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?
