La Musica de Colombia

It´s 3am, I´ve been up for 22 hours, and the maid has just been dispatched to buy more beer. Music blares loudly from the radio, the unfamiliar beats strangely infectious, and I join the whole family, dog included, dancing in the front room. No-one mocks my clumsy gringo moves, though I´m soon treated to a bewildering array of lessons. Each time I begin to get a vague idea of what I´m doing, the song (and genre) changes, and suddenly it´s meringue instead of vallenato, ragaton instead of cumbia, Shakira instead of salsa. Shakira at least I have heard of; the family are seemingly unable to believe the likes of "Juanes" haven´t proved a smash in Europe and America. When one of his "hits" does eventually grace us, I have to suppress a fit of the giggles; it´s none other than "Tengo la Camisa Negra" (I have the black shirt), the cheesey Europop anthem that provided so much mirth in Bulgaria a couple of weeks back. No matter: we dance on regardless.

While I knew Colombians had a reputation for partying I can´t say I expected a 4am finish on my first night, having not even left the house. Eventually I staggered to bed "early" with the two youngest members of the clan; the older members of the family continued for another couple of hours, led by Nora, the inexhaustable, incomprehensible "costeña" (from the coast) maid. Despite speaking no English at all (and speaking Spanish with the inpenentrable rapid fire delivery apparently typical of Colombia´s Caribbean natives), Nora is somewhat implausibly something of an aficionada of Anglo culture, at least when it comes to music. Her favourite tape, much to the horror of both her erstwhile employers and this newly arrived gringo, is the Grease soundtrack. She is also something of a Beatles fan - to hear her renditions of such classics as "Twiss an Chout" is almost a unique experience. Only the pure parody of an indigenous Indian playing Simon and Garfunkel´s "Bridge Over Troubled Water" on pan pipes outside the Museo del Oro could possibly come close.

Partying aside, the main reason I chose Colombia to learn Spanish was because I guessed there´d be few other tourists, and thus less "hassle" and less opportunity to speak English. After 24 hours in Bogota I can confirm that I was indeed correct on both counts. Nobody speaks English, there is no hassle whatsoever, and there are so few tourists it seems de rigeur to actually stop and chat with any gringos you pass on the street. Or at least it was yesterday with the one American I chanced to meet while wandering the streets for four or five hours. Bogota seems nice enough, though it probably won´t be rivalling Rio or Capetown in most beautiful city awards any time soon it´s certainly picturesque; with mountains on three sides, the numerous hills provide pretty views at every junction. It also feels a lot safer than might have been expected given its reputation in the mid-90s of being "the most dangerous city in the most dangerous country in the world". That´s right, the streets aren´t paved with powdery white stuff, the currency is pesos not hostages, and the FARC, ELN, M19, AUC et al don´t seem to be engaging in guerilla war in the Plaza Bolivar. Well they weren´t today anyway. Quite ironic really that I arrive in a place with such a fearsome reputation the same day that two giant carbombs narrowly fail to explode in London. I know at least a couple of desperados who could reliably be expected to be lurking in the dark corners of Tiger Tiger at 2am on a Thursday...

Other aspects of Colombia´s reputation don´t appear to be true either, at least in Bogota; the bold claims of "the hottest women in the world" seem laughable, though my cab driver from the airport seemed to concur with Lonely Planet that Medellin or Cali has "las mujeres mas bonitas". "According to Lonely Planet", however, is a dangerous caveat for any sentence; the world´s best-selling guidebook led me to believe (after I elected to come here I must add) that Colombian females were "sexually aggressive", particularly towards travellers. Disappointingly I have seen no hint of this so far, no rapes, no sexual assaults, not even a bit of wolf whistling or groping. If this carries on much longer I might start to develop a complex. Perhaps I need to learn how to dance?

"We're gonna need a bigger boat"

"That goddam sonnabitch just tried to bite my goddam leg off!" From our vantage point on the fishing platform, dad and I peer nervously down into the main part of the boat, 8 inches below, where a 4 foot long brown and white blur is noisily thrashing around with clear aggressive intent while our captain attempts to grab it behind the gills. "Yeeeeeehaaaaaaa! Gotcha! Goddam sonnabitch!" he drawls as he finally picks up the understandably irate Blacktip Reef Shark. “That’s a nice fish, gotta be 80 or 90 pounds. Come here, get a picture!”

The rather unfortunately named Bill Bender is a fishing boat captain from the old school. With more than a hint of a physical similarity to an anorexic Marlon Brando, in character he resembles Robert Shaw’s legendary fishing captain from Steven Spielberg’s “Jaws”, albeit with a tropical twist. Had Captain Quint spent his days trolling the idyllic backcountry of the Florida Keys and the Everglades rather than the inhospitable depths off New England, he’d probably be something like Bill. Like Captain Quint, Captain Bender likes to tell politically incorrect jokes. “Why do homosexuals always check out of hotels early in the morning? Because they had their shit packed the night before, haha.” Like Captain Quint, Captain Bender has a store of tall stories about fish, fishing, and the ocean. And like Captain Quint, Captain Bender is frighteningly adept at finding sharks.

Like Hooper and Chief Brodie, however, my dad and are I not quite so skilled at catching them. Nevertheless, with Cap’n Bill’s expert guidance, we did manage to land nine man-eating fish, ranging in size from the 90lb “tiddler” thrashing around on the deck of the boat, to a 250lb, 9 foot nurse shark that kept my dad busy for close to an hour. I’ve always been of the opinion, however, that size isn’t everything, and given the fearsome reputation of the bull shark (more attacks on humans than any other), the 200lb specimen I brought in was the most impressive catch of the day. Photos are attached here – make up your own minds.

Leaving aside the tall fishing stories, it’s been a very relaxing week here in the Keys. My diving has been curtailed somewhat by an annoying ear infection, but there’s been lots of boating, eating and drinking to make up for it. I’m now tanned and blonde, and just about ready for the rigours of Colombia, where I head early tomorrow morning. I’ll write more from there, but for now it’s “hasta luego amigos” – I got to get my shit packed tonight. Oh, you know what I mean…

Me in Indiana Jones hat

Blacktip Reef Shark

Dad, Blacktip Reef Shark, Captain Bill

Jaws

Man-eating 200lb Bull Shark


Me, Indy hat, Lemon Shark

Interrogation at Immigration

So when exactly did you go to Syria?” asked Jacques.

“Jacques”, was, at a guess, a Haitian immigrant, now working for the Immigration and Naturalisation Service at Miami Airport. “Poacher turned gamekeeper” I thought to myself, a little cynically. Perhaps it was the complimentary Daily Mail I’d read on the plane (actually I mean “complementary”, as in “free” – there’s little complimentary about the Mail, unless you tend to agree that National Socialism had a point on the issue of immigration) Anyway, the fact is, whatever his origins, and whatever my Daily Mail brainwashed mind thought of the situation, Jacques held all the aces here. He stopped flicking and looked at me, then looked back at the passport, then looked at me again. Shaking his head slightly, he asked the question again. “Er, I haven’t actually been yet, I’m going in September, but I had to get the visa already” “And why would you want to go to Syria?” “I’m going to learn Arabic.” “Why do you want to learn Arabic?”

At this point, my mind was racing; an incorrect answer and I’d be deported; no holiday in the Keys, no trip to South America, and no return, probably ever, to the USA; it was imperative I made him believe my answer. In this respect I should have been assisted by the convenient coincidence that it happened to be true. This was little consolation, however, given the rather annoying fact that all I could think of was amusing, though inappropriate responses along the lines of “so I can read the word of Allah, the one true god, and slay the apostate infidels”. Granted, this would probably not have been the best course of action in the long run, but there would undeniably have been a moment of real comedy there, presumably just before the red lights started flashing and the men with moustaches and uniforms came to lead me away for a spot of “waterboarding”. For the record, I’m not entirely sure what that involves, but since it’s against the Geneva Convention, I have a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t like it a great deal.

In the end he believed my answer. In the circumstances, perhaps suggesting “I want to learn Arabic so I can work for the government” while giving him a conspirational, “us against them” look was a little risky; he responded with precisely the same facial expression I used to reserve for those naïve enough to inform me they’d “love to work for Credit Suisse”.

To be fair, I don’t decry Jacques’ initial suspicion of me. I hadn’t shaved or slept in a week, and I’d spent the previous three days attempting to pickle my liver in cheap Bulgarian booze on a stag do in Sofia. Though had Jacques (or anyone else for that matter) actually been to Sofia, they’d fully understand the reasons for my parlous mental and physical state. With all due respect to any Bulgarians who may be reading this, I have to say that my experience of their capital was not overwhelmingly positive. Indeed, in my three, admittedly hazy, days there, I saw little to contradict a succinct description I heard before my visit from an old friend: “a post-Soviet hellhole with amazingly cheap vice”. Actually, that’s not strictly true: while beer, food and lodging were undoubtedly a bargain, as a couple of nameless members of our party can confirm, Bulgarian vice is not so cheap. £1,300 for a couple of bottles of champagne is expensive in anyone’s money, but in a country where beer goes for 40 pence a pint, that’s extortion. To add insult to injury, the drunken buffoons in question didn’t even get to see any nudity for their 4,000 levs. Aside from the three musketeers and their late night aberration, the weekend was largely incident free, though the local populace did seem a little bemused by the fancy dress outfits, ranging from a number of cads and bounders to a large bear (don’t ask), Rod Stewart, Gordon Ramsay, Colin Montgomery an anti-globalisation protestor, a failed boy band reject, and a schoolboy. A couple of humorous pics are attached here, more as a test of my ability to upload photos to the web than any belief they’ll be of great interest – like all the best jokes you probably had to be there. Suffice to say, however, I shan’t be rushing back to Bulgaria, as a gravelly-voiced ageing Scottish rockstar or otherwise.

I will, however, shortly be heading to Bogota to commence my Spanish studies; in the meantime I’m having some much earned r&r with the family in the Florida Keys. Sun, sea, and scuba diving – it’s a tough life…