So, now I find myself living with a Lebanese Virginian painter and a six-nippled Israeli who is teaching English on the basis of an encyclopaedic knowledge of Pink Floyd lyrics.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Quitter
No, not smoking - working. It was only earning me a few hundred quid a month and then I found out that my boss was taxing me by ten percent, even though I'm being paid under the table. I might get some private work at some point, but for the while I'm going to go back to lazing and sight-seeing. And then there's the world cup. German has installed a television in the common room for the duration and, particularly as there are people from every nation here, it's a great place to follow the tournament. It doesn't stop life as normal though; just now there was an Irish bloke playing the trumpet, several people on laptops and a Polish bloke bellowing his way through a Spanish lesson.
The hostel is a great deal more pleasant at the moment because the balance of sexes has reasserted itself. For the past few weeks it has been a totally male-dominated atmosphere here. Like a fraternity house at an American university or one of those places that scientists live in when they are analysing penguin droppings. Even though this is a nice place to be, I'm still hoping that the pimp's palace in the sky is sorted out before too long. There has been a great deal of paper work to do, but the home stretch seems to be in view.
One of the disadvantages of living in a place like the Platypus is that you so often have to say goodbye to people you've got to know quite well. One recent farewell was to Danny, who has been in and out of the hostel since I arrived. He's a photo journalist who was born in Colombia and adopted to a family in Sweden. His last job here involved going down to the 'Red Zone', which is often known as Little Iraq. This is the not-insubstantial portion of the country being fought over by guerillas, coca lords, paramilitaries and the army. He was a guest of the governor, or something, and one night was invited to a party in a village hall. It's just as well he couldn't make it; just as the night was getting going somebody lobbing a spinning grenade into the hall. Five were killed (including two children), 27 people lost limbs and the others were just horribly mutilated. He also go caught up in an aerial bombing raid on some town. This came about when the army went in to pull up some coca plants - to the annoyance of a guerilla contingent, who started firing on them. The army called in support, the guerillas arrived in greater numbers and battle was joined. The government's next step, of course, was to call in the bombers. You should be able to see some of the pictures on his website at www.opurey.com. I'm not sure, but I think he also managed to track down his birth family.
This side of Colobmian life is obviously the most well-known in the outside world and it's rare to hear about the good things (like being able to drink the water). I'm not sure if this will be successful, but this should be a link to a more positive vision of Colombia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MZQ8gY3WU (Edit: I think I failed; but you should be able to follow links on the youtube website to a video clip called Esto Es Colombia, or something)
The hostel is a great deal more pleasant at the moment because the balance of sexes has reasserted itself. For the past few weeks it has been a totally male-dominated atmosphere here. Like a fraternity house at an American university or one of those places that scientists live in when they are analysing penguin droppings. Even though this is a nice place to be, I'm still hoping that the pimp's palace in the sky is sorted out before too long. There has been a great deal of paper work to do, but the home stretch seems to be in view.
One of the disadvantages of living in a place like the Platypus is that you so often have to say goodbye to people you've got to know quite well. One recent farewell was to Danny, who has been in and out of the hostel since I arrived. He's a photo journalist who was born in Colombia and adopted to a family in Sweden. His last job here involved going down to the 'Red Zone', which is often known as Little Iraq. This is the not-insubstantial portion of the country being fought over by guerillas, coca lords, paramilitaries and the army. He was a guest of the governor, or something, and one night was invited to a party in a village hall. It's just as well he couldn't make it; just as the night was getting going somebody lobbing a spinning grenade into the hall. Five were killed (including two children), 27 people lost limbs and the others were just horribly mutilated. He also go caught up in an aerial bombing raid on some town. This came about when the army went in to pull up some coca plants - to the annoyance of a guerilla contingent, who started firing on them. The army called in support, the guerillas arrived in greater numbers and battle was joined. The government's next step, of course, was to call in the bombers. You should be able to see some of the pictures on his website at www.opurey.com. I'm not sure, but I think he also managed to track down his birth family.
This side of Colobmian life is obviously the most well-known in the outside world and it's rare to hear about the good things (like being able to drink the water). I'm not sure if this will be successful, but this should be a link to a more positive vision of Colombia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MZQ8gY3WU (Edit: I think I failed; but you should be able to follow links on the youtube website to a video clip called Esto Es Colombia, or something)
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Suckling pig
Saturday was the thirteenth anniversary of the Platypus, so German, the owner, threw a party with a traditional Colobmian barbecue and a group of musicians from the Pacific Coast. It started at lunchtime, and the free beer flowed throughout the afternoon. As night fell everyone was invited to housewarming party by a group of English guys who have just moved into a huge apartment here. My memories of this party are somewhat hazy, as we were all a little worse for wear. But one incident will stay with me forever. I´m not sure how it came about, but at some point in the evening an Israeli bloke announced that he had six nipples. He then opened his shirt to reveal them; three down each side and perfectly symmetrical, like a dog or cat. It´s always hard to know what to say at times like this, but I did my best: "Goodness, you could take female hormones and make a fortune suckling piglets," I ventured. Perhaps, in hindsight, not the best thing to say to a Jew.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Narcotango
Last night I went out with Juli to see a performance by an Argentinian "multi-media-electro-tango-fusion" band called Narcotango. The multi media aspect of the event consisted of videos showing people´s feet walking along the pavements of Buenos Aires. There was also a plump lady who huffed and puffed her way up ribbons attached to the ceiling and dangled there sweating and trying to smile. She was joined by a couple of tango dancers who snaked their way around the stage now and then. Juli noted that they weren´t looking into each others eyes when they danced, an important aspect of tango, apparently. I´d noticed this as well, but I put it down to the fact that they both had the most horrible hair imaginable. He had a single thick dreadlock emerging like a rat´s tail from a mass of curls and she looked like she´d fallen asleep in a bowl of oily soup.
I´d also seen Juli on Sunday when she´d invited me to her house to try arepas - I´d told her that I found them singularly unpleasant so she was determined to convert me. It was a nice afternoon relaxing in her family´s lovely apartment having a baffling array of arepas cooked for me by her mother. They were a great deal nicer than the greasy disks of maize I´ve tried from street vendors and I was more or less persuaded. It was also good to be with a Colombian family when the results of the elections were coming in. The sitting president, Uribe, a hard line right winger with an uncompromising approach to security, was returned to office, as expected, with a majority of about 40 per cent. Nobody here admits to liking him particularly, but they all wanted to give him another four years to continue the progress he´s made in improving the safety of the country. They all add, however, that he has to combine this with improvements to the lives of poor people, who have been somewhat neglected recently.
John and Nicole, the Australian couple I teach with, had an interesting time when they went to Venezuela to sort out their work visa. To begin with the Colombian consulate managed to take a four-hour job and stretch it out over a whole week. Every day they were told to gather more information and take it back the next day. When they did this they were told they needed to bring another lot of paperwork the day after that. Then, towards the end of the week, they were walking down the main street of Merida, the Venezuelan town with the consulate office, when Nicole was robbed by a street urchin. He grabbed a cheap gold chain from around her neck and ran off down the street. John gave chase, his flip-flops soon flying off his feet as he ran, followed by Nicole. They were wondering why people were tooting their horns at them and people seemed to be cheering them on. They cornered the thief in a shop and John punched him until he spat out the necklace, which he had hidden in his mouth. It was at this point that they realised why their chase had been so enthusiastically observed by the locals - the robber had ripped open Nicole´s top. As John said: "All it needed was that music and it would´ve been pure Benny Hill."
I´d also seen Juli on Sunday when she´d invited me to her house to try arepas - I´d told her that I found them singularly unpleasant so she was determined to convert me. It was a nice afternoon relaxing in her family´s lovely apartment having a baffling array of arepas cooked for me by her mother. They were a great deal nicer than the greasy disks of maize I´ve tried from street vendors and I was more or less persuaded. It was also good to be with a Colombian family when the results of the elections were coming in. The sitting president, Uribe, a hard line right winger with an uncompromising approach to security, was returned to office, as expected, with a majority of about 40 per cent. Nobody here admits to liking him particularly, but they all wanted to give him another four years to continue the progress he´s made in improving the safety of the country. They all add, however, that he has to combine this with improvements to the lives of poor people, who have been somewhat neglected recently.
John and Nicole, the Australian couple I teach with, had an interesting time when they went to Venezuela to sort out their work visa. To begin with the Colombian consulate managed to take a four-hour job and stretch it out over a whole week. Every day they were told to gather more information and take it back the next day. When they did this they were told they needed to bring another lot of paperwork the day after that. Then, towards the end of the week, they were walking down the main street of Merida, the Venezuelan town with the consulate office, when Nicole was robbed by a street urchin. He grabbed a cheap gold chain from around her neck and ran off down the street. John gave chase, his flip-flops soon flying off his feet as he ran, followed by Nicole. They were wondering why people were tooting their horns at them and people seemed to be cheering them on. They cornered the thief in a shop and John punched him until he spat out the necklace, which he had hidden in his mouth. It was at this point that they realised why their chase had been so enthusiastically observed by the locals - the robber had ripped open Nicole´s top. As John said: "All it needed was that music and it would´ve been pure Benny Hill."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Untitled
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
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."
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."
Friday, May 12, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 08, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Converts
| After five or six weeks of living in a dormitory I´ve now moved into my own room at Platypus Two, a house a few doors down the street where the owner offers rooms on a long-term basis. Despite being a nice big room in the middle of the city the rent is only seventy quid per month. Staying in the main hostel for so long had begun to get a bit wearing, partly because of an influx of lunatics recently. I think I mentioned an English bloke who used to work for my grandad in the plum orchards of Evesham. Well, it turns out he´s fallen into the sinister clutches of Christians back at home. Every night he gets roaring drunk and starts haranguing people about how much Jesus loves us all. "I don´t care if yer hates me, it´s J-J-Jesus, man, he´s, he´s . . . he loves me. I don´t care what you think, or any of yer. . .yer bastards. Bastards. Jesus. He loves me, even if you think I´m an arsehole." What is most remarkable is how he can keep this up for hours on end. Some people have demonstrated a remarkable lack of patience with him, in particular one English girl who interupted one of his slurred sermons to tell him that Jesus had visited her bedroom the night before and performed the sort of sexual acts upon her that cannot be described in family newspapers. By way of apology she added: "It´s not that I want to be blasphemous, particularly, I just wish you´d shut your face." But compared to a Swiss hippy I met last night, this chap is the very model of good sense of moderation. I just happened to ask about his travel plans. "I must get to San Juan in Bolivia by June the sixth," he said. "So you have a flight back home from there?" I asked. "No." "Oh, so why do you need to be there on that day? Is it a special occasion?" "Yes." "Some sort of anniversary?" "No." "Oh. So why is the date significant?" "It is the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year. Six, six, six. I cannot say any more." "So you need to be in this town in time for the birth of the antichrist?" "Yes." I didn´t get to question him further, as he flung his long hair over his shoulders, rubbed his bald spot and slinked out of the room. As I see it there are two possible reasons why he´d want to witness the arrival of Satan´s spawn. The first is that he is a satanist who wants to praise his dark master. I imagine this would involve running naked through the town sprinkling chicken blood over pushchairs. The other, more sinister, possibility is that he´s a deranged Christian who´s going to attack the town´s maternity ward and slaughter the infants. I´ll try to find out more. Another interesting nugget of information from my students. I had remarked on how clean and free of litter the streets were in Bogota. The told me that this was thanks to a former mayor, a man famous for his bright ideas. At that time the city was famous for being the dirtiest in the world, so to turn this around he formed a crack unit of sinister clowns. These would hide around the town centre watching and waiting for someone to drop something. Then they would strike; mocking and harrassing the litterbug while a film crew recorded the humiliation for the evening news bulletin. Apparently it only took a couple of months for Bogota to become one of the cleanest places on the continent. |
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Oosami
The above, my students tell me, is a popular name in some of the backwaters of Colombia. So is Oosnavi. Even in areas where the American government denies having ever sent its military. Of course, the names are spelt USARMY and USNAVY. Apparently the peasant girls who get pregnant by the soldiers read the badges on their uniforms and assume that they are naming the babies after their fathers.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Bavaria
I know it´s only been three days, but I think I´m going to enjoy teaching here for a few months, despite having to get up at five in the morning. My students are middle and senior management at the giant brewery here, which has now been taken over by South African Breweries (Miller) and so is part of the world´s second largest beer producer. They are all really keen to learn because they know that good English could earn them business trips to almost anywhere in the world.
At the moment I´m only doing three-and-a-half hours a day, but that´s more than enough to cover all my expenses and save as much as I did in England on my journalist´s wage. It really is like the ´olden days´here. With a 20,000 peso note in your pocket (which by today´s exchange rate is four pounds and 79p) you can buy dinner, a packet of smokes, catch a taxi into town, have several beers and catch a taxi home. And you´ve still got enough money left for a swivelling luminous Virgin Mary.
Now I´m working a bit I´m getting to grips with the city´s public transport system, which is great, particularly as you can get from one side of the city to the other for about 25p. The main means of getting about are known as collectivos, which are minibuses of various sizes, ages and degrees of comfort which stop whenever they see somebody waving an umbrella. In contrast to Central America, these vehicles are actually designed for adults to sit in, rather than for eight-year-old 1950s American children. My favourite thing about these buses are the direction signs in the front windows, which despite looking hand-painted are incredibly consistent throughout Bogota. At first glance they look like some devilish alphanumeric bastard son of Soduku, but with patient observation an incredibly logical and thoroughly integrated transport system emerges from the jumble of words, letters and numbers. On top of the collectivo fleet is the city´s Transmillenio service, which was built for the year 2000 as some sort of overland underground, if that makes sense. You buy your 25p ticket and pass through barriers into covered platforms in the middle of the city´s wide avenues. Then, within minutes, an immaculate bendy bus appears alongside the glass walls and automatic doors open. I´m not sure if the drivers have some electronic help, but the platform doors are always perfectly lined up with the entrance to the bus. On top of these various buses are the yellow taxis, which magically appear within seconds of you deciding to catch one. Unlike most places outside london they have meters which the drivers never fiddle with. Unlike London they tick along in pence, not pounds.
All in all, getting around this city is a civilised and painless experience. Walking is alright too - barring a few mysterious holes the pavements are wide, clean, well maintained and with less litter and fewer dog turds than in Britain.
By the way, I´ve just been chatting to a middle-aged chap from Bristol who asked me where I was from. I told him the Vale of Evesham. "Ah, I know it," he said. "About 25 years ago I did a season of plum picking there. I worked with a load of Gypsies for these three old brothers . . . Martin, I think they were called."
At the moment I´m only doing three-and-a-half hours a day, but that´s more than enough to cover all my expenses and save as much as I did in England on my journalist´s wage. It really is like the ´olden days´here. With a 20,000 peso note in your pocket (which by today´s exchange rate is four pounds and 79p) you can buy dinner, a packet of smokes, catch a taxi into town, have several beers and catch a taxi home. And you´ve still got enough money left for a swivelling luminous Virgin Mary.
Now I´m working a bit I´m getting to grips with the city´s public transport system, which is great, particularly as you can get from one side of the city to the other for about 25p. The main means of getting about are known as collectivos, which are minibuses of various sizes, ages and degrees of comfort which stop whenever they see somebody waving an umbrella. In contrast to Central America, these vehicles are actually designed for adults to sit in, rather than for eight-year-old 1950s American children. My favourite thing about these buses are the direction signs in the front windows, which despite looking hand-painted are incredibly consistent throughout Bogota. At first glance they look like some devilish alphanumeric bastard son of Soduku, but with patient observation an incredibly logical and thoroughly integrated transport system emerges from the jumble of words, letters and numbers. On top of the collectivo fleet is the city´s Transmillenio service, which was built for the year 2000 as some sort of overland underground, if that makes sense. You buy your 25p ticket and pass through barriers into covered platforms in the middle of the city´s wide avenues. Then, within minutes, an immaculate bendy bus appears alongside the glass walls and automatic doors open. I´m not sure if the drivers have some electronic help, but the platform doors are always perfectly lined up with the entrance to the bus. On top of these various buses are the yellow taxis, which magically appear within seconds of you deciding to catch one. Unlike most places outside london they have meters which the drivers never fiddle with. Unlike London they tick along in pence, not pounds.
All in all, getting around this city is a civilised and painless experience. Walking is alright too - barring a few mysterious holes the pavements are wide, clean, well maintained and with less litter and fewer dog turds than in Britain.
By the way, I´ve just been chatting to a middle-aged chap from Bristol who asked me where I was from. I told him the Vale of Evesham. "Ah, I know it," he said. "About 25 years ago I did a season of plum picking there. I worked with a load of Gypsies for these three old brothers . . . Martin, I think they were called."
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Semana Santa
Easter here seems to start a day early, on Thursday. They take it very seriously too, and more or less everything is shut while those who can afford it flee the city for the coast or the mountains. I´ve always thought it was quite considerate of Jesus to time his crucifixion and resurrection to make sure that we all got a long weekend off work. I´m sure he could´ve fitted it all into a Saturday afternoon if he´d wanted to. But I can´t help but think that if he´d been Buddha he would´ve done it all in the middle of the week to give us even more time off.
Yesterday I joined thousands of Bogotanos on Monserrat, which is a church on one of the mountains overlooking the city. Many people walk up, but this strikes me as silly because there is a cable car and a funnicular railway running up the slope side by side. At the top the church functions as a shady place to take a break from all the drinking, flirting, eating, shopping and gambling that goes on up there. The food was really odd - for some reason every restaurant was selling offal; long strings of green gut that gave off a smell of urine as they steamed and sizzled on the grills.
There was also a long avenue of religious souvenir shops, selling t-shirts of Jesus and his mum, illuminated wall clocks featuring the dead pope surrounded with disco lights, glow-in-the-dark virgins (some of which rotated if you turned a key that stuck out her bum) and, bizarrely, Rubix Cubes. Perhaps these are given to teenagers to keep their hands in sight and out of mischief. You could also buy live baby chickens, which in keeping with the lack of good taste displayed elsewhere, had been dyed in bright shades of pink, orange, blue and green.
I´m not sure what exactly Monserrat commemorates or is sacred to, but the favoured image of Jesus shows him lying on the ground weakly supporting himself on one elbow while his various stigmata bleed freely. I found it impossible to look at without thinking of a bloke I once saw in Worcester High Street late one Saturday night. He was lying outside a pub in a pool of his own vomit shouting after his retreating mates: "Get me a kebab, I´ll be alright in a minute - but no onions." With this image in my mind I found it difficult to summon up any great sense of reverence, but I bought a Jesus t-shirt, which is something. It has him revealing his heart, which seems to be wrapped in barbed wire and dripping raspberry fool. Perhaps it´s the sight of this strange image of a man showing off his internal organs that gets all the pilgrims hankering after plates of reeking offal.
I´ve not been up to much this week, just preparing myself for starting work on Monday. I´ll be teaching workers at the Bavarian Brewery, giving a two-hour lesson at six in the morning and then another lesson in the late afternoon five days a week. I´m not sure if I´ll be able to adjust my body clock to this regime, I suppose I´ll have to get the knack of siestas.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Working
I had my first class this morning; a woman who works in the oil industry and just needs a bit of practice to to build up her confidence. I´ll be teaching her for two hours a day until the Easter break starts on Thursday and then after Semana Santa, as they call it, I should start to get more hours.
Shortly after I got back to the hostel today the most incredible storms began. Thunder was booming overhead, rain was lashing down and the streets were running deep with water. At the height of the storm an American bloke from Montana (who told me yesterday that he was at school with the creators of South Park and that the real-life Kyle was one of his best friends) burst into the hostel in a state of high excitment. He said he´d just been held up at knifepoint down the road and, in true mountain man style, was hoping to drum up a posse. German (pronounced Herman), the owner of the hostel, one of the most mild-mannered people imaginable, agreed to go along with him. Saying this he opened his desk and pulled out one of those truncheons that riot police use. The American bloke, Dave, didn´t have to look long for a weapon; a French girl happened to be in the process of showing off a machete she´d bought on the north coast.
I went with them down the street, armed only with my umbrella and wondering how much protection my tweed jacket would provide if anything kicked off.
It didn´t, of course, the kids who´d tried to rob Dave (he fended them off and ran away) were long gone. But it was funny to watch these two armed blokes strut down the street watched by the Bogotanos sheltering in doorways from the rain. Presumably they must have seen the attack as well. There was also quite a touching moment among all this machismo. About half way down the street German pointed with his cudgel to the side of the pavement, and there was a little bedraggled sparrow waiting for the rain to pass. It was amazing how something so small could so completely distract two men from thoughts of inflicting bodily mischief.
I´m still trying to find out about some bombs that blew up in a couple of buses here on Thursday. I´ve been asking people what happened exactly but none of them seem very interested. "Oh, yes, that. I think a boy died. I´m not sure, I´ve not seen the news," is the sort of response I get. The only reason I found out about it was because a lot of the buses are driving around now with white flags flying out of the windows. It´s hard to imagine a terrorist saying: "Oh, look, that driver has tied a dishcloth to a broom handle, we´d best not blow his bus up."
The weekend, was quite eventful. On Friday night I went with a couple of people from the hostel to see DJ Mina from Argentina. Our tickets told us it was to be held on top of a multi-storey carpark to the west of the city. When we arrived we were told the venue had moved, and the event was now being held in one of Bogota´s busiest clubs, far to the north of the city. We took a taxi there and found that the inevitable had happened; the club had already filled up with regular punters before hoards of wristband-wearing ticket holders arrived demanding entrance. Realising there was no hope of getting in, we went elsewhere. Eventually, at gone three, we went back to the club on the off-chance and this time we were successful. Stubbornly, we stayed until the very end to get our money´s worth.
After a long sleep on Saturday I was woken by a call from Lina, the English teacher I went out with the other night. She asked if I wanted to meet in half an hour to see an Australian circus troop who are in town for the Theatre Festival. This is quite an amazing event, there are productions from all over the world here along with about 80 Colombian groups. What makes it particularly amazing is that all the shows seem to be packed to capacity or sold out well in advance. This particular show was in a park, and free. After waiting for a friend of her´s to arrive (like all Latin people Colombians are habitually late) we got a taxi to the park where an audience of thousands surrounded the stage. The show was underway, and seemed very silly. We saw two ladies dressed in giant lampshades twirling around with umbrellas before a woman in a top hat came on and sang a song about her bottom. Then it ended. We had arrived exactly seven minutes before the end of the show. Thank God. If they were a British company no power on earth would have prevented me from angrily mounting the stage and, as an erstwhile British taxpayer, demanding a refund from their Arts Council subsidy.
After this Lina and I went for a bite to eat, a Colombian favourite called arepas. Horrible stuff. Imagine taking a crust of stale bread, adding rubber, grease and an unpleasant taste of old maize and there you have it. They´re usually eaten with the tasteless white stuff that passes for cheese here. While I was labouring my way through this unleaven purgatory I noticed that Lina had her eyes shut. I asked her why. "I always eat with my eyes shut. It helps me taste better," she said. Then she apologised, and fell asleep in the cafe. I left soon after, telling her I had to go out with some people leaving Bogota in the morning.
This was actually true, and a large group of us went to a cafe bar up the road that was hosting a concert by Colombia´s ´coolest´ new band. The ten members of the group obviously took this tag very seriously, and all wore 1950s sunglasses and ladies´overcoats over 1970 floral shirts. Despite looking like a Dame Edna Everage convention they were actually very good.
Shortly after I got back to the hostel today the most incredible storms began. Thunder was booming overhead, rain was lashing down and the streets were running deep with water. At the height of the storm an American bloke from Montana (who told me yesterday that he was at school with the creators of South Park and that the real-life Kyle was one of his best friends) burst into the hostel in a state of high excitment. He said he´d just been held up at knifepoint down the road and, in true mountain man style, was hoping to drum up a posse. German (pronounced Herman), the owner of the hostel, one of the most mild-mannered people imaginable, agreed to go along with him. Saying this he opened his desk and pulled out one of those truncheons that riot police use. The American bloke, Dave, didn´t have to look long for a weapon; a French girl happened to be in the process of showing off a machete she´d bought on the north coast.
I went with them down the street, armed only with my umbrella and wondering how much protection my tweed jacket would provide if anything kicked off.
It didn´t, of course, the kids who´d tried to rob Dave (he fended them off and ran away) were long gone. But it was funny to watch these two armed blokes strut down the street watched by the Bogotanos sheltering in doorways from the rain. Presumably they must have seen the attack as well. There was also quite a touching moment among all this machismo. About half way down the street German pointed with his cudgel to the side of the pavement, and there was a little bedraggled sparrow waiting for the rain to pass. It was amazing how something so small could so completely distract two men from thoughts of inflicting bodily mischief.
I´m still trying to find out about some bombs that blew up in a couple of buses here on Thursday. I´ve been asking people what happened exactly but none of them seem very interested. "Oh, yes, that. I think a boy died. I´m not sure, I´ve not seen the news," is the sort of response I get. The only reason I found out about it was because a lot of the buses are driving around now with white flags flying out of the windows. It´s hard to imagine a terrorist saying: "Oh, look, that driver has tied a dishcloth to a broom handle, we´d best not blow his bus up."
The weekend, was quite eventful. On Friday night I went with a couple of people from the hostel to see DJ Mina from Argentina. Our tickets told us it was to be held on top of a multi-storey carpark to the west of the city. When we arrived we were told the venue had moved, and the event was now being held in one of Bogota´s busiest clubs, far to the north of the city. We took a taxi there and found that the inevitable had happened; the club had already filled up with regular punters before hoards of wristband-wearing ticket holders arrived demanding entrance. Realising there was no hope of getting in, we went elsewhere. Eventually, at gone three, we went back to the club on the off-chance and this time we were successful. Stubbornly, we stayed until the very end to get our money´s worth.
After a long sleep on Saturday I was woken by a call from Lina, the English teacher I went out with the other night. She asked if I wanted to meet in half an hour to see an Australian circus troop who are in town for the Theatre Festival. This is quite an amazing event, there are productions from all over the world here along with about 80 Colombian groups. What makes it particularly amazing is that all the shows seem to be packed to capacity or sold out well in advance. This particular show was in a park, and free. After waiting for a friend of her´s to arrive (like all Latin people Colombians are habitually late) we got a taxi to the park where an audience of thousands surrounded the stage. The show was underway, and seemed very silly. We saw two ladies dressed in giant lampshades twirling around with umbrellas before a woman in a top hat came on and sang a song about her bottom. Then it ended. We had arrived exactly seven minutes before the end of the show. Thank God. If they were a British company no power on earth would have prevented me from angrily mounting the stage and, as an erstwhile British taxpayer, demanding a refund from their Arts Council subsidy.
After this Lina and I went for a bite to eat, a Colombian favourite called arepas. Horrible stuff. Imagine taking a crust of stale bread, adding rubber, grease and an unpleasant taste of old maize and there you have it. They´re usually eaten with the tasteless white stuff that passes for cheese here. While I was labouring my way through this unleaven purgatory I noticed that Lina had her eyes shut. I asked her why. "I always eat with my eyes shut. It helps me taste better," she said. Then she apologised, and fell asleep in the cafe. I left soon after, telling her I had to go out with some people leaving Bogota in the morning.
This was actually true, and a large group of us went to a cafe bar up the road that was hosting a concert by Colombia´s ´coolest´ new band. The ten members of the group obviously took this tag very seriously, and all wore 1950s sunglasses and ladies´overcoats over 1970 floral shirts. Despite looking like a Dame Edna Everage convention they were actually very good.
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