I only went and got here didn't I?

One (very hard fought for) visa, 25 hours, 4 cities, 3 time zones, 2 valiums, and one underrated movie (Free Willy 4: Escape from Pirate’s Cove-um....wow) later and I have arrived at my destination: Cartagena. While I do not wish to dwell on the tedious flight, I would like to make two observations. The first is that on the flight between Bogota and Cartagena, just like in the consulate, everyone greeted each other with kisses and embraces like old friends. I can truthfully say that I have never been inclined to kiss the Geordie to my left on the Ryan Air domestic flight from Bristol to Newcastle. I am clearly missing something. Something big. The second is a realisation that I hate it when people clap at the end of a flight, as everyone did at the end of the transatlantic leg. While congratulating the pilot on achieving a safe landing, it alarmingly implies that landing safely is not a certainty, but an accomplishment. It’s like high fiving your dad every time he drives you home from the station without crashing, as if with every journey there is a nonchalant expectation of death. I don’t like it and it should not be encouraged.

And so to the beginning of my new life. Stepping out of the plane I was hit by a wall of heat, the sort of heat that crawls over your body and makes your temple bead with sweat in seconds. I looked around me. Everyone was wearing jeans and appeared comfortable. If I had been wearing jeans I would have caused a natural disaster similar to the Pakistan floods. It suddenly struck me that I may not blend in very easily. These thoughts were confirmed when yesterday, a pair of men stopped me in the street to have their photo taken with me because of my “blond” hair. I’m definitely not blond, I just walked into the hairdresser and asked them to make me look like Ke$ha.

Cartagena is an unbelievably beautiful city. The houses are brightly coloured, with a smattering of colonial plazas and enclosed with a huge sea wall. Think opening scene of Pirates of the Caribbean, and anything you know about Gabriel Garcia Marquez (whose house is on the sea front of the old town, I thought he was dead, who knew?).

However, there is a much, much darker side to the city. Because of its geography (look it up), Cartagena is unable to expand, as all cities must with time. Therefore, since the 70s the poorest of the poor have taken to building houses on sticks and rubbish in a swamp. These became more and more numerous and the swamp was gradually filled in. This dwelling is home to some 50 000 people. Houses are made of rubbish, with no bathrooms. Because it is below sea level it often floods and the unpaved streets swirl with dirty water and sewage. The children walk around with bare feet. With each generation there is less and less money and more social problems, like violence, drug addiction and a resentment for their ethnic back ground (it is a predominantly black population). This is the area I shall be working in, teaching basic English alongside the sewing, hospitality and cooking courses the charity provides, to help young people find work in tourism and break out of the cycle of poverty. I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew. I suppose I had expected to swan in, hug some babies, sing Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, get a sun tan and be on my way. Time to toughen up.

Last night I met for the first time my future house mate, Diego. After ascertaining that we share an interest in electronic music and alcohol consumption it became clear that we would get on like a house on fire. During our dinner at Pizza in the Park (you sit on a park bench, people bring you pizza) I was witness to possibly the funniest thing I will ever see: an obese man in red lipstick, a bikini top, a yellow wig and a fake microphone impersonating Shakira. He did the EXACT moves from She Wolf, Waka Waka and Hips Don’t Lie. Astounding.



House hunting this afternoon, must start taking photos.

Progress...(?)

I have been using the excuse "I'm leaving the country" far too often to behave far too badly. It is getting to the point where I may not be allowed back into the country. I still do not possess a visa. Departure is in 4 days. Hmmmm........

First Impressions of Colombia: Babies, Punches and Hair-Gel

My dearest friends, family, foes, admirers (mega lolz), and accidental readers. It may or may not have come to your attention that in one week and two days I will be leaving the country for five months to work for a charity in Cartagena in Colombia, as part of my Spanish degree. The street children really need to learn some English, and given my previous record with under-tens I thought this would be ideal. But unlike the screaming English children I have in the past threatened with their parents not returning, I think these street kids may be a little tougher to crack, so I plan to threaten them with the FARC instead. (I joke. Or do I?)




The reason for this pre-departure update is that I have, technically, already stepped foot on Colombian soil: the Colombian embassy, where last week I (twice) found myself nervously awaiting an interview with the consulate for my visa application. (Interestingly, on my first attempt on Thursday I was denied a visa, having the wrong documents, and on my second attempt on Friday I was granted one, and warmly assured that I would have it in 15 days. This was 10 days before my flight. I prefer to not think about it, it makes me feel a little dizzy.) So on visiting ‘Colombia’, on both Thursday and Friday I was able to make a number of observations about my new compatriots. The first is how everyone in the waiting room knew each other, whether working or waiting. Hugs, kisses, playful punches and winks were darting across the room like pin-balls. No one hugged, kissed or playfully punched me. This led me to question, do all Colombians know each other? Is this what I will face in every bus/bar/hospital/police station I encounter? Should I join in? (Although obviously with caution as a mal-timed playful punch of a granny, or wink at a four year old, could be interpreted badly) My second observation was that everyone had a child. My lack of child was almost embarrassing. (Note to self: must get baby) The final, overwhelming theme of the embassy was hair gel. Used by young and old, male and female, it appears that Colombia may be keeping brill cream in business. “Coooooooool,” I thought to myself. I quickly became jealous and considered asking to borrow some. My hair at that moment could have been described as ‘static-lion’. But I didn’t know whether I would have needed to kiss or wink or punch someone first, so I left it, and turned my thoughts back to the worrying visa situation.

So, in conclusion, what I have learnt about Colombia pre departure is that its citizens are a familiar, fertile nation of hair gel users. Does hair gel increase fertility? There’s only one way to find out.