Where did all the sane people go? Las Fiestas de Noviembre

Colombians do not like to work much. Pass by an average Cartagena house at any time mid-week and you will just about make out through the cigarette smoke and dust, the hazey outline of an entire family, just hanging out in the front room, smoking a fag, bad vallenato (popular Colombian music which favours the accordion over any more reasonable instrument) blaring through a crackling radio, the men with their vests rolled up over their bare bellies and the children naked, sticky with sweat under a useless ceiling fan. This is from a typical week in Cartagena. But what has just passed was no typical week. My tongue is yellow, my feet cracked and blistered, my toes broken, my arms bruised, my face spotted and my vision blurred. I have survived Las Fiestas de Noviembre.

As I have tried to communicate, Cartagena searches for any excuse to not work and just throw a big old party instead. The whole city grinds to a halt for an entire week to celebrate its independence day and host the finals of the incredibly important Miss Colombia beauty pageant. There are parades through the streets and on the water, catwalks, balls, concerts, drinks parties and DJs, every day and every night. Imagine Kate Moss doing Freshers’ Week in the Caribbean, sponsored by HELLO!, and soaked in whiskey, via Nottinghill Carnival on half the budget and twice the crowd.  In the words of the great Stevie Gerrard, here’s my story.....



Hotel Santa Clara. I work here. YERRRRRRR



My week actually began in tranquil luxury as I was commissioned to translate the gourmet menu and spa price list of the top 5 star hotel in Cartagena. I proceeded  to pass two days with coffee and chocolate on tap, loafing in the lounge bar, occasionally tap-tap-tapping on a lap top, trying to find appropriate translations for exotic Colombian fish. The prize:  lunch and massage at the hotel, plus THE golden ticket of the week: an invitation to La Fiesta Con Mas Estilo, the party thrown by Caras the South American equivalent of Hello!, where all the great and good of Cartagena, plus soap stars, singers and designers all clamour to get their ticket. I was Charlie on the way to the chocolate factory and I was going to find me a golden egg laying goose.

We are sailing....

I am sailing...

Wednesday began in equal tranquillity, as a friend took advantage of the time off work to take me out in his yacht to the nearby island of Baru, a paradise of white sand, coral and palm trees where the wealthy come to escape the claustrophobia of Cartagena. On the city beaches it is impossible to pass 30 seconds without someone trying to sell you a plastic necklace, a massage or, anything else really (I once encountered a man who first offered me a parrot, then a broken shoelace, and then a tyre. I declined all three, although was mildly interested in the shoelace.) But here it was pure silence, and I truly felt like I was in the Caribbean, mon.

Baru

However, on returning to the city at night fall, things started to accelerate at a dizzying rate. A Canadian DJ had arrived not speaking a word of Spanish and my delicate translation skills were urgently needed. When I found the man in a bar, he was very, very drunk, and was trying to tell a hat seller that his hats were stupid. The seller misunderstood and was proceeding to put them one by one on the Canadian’s head, at which point he would slap them away, like a child might swat away his mother’s attempt at brushing his hair. I intercepted at the crucial moment and led the bemused man away, with promises of more whiskey. In true Cartagena style, the night rapidly spiralled out of control, and before I knew it I was outside a salsa bar accepting an invitation to an after party, and then suddenly I was dancing on a table to Florence and the Machine, swearing blindly that she was my sister (soz Grace......) and that she was coming to see my in December and would throw a concert and they were all invited, and then suddenly I was on the floor, having smashed through the table. Wow, I thought, this is embarrassing. It got even more embarrassing when I awoke in the same position the next morning, amongst the ruins of the table, to see a group of civilised 40 somethings eating breakfast around a dining room table. I bade my farewells and scuttled out, high heels in hand, the door-man giving me an irritatingly cheeky grin.

Watching El Bando from the roof. We're all friends here. You've got the love....

Thursday.... A feeling of great dread had swallowed me into its dark underbelly, and I vowed never to leave my room. But then my phone rang, and a friend invited me to come and watch El Bando with her. El Bando is the parade through the main avenue of the city, with music, floats, horns, spray foam and general tomfoolery. Although many had warned me not to go to this because of it being super dangerous, I thought as a seasoned Nottinghill attendee I could handle it. But walking through the city centre towards the avenue I felt sick with fear, as the poorer kids covered themselves with thick black oil and held cups of piss threateningly towards you, daring you not to give them change. I must have spent about $15 000 COP in keeping these madmen away, but it was money well spent as we watched one poor woman who failed to pay the tax covered in piss and black, burning oil. All in the name of fun..... We finally reached the house of a friend of my friend, from where we would watch the parade from the rooftop pool, and a strange feeling of déjà vu began to drip down from between my ears down to my toes. I know this house..... I know that doorman...... OH GOD. Yes, I was back at that same house from the night before. I swear these things only happen to me.... However, there is a reason why there is no word for “awkward” in the Colombian dictionary, and they greeted me like an old friend. We watched the madness below from the safety of the rooftop, big black men dressed as babies, girls being arrested for donning military kit, drunken brawls, and as night fell and the frothing masses went home, we sat in a hot tub and discussed the attributes of each potential Miss Colombia.

La Fiesta Con Mas Estilo

Friday.... El Bando was on again today, but I had had more than enough if it. Today was special. Today was the day of La Fiesta Con Mas Estilo! I declined a VIP sunset drinks party thrown by Peroni (darling) and instead set to work on my animalistic hair. So, it ended up more Fimbles than Faboosh (a word I have learnt from Alvi –see older posts) but I was geared up and ready to go. I had been leant a beautiful dress (strictly long dresses only) and taught the correct way to hold a clutch bag (by Alvi) and suddenly we were outside the party. Red carpet, paparazzi, people clamouring for autographs, I was in HEAVEN. I LOVE CELEBRITIES. Inside the party, my friends were visibly embarrassed as I gawked around with mouth wide open uttering “ER...WOW”  at every corner, while they mooched disdainfully. I grabbed handfuls of sushi and bite sized cakes, a couple of glasses o’vodka and I was away, just drinking in the luxury of the event, occasionally knowing someone, but generally not. However, as has been the way in Cartagena for the last month, the heavens opened, soaking all the pretty little ladies and the men dressed in white. Everyone ran towards the chapel, where the rather sweet gay P.R. (quote: “What are my religious views? Honey, I believe in MYSELF”. Love ‘im) was begging a famous designer to remove herself from the altar. In the midst of the madness, a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and told me it was time to go. It was in fact a friend Beatriz, whose husband was about to DJ at some other terrace party. “Got to run darling, Javi’s playing at Kiki’s.” Too much. Waaaaaay too much. Said terrace party was much more fun, if marginally less glamouous, and we danced badly until far past our bed time.

Me all suited and booted and the like

Admiring Alvi

Saturday....  I didn’t feel very well on Saturday. Not well at all. It had been several days since I had got to bed before sunrise and I wasn’t sure I could cope. There were more parades and catwalks for Miss Colombia that day, but I was ambivalent, encased in a friend’s house with the equivalent of KFC. Day turned to night, the city was firing itself up. Tonight, the equally notorious Jet Set White Party, where I would be accompanying Alvi as his “date”.  We strutted in, looking faboosh. More free food, more free booze, more hopelessly glamorous women with impossibly sleek hair and great boobjobs. An excited buzz descended on the crowd as the highlight of the night arrived, the Señorita Colombias (the Miss Colombia finalists) entered the room. While the majority of the crowd whistled and shouted words of encouragement to their respective Reina, a drunken friend of mine with just a rudimentary grasp of the English language abrasively yelled “GIVE ME ONE. I SAID GIVE ME ONNNNNNNE!” She appeared to be confusing the expression “give me five”. It slightly lowered the tone of the occasion. I however, clapped with glee and danced the night away, trying to get into photos with the baffled beauty queens.

Senorita Bolivar in motion, giving me one

Sunday and Monday, more parties, more pain, the selection of Miss Colombia, and the city had had enough. Tuesday, and the streets were beginning to gain a salience of normality. In a week of such hedonism and debauchery it is hard to lose sight of what is the real Colombia. But then on the way to buy some food I stumbled across this: a group of teenagers practising vallenato in a supermarket car park. I apologise that the video is not of great quality, but I walked away smiling as I finally remembered where I was. Freshers’ week was over.

Where did all the young people go? La ciudad de locos

Life in Cartagena has taken a turn from the sublime to the ridiculous. The life I am living is not my own, nor is anything that can be described as more than a game. The group of friends into which I have been initiated is an eclectic selection of restaurant owners, photographers, magazine editors, architects and wedding planners: professionals who have found their way in the world and are settling into a life of luxury. The average age of the extended group is around the mid-thirties, and so I am by far and away the youngest, which has its advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, my youth (and nationality) carries a novelty, and people are drawn to my fresh, if not naive, view of the world. However, I am often left feeling as if there were some secret that someone neglected to tell me, and though people seem to think I am mature for my age, I often miss just being silly, speaking in a Polish accent, wearing my hair like a pineapple, walking like the vulchers from the jungle book, dancing like my Dad, or shouting obscenities at good looking boys. This is not to say that the group doesn’t like to party. Oh no. The hedonism of Cartagena is something to behold. Often fifty year olds leave me gasping for air in their dust.



Homoerotic Guards



 Take Halloween. Colombia takes Halloween very seriously, with every single shop window and street corner paying homage to the night of the living dead. I was invited to a Fiesta de Locos  in a restaurant in a decrepit colonial house. The night began at a friend’s house, where vodka was flowing like water. I arrived, (dressed and painted like clown that fell off a lorry, bumped its head and ended up in a disco), leaping through the door (I like to get into character when I don a costume). Sympathetic grimaces bounced from face to face, as only one other person was in costume, and she was a vampish 1940’s flapper girl who men were literally walking into walls from staring at her so much. Luckily, being the group’s adopted daughter, people seemed to find it endearing, and proceeded to pour vodka down their child’s neck.

Disco clown with Chilean miner....a bit soon methinks...

 And so to the restaurant.... The huge wooden outside door was “guarded” by two well muscled (I thought rather homoerotic but no one paid any attention to that), masked bouncers, who ticked our names off the list. So what I was down as Isis Fanboo, I was on the list yo’! On entering, we proceeded down a dimly lit corridor and then out onto a court yard with a fountain, hanging greenery (for want of a better word) and a DJ suspended above us on a platform. There were fire eaters, human tigers, palm readers and a crazy lady dressed as a bride running around screaming. I was jealous. It’s been too long since I dressed as a bride....

Human Tiger

 An awkwardly polite half hour ensued as the who’s who of Cartagena arrived and I sank further into misery as sexy black cat after naughty Cleopatra after saucy Esmerelda swanned past me, mocking me with their sophistication. I needn’t have worried though, as Cartagena rapidly remembered why it was there: P.A.R.T.Y. And so the whiskey and sparklers came out, fresh hits of the ‘80s assaulted our ears (“this is the music I partied to at your age” seemed to be the phrase of the night) and before you could say “it was acceptable in the ‘80s” Cleopatra was soaking in the fountain, flapper girl was attempting to scale the wall using said “greenery” as ab-sailing ropes and the deranged clown was being removed from the DJ booth by the homoerotic guards after insisting that Don’t you want me baby was “her” song. Suddenly, it was 6am and very, very light and we were unceremoniously thrown out onto the street. It must have been a bizarre scene for the early risers of Cartagena. But this was not enough for the club kids of Cartagena. TO THE BEACH! We piled into cars and taxis like rag dolls with vertigo and descended on the owner of the restaurant’s beach side apartment, trying to keep straight faces as the doorman solemnly allowed us to enter. The day could not have been more beautiful, and the apartment was flooded with light. More whiskey, more costumes, worse music, and to the balcony. 10am, and finally enough possessions were gathered to go to the beach. We filed downstairs (by now a group of 6 survivors, all around 40 years old) and casually dressed in Father Christmas hats and beer bottle shaped sun glasses finally made to the sea, as appalled holiday makers shielded their children. 12pm and I could take no more. I left the others to their whiskey and the sun and taxied back home to bed in a bemused haze. Happy Halloween...

Nonchalant fancy dress on the beach. 12 pm....ouch.

This all leads to the question, “where on earth are all the people my own age?”. The answer is simple. People just do not stay in Cartagena for university. They either go to the capital city Bogota, or, more fashionably, the United States. And because living in Cartagena is unbelievably expensive, they don’t move back there until they have made a small fortune elsewhere. Hence a clear lack of 18-28 year olds. I’m sure they are out there, it’s just that I don’t know any of them. But I really am not complaining, in fact I love this. I love everything about the strange and fictitious world in which these people live, and so far have just about managed to stick to the rules of the game.....

The chronicles of “YES”- the hapless misadventures of eternal acquiescence

On my 21^st birthday, I shaved the word “YES” into my head. Partly because it was megalolz and partly because it summed up the attitude I wished to adopt over the forthcoming year, open to new experiences, i.e. saying  “yes” to everything. Since arriving in Colombia, this has proved fruitful, if  time consuming, as my new YES attitude has led to me joining a kickball team (a sort of hybrid of football, netball and rounders), a classical choir, salsa classes, Thai boxing classes (sweaty), taking on sole responsibility for the musical education of 40 4 year olds (as discussed), allowing an unknown woman to make me lunch every day, and buying quite a lot of plastic crap that I neither like nor want. In fact, the only thing I have said no to is Jehovah’s Witnesses, two rather dreamy boys who I thought I was well in with until they produced a picture of a Colombian utopia and while looking at me with sad eyes called me “God’s lost daughter”. They told me to read the bible. I said, “NO”. It was unsettling. 

The YES philosophy has also led me to accept all manner of dates with all manner of men. It seems that here in coastal Colombia the men find me irresistible due to my full set of teeth, and not having conceived more than 3 children before the age of 18. (N.B. THIS IS A GROSS GENERALISATION) And so the invitations have flooded in, as I write I am on a working/coffee/date with a businessman I met in a coffee shop. He doesn’t know I am writing about him... Others have included being set up with the British Consulate (HELLO penthouse apartment/get- out- of- jail- free- card) and Mojitos, shellfish soup and African Samba with a photographer.  However, I have also been asked out by crusty old men on street corners with no hands and only one ear with pet crabs on their shoulders and so I really feel that one must draw the line somewhere.

I still live with darling Diego the fitness instructor. Now darling Diego is very sweet, means very well and has introduced me to almost all the friends I now count amongst my closest. However, darling Diego has been fatally stricken by the plague of Narcissus. His resulting words and actions range from the cruel: “You really should try and lose that tummy you know”, to the annoying:   “Diego, you have been staring at yourself in my mirror for over an hour now,” to the utterly ridiculous, “You know, people ask me, ‘Diego, how do you have such a great body?’ and I say, simple, it’s genetics, (laughing), and I eat a lot of cornflakes”. If I even mention a female friend in England, he makes me show him photos of them on Facebook, unprompted gives them a mark out of 100, then proceeds to show me his top 10 best looking friends on Facebook, and describe in details why their bodies are better. This has happened at least four times. It’s getting a little repetitive. He also expects me to be impressed by his list of “celebrity” friends, and becomes agitated when I reveal that I am not familiar with Colombian soap stars.

Me and Darling Diego

Something that I had not expected here is the rain. While 90% of the time it is blisteringly hot and sunny (on average 31 degrees C, day and night), every now and then there will be 3 or 4 days of rain. And I’m not talking about the irritating British splitter splatter: rain here means the seas stir into a bubbling fury, the skies blacken, the heavens open and within minutes the streets are feet deep in swirling, hot, brown water. Fork lightening cracks open the sky as the thunder splits deafeningly right overhead. All very Sound of Music My Favourite Things scene.  Because I live right on the sea front the sea spills right out over the beach up to the door of my building, making it impossible to cross the road. A few young entrepreneurs have started a business charging people around 10p for a piggy back ride across the road, or 15p to be towed on a sort of trolley. But seeing as I’m so darn pretty, (read: have a full set of teeth) I seem to be acquiring such luxuries for free. It’s all rather awkward, clambering onto some young Roberto’s back as he winks to his mates and cars drive past honking their horns and purposefully trying to splash you. Another consequence of the rain is that in the impoverished barrio where I work, the streets flood with sewage. Therefore, no one leaves their houses. Therefore, the whole of last week I was left twiddling my thumbs, waiting in vain for students to arrive. Of course it is not their fault, but it was definitely a week of frustration and a bad feeling that I was wasting precious time.

However, this week the classes more than made up for last week’s disillusion.  The sun was out, the clouds had vanished, and my students seemed to be filled with a sort of cheerful resolution. Wednesday was a big day. I brought the Coldplay song Fix You, to listen to, with the lyrics, but with words missing to fill in the blanks. Having heard it through a couple of times, the blanks filled and the words translated, the class asked to listen to the song one final time.  I was surprised, as none of them seemed to warm whole-heartedly to Chris Martin’s generic ballad, and put it on. To my utmost surprise, these kids, whose parents are drug addicts, spend nights avoiding gangs and live in houses without electricity or toilets, all began singing along, and continued doing so the whole way through, like a bizarre Hispanic Coldplay choir. It was all so incongruous that I was completely taken aback, and the class laughed as I dabbed my eyes. “DIZZY IZZY!” they shouted, and some threw books at me. Affectionately...(?) ‘(dizzy’ is a word we learnt on Monday, when discussing illness and injury. It has quickly become a class favourite).

In other news, I have made my official Colombian debut in performance, singing at a friend’s surprise birthday party. The guy was fortunately called Alejandro, so it was an accident waiting to happen really would sing him the Lady Gaga modern classic. In spite of beginner’s nerves and rum induced blurred vision, my rendition went down a storm, and set the tone for a completely bizarre night involving light sabers, being hit on the head by a flying pineapple, inexplicable tears and Colombians attempting Australian accents. It is strange here how sometimes it seems like there is something mysterious or magical in the air which sends people into a frenzy for no ostensible reason. It is little wonder that Marquez always wrote of a land where science and magic cohabitate, naturally side by side. It seems to be universally excepted that nothing is really as it seems, and as the people often say, “Anything is possible in Cartagena.”

Ale-ale-jjjjandroooo

Mostly good things but one bad

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

This weekend I mostly........

• ......was fed tequila on the beach by Diego, Barbara and Albi. Albi used to live in London, likes fans, Lady Gaga and the word "OBVIOUSLY". loooove albi. They refer to me as "La Teacher". I like it.

• .......listened to a tweenage Colombian gangster rap crew spit about women of the night and self respect. radical

Let it be: a period of adjustment

Hello Finbloggers, huge apologies for the long wait for this instalment, but I have been uncharacteristically busy working through “a period of adjustment”, and generally settling into life in Colombia. I will skim over (although it should be mentioned) a day of vomiting, tears and cursing myself for not reading Childhood Studies or anything instead of “BLUDDY LANGUAGES”.  Done.

First, the apartment. You have seen photos of the view from my room, and so hope you gather it’s pretty darn suh-weeeet. There were of course a couple of teething problems, like inconsistent plumbing (read: I blocked the loo (but I also unblocked it and felt very domestic (small victories...))), a plague of cockroaches (they were EVERYWHERE- it was biblical. I felt like Moses. In a good way), and my adorable roommate’s curious habit of aligning everything in the kitchen with mathematical precision, yet failing to clean up and egg shells and wanton tuna from the table. He is a fitness instructor and in the evenings likes to relax with his shirt off. I told him that that was my favourite part of the day. He told me he knew.

The most difficult part of moving here so far has been socially adjusting to Colombia. What I will never get used to is being hissed at in the street by every single man, or being shouted “Coochi coochi” at, or, intriguingly, “Hello, yes, no, please, thank you, very good, goodbye.”  Although some of what that man was trying to communicate may have been lost in translation, the sentiment was there alright. Everyone wants to sell you something, be it a pair broken sandals, a Cartagena t shirt (I actually bought one on the beach the other day when I went there alone and got drunk on pinacoladas and bought an array of kitsch soveigners I neither like nor want in any way) or a lolly, presented in such a way that you would think the vendor was a sales person for George Forman. Everyone stops me to practice their English or ask me what I am doing alone in Cartagena, and as someone who back home likes nothing more than to converse with drunks on the tube (“because he told me I looked like a pirate!”), it has been difficult to train myself to ignore them. And ignore them I must, as just as I begin to feel comfortable here, someone new will tell me I must never walk alone, I must never carry a bag, I must never talk to strange men. I had only just begun to feel comfortable taking the bus when yesterday, taking a taxi home from work on a whim, passed my normal bus pulled over at the side of the road. It had been hijacked by thieves, the driver held at knife point and all money and possessions confiscated from passengers. These events apparently become more common towards the end of the year as the festive mood heightens. My bus journey is grim at the best of times, passing through a market where the smell makes you gag, while filthy little men scrounge around on the floor licking discarded plastic spoons and grab at people’s ankles begging for 100 pesos (3400 pesos =  £1). With all this in mind, it is hard to not feel constantly afraid, constantly looking for danger, and constantly suspicious. It is particularly frustrating as everyone insists on chaperoning me from place to place, even the 50 metres down the road between the main centre of the Foundation and the kindergarten school. I feel as if I were back in Jane Austen’s era, an “eligible” young woman, must never be left to her own devices. It means I am not free to wander, to amble, or daydream.

I fear I am creating the impression that Cartagena is all third world doom and gloom, but while there is definitely a need to discard my rural naivety, I have found myself in a place so full of colour and promise. I love teaching. With my 20 something year old students, I have been having so much fun making them learn the words to Rihanna songs, playing things-you-would-find-in-a-hotel room bingo and educating them on the middle class joys of the Notting Hill Carnival. Although decidedly ropey, their English seems to be slightly improving, if not technically but in confidence. All my students call me “Teacher” with a sort of serene reverence, so I feel like the enlightened  head of some religious cult.  Sadly, teaching the little children (all under 4) has been less successful. On learning that I play the guitar and piano (!) the head teacher appointed me the school’s music teacher. My first lesson loomed. I felt nervous. I began to sweat. 40 pairs of beady little eyes and endearingly snotty noses followed my every move as I fumbled with setting up the keyboard. My heart pounded. Suddenly, all musical or intelligent thought left my mind. I panicked, and before I knew I did something that I will live to regret. I played the Beatles. Not just any old Beatles, but “Let it be” by the Beatles, my voice faltering and my sweaty little paws slipping over the keys. The song ended. Dumb silence. The teacher looked at me sympathetically and suggested I might play something a little more upbeat. Tumbleweed. I played “Hit the road Jack”. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. But then, something remarkable happened. I stood up and shouted “Whey!” and the children erupted into whoops of delight. I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue and they screamed with laughter. An army of 40 tiny little soldiers charged and before I knew it I was at the bottom of a smelly little wriggling bundle. It turns out that the children bluddy love me. Now, when I walk in to the school, the children run up to me and grab my legs shouting something that resembles my name. I can talk the biggest load of crap and be as awkward as I like and to them I’m some kind of Mother Theresa. No, not Mother Theresa, what’s the name of the guy who used to do that show “Get your own back”? Him. Either way, it is such a joy to be working for them. I NEVER thought I would put “children” and “joy” in the same sentence.

As far as actually speaking Spanish is going, the answer is: awkward. Everything is awkward, from misunderstanding simples questions like “What did you have for lunch?”, to having to ask a 3 year old child to please speak more slowly, I don’t understand. That is the definition of humiliation. When faced with a situation in which I do not understand what is being asked, the set reaction is as follows: 1) A small laugh, roll of the inclines and slight incline of the head which could indicate a “yes” but is equally ambiguous  as to include “no”. If this is not the desired response 2) a shrug and a cocking of the head to one side. Small laugh. If this still doesn’t answer the question, 3) “I’m sorry, I’m English, I don’t understand.” VILLAGE IDIOT.  I am reliably informed by other year abroaders that this is the standard response, irrespective of country, language or culture. Phew.

Regular finbloggers will be aware of my quest to prove that Colombia is a suspiciously fertile nation. While this is definitely so (everyone is pregnant or has a small child. Everyone.), I am yet to confirm whether this has a correlation with hair gel use. And so the quest continues. Peace out lovers xxx

P.S. another instalment to follow shortly, including: extra curricular activities, my hair, shrimp exporters and food.

A Couple of Photos Yo'

The view from my bedroom. Y'all jus' jealous cos I can see the sea.

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Me, Indie and Lula in 40 years time

Yup, I went swimming. And by the looks of things, I'm pretty darn happy about that.

Looking at the old town from my beach....