Back to the Bog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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