FinBOGOTA- your city is MINE yo'

It's me, and the Colombian flag

I have really, really enjoyed sitting astride my high-language-horse for the last few months, earnestly remarking to other 3^rd year language students that I have “really grown, linguistically” and that I feel “so alive, culturally” as a result of not counting a single native English speaker amongst my friends. I have advised friends in places where British students flock to, like Paris, to “break out of that bubble” and Bristol (oops, Buenos) Aires, to join interpretational finger poetry societies, in search of an authentic foreign experience like mine. How smug I was. How very, very smug. However, there comes a time in any smuggins’ life when what was originally a source of pride and self-satisfaction becomes a source of jealousy and frustration. Three months in, and I wanted to use Kerry Katona as a cultural reference point, I wanted to not have to defend GREAT British cuisine like baked beans, I wanted to discuss the new series of the Inbetweeners with someone who realised that the funniest part wasn’t when he fell naked off the boat, but the part when he got ID’ed in the underage pub, and I wanted to stop feeling like Mark in Peepshow when he goes to the Rainbow Rhythms dance class and chants to himself “I’m Louis Theroux. I’m Louis bloody Theroux”. I needed a wingman, someone to explain to me the various baffling cultural differences, someone with whom to test the hair-gel vs fertility correlation, someone who would understand my pathetic mockney accent and vague attempts at cockney rhyming slang (you wouldn’t Adam and Eve it...), and the only one I knew to be residing within an 1000 mile radius (but what a wingman at that) was  residing in Bogota. And so to the big city and into the arms of my wingman, Lucy Williams...

Bogota is either an overnight bus ride away or an hour long flight, and being a child of the instant gratification society, I chose the latter. Amusingly, on entry to any Colombian airport, you are greeted with the slogan “Colombia: the only risk is wanting to stay.” Although yes, indeed, I find myself somehow inextricably attached to this country and will find it very difficult to leave, the phrase isn’t strictly true, as I haven’t met a single foreigner here (myself included) who has not been victim or witness to a violent crime.  It’s a nice touch though.

Bogota as a city is a different world to Cartagena. Climatically, it is eternal winter as opposed to eternal summer, it is about 5 times the size, much more “big city”, the population is noticeably indigenous rather than black, and it has a much more menacing feeling, as if it is perpetually on the point of snapping into bloody disorder. Every street corner is guarded by a heavily armed bruiser of a policeman accompanied by a muzzled Rottweiler, one of which I witnessed unleashed on a fleeing thief with disturbing consequences.

Grafiti

Saying that, Bogota has a buzz that Cartagena lacks, a constant feeling of excitement and electricity, with people always searching for something new and thrilling. The shambolic streets are lined with explosive graffiti and witty statues ( like little men fishing bananas of roof-tops), restaurants of every imaginable food and theatres and art galleries. I easily passed an entire afternoon in the hugely impressive MAMBO (Museo de Arte Bogota), and only left in fact after Lucy noisily damaged a priceless piece of instalment art.

This was one witty statue

Where Cartagena is glam and jet set (dare I say it....tacky?) , Bogota is cool, sort of Mayfair versus East London. On the Thursday night of my week there, I went to a very cool party. Very very cool. I didn’t act very cool though. I never do...

Hey Lil Chris you're a long way from Lowestoft!

A friend of mine who works in PR had been invited to some party thrown by Adidas and told me that if I told the doorman that I was a guest of the photographer I would get in. It seemed dubious, and I had been given no details of what the party exactly was, but was sold on the point of free hamburgers and whiskey. I love free stuff.  Lucy and I were taken aback when the taxi driver delivered us to a multi storey car park, and were even more surprised when we saw the queue to enter was several hundred meters long. The queue was comprised of ambivalent looking hipsters with something retro round their neck (name that quote....),  gay boys in girls’ jeans and condescending knitted brows, and stripey shirted loafer wearing preppy sons of the Colombian ruling class (their body guards kept a respectful distance). Lucy looked at me doubtfully, but I was filled with resolve to get into the party. I marched to the front of the queue and angrily declared to the bouncer that I was a guest of “the photographer”. I thought somehow being British and angry would work in my favour. The bouncer calmly pointed to the press entrance. I stomped away, dragging Lucy behind me. The next bouncer asked me who I was as I tried to push past him, as if it were an insult he might be asking such a petulant question. I sighed and repeated that I was a guest of “the photographer”. “The photographer?” “Yes THE PHOTOGRAPHER”. “Which photographer?” “I’M A GUEST OF THE PHOTOGRPAHER” “OH the photographer! Go straight on through.” I couldn’t believe it, we’d just beaten the toughest security in South America, by repeating a meaningless word and looking pissed off. A woman fastened on our wristbands and I was almost stumped by her question, “ so what magazine are you from?”. “the photographer?” I suggested. I felt like Hugh Grant in Nottinghill claiming to be from Horse and Hound, but the woman nodded and pushed us through, indicating the top floor.  

Skipping Competition.....idiots.

Round and round a spiral ramp we climbed, almost disbelieving that a party could be taking place in such an industrial venue. However, it was worth the climb when we arrived at the top floor, and entered The Adidas Originals Street Party. The whole level had been converted into a sort of urban wonderland, with graffitied walls, skate ramps, burnt out cars, street signs, phone booths, swings, hot dog vendors and a basketball court. BMX riders pedalled around, a skipping rope contest was in full swing, afro’ed b-boys threw shapes on the car and giant basketball players slam-dunked (I think that’s how you say it). The DJ was playing electro and techno tunes I hadn’t heard since leaving Bristol, pumping through the crowd more powerfully than the whiskey that was flowing like water. I was over the moon, and very, very overexcited. I darted around like a minnow on speed, noisily exclaiming my enthusiasm, while the rest of the crowd mooched nonchalantly against one another. I was in heaven, almost every single male had a moustache! The crowd was a sea of trilbies and half shaven heads, and geek glasses perched on disapproving noses. How was this possible in Colombia? This was more Brixton than Bogota, but I liked it. The whiskey and excitement overcame me, and suddenly I was riding a racing bike without brakes at break neck (it felt break neck, it probably wasn’t) speed around the floor. Over the course of the night I bumped into an old friend from school who I hadn’t seen for 3 years, who kindly invited Lucy and I to get some food with him and his friends at about 4am. Conveniently he had an armoured 4 x 4 and several body guards, which was reassuring as I happily squirted ketchup over myself. No, it doesn’t make any sense, but it didn’t at the time, so let it be....

I call this one "Culture"

Colombia is an undeniably erudite, urbane and sophisticated country; however there are instances which lead me to doubt its dedication to high culture. While there is plenty to keep one entertained in the city, I have a slight suspicion that rather than cultivating cultural richness, the aim of events here is basically just another excuse for a party. Take the opening of an art exhibition, “Faces of Colombia”, with purely Colombian artists presenting their view of their country. I was interested to see how Colombia would be presented by different races. No one else was. The view of the paintings was blocked by people swigging down the free bad wine, and every time a waiter emerged with a tray of meatballs there was a stampede towards him as the guests shamelessly grabbed from all angles. None of the English “After you,” “No, after you,” “No, I insist, after you,” “No I really must insist, after you.....” Paintings and the elderly were elbowed out of the way and knocked down, and I realised that I looked like a bit of an idiot actually trying to look at the paintings, so I took my meatballs, and left.

My second experience of culture that week fell on the next day, a poetry gala to commemorate the end of a weeklong festival of poetry. Having had the opportunity to sit in on the various poets being interviewed in my job in the culture section of the city’s main broadsheet newspaper El Universal, I was reasonably excited for the reading. I had been moved by some of their responses: poetry as confession, the fear of running out of words, blablabla, and hoped these sentiments would be echoed in the poems.

The evening started badly when, having decided to attend the gala alone (I say “decided”, I mean that no one wanted to go with me) I was approached by a rodenty young man clutching a notepad. In one of those unfortunately nasal and monatonal voices, he told me that he had seen me at the art exhibition the day before, and proceeded to ask the normal questions of what I was doing in Colombia, if I was married, how many children I had etc. Suddenly he began furiously scribbling on the notepad and then triumphantly tore a page off and handed it to me, staring at me expressionlessly. I was baffled. What he presented me with was a sort of home made contact card, with all his important details, but surrounded by a very badly drawn picture of some trees in the rain. Due to his lack of expression, I was unsure of how to react and so waited for him to make the next move. “See, I drew you a picture,” he said, robotically, “It’s just something a do. I’m always playing the clown.” He then shook his shoulders up and down as if convulsing with laughter, but with his face still fixed in an unreadable grimace. Abruptly, the shoulder shaking stopped and he asked me if I wanted to go to a talk on oil refining with him, because he finds oil refining really interesting. I laughed heartily and walked firmly away.

I was not perturbed by the fact that gala started an hour and a half late. My English sense of punctuality has gradually evaporated, so this was to be expected. What did irritate me though was the opening of the gala: a short film some moron had made. It was a terrible film and the first 3 minutes were shown 4 times as it kept skipping to the beginning. The closing scene portrayed a baby crawling along the ground to the music from Chariots of Fire. It was meant neither in irony nor jest, and the large crowd in the theatre summararily ignored the film and continued talking amongst themselves.

Finally, the poetry began. It opened with a young Mexican poet, who I knew would be incorporating both singing and the flute into her poetry. It was horrible. Just horrible. The words were rubbish, something like, “motivate yourself, we all learn together,” the flute element of the equation had neither rhythm nor melody, and her “singing” could have been from one of those X Factor auditions that makes the front page of The Sun. Horrible. She finished and stomped of looking pleased with herself. Poet number two was somehow worse. He was clearly very nervous, and with shaking hands proceeded to read his set of poems at a locomotive shout, neither looking up from his sweaty little piece of paper nor drawing breath, nor pausing in between poems. It was a constant stream of assault until seemingly out of nowhere he shouted “GRACIAS!” and sat down. Sweaty men and timid women and a Slovenian hermaphrodite took to the stage, interestingly reciting her poetry in Slovene, (which I can confidently say that no one understood,) while the ambivalent audience continued to talk amongst themselves. At one point the man next to me stood up and yelled “MARICA!” at a friend at the front (marica is Colombian slang for gay). This is not what I had expected.

My discomfort reached fever pitch when a stout, hairy little woman took to the stage. Her dress was stained, her armpits unkempt and her expression petulant. Feminist. I took a deep breath and mentally strapped myself in whatever gauntlet she would lay down. I wasn’t ready for the attack. “MI CLITORIS”, she bellowed. A 15 minute anatomical ode followed. Once again, I left, somewhat disillusioned with the Cartagena cultural scene.

Yesterday the city was brought to a halt by 18 street blockades by protesting taxi drivers. The day before, 2 taxi drivers were simultaneously murdered, shot for the 50 odd quid they would have had on them. So the taxi drivers shut down the city to beg for their safety. In England when there are strikes on the public transport it’s about money, or longer holidays. Here they’re just asking to not get shot. Just a thought.

Bit of music for yall

I just got back from seeing this band Bomba Estereo play in a free open air concert in the old city. They're from Baranquilla which is a town about an hour away from Cartagena, but this song, La Boquilla, is about a part of Cartagena which has the best beaches, and is populated by a surreal mix of the very, very rich and afro-colombians. During this song the singer (who dances more energetically than me, can you adam and eve it?) invited people to dance Champeta (african influenced music native to Cartagena) on stage with her. It was awesome, all this little kids and afro'ed dudes shaking their booties on stage, some of the girls move their hips so fast they seem to be vibrating. Also listen to Bomba Estereo - Fuego, the crowd went NUTS.

La Boquilla http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-vDLf7cmf0
Fuego http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZXlgNMDK3E&feature=related

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

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