"Pssst, señor, ¿que quieres? Bueno precio..."
Perhaps it's my overactive imagination, perhaps it's the psychotropic antimalarial drugs I'm taking now, or perhaps it's the preponderance of prostitutes, male and female, that proposition taxi passengers at the traffic lights, but I get the sense that Cali is a little bit dodgy. Once the home of Colombia's biggest drug cartel, and still a major base for the narcotics industry, the city also lies on the very edge of FARC-controlled territory. Though usually remaining in rural areas outside of the city, the guerrillas detonated a huge car bomb here in April, an incident that did not fill me with particular excitement as I boarded the plane in Bogota. Upon arrival, a long taxi drive into town ensued. Staring out of the open window into the fetid darkness of the tropical night, there was a certain thrill to be had from the knowledge that somewhere out there lurk earnest peasants in muddy fatigues, carrying AK-47s and copies of "The Communist Manifesto", agitating for the overthrow of liberal capitalist democracy here in Colombia. Just so long as they stay out there and don't start venturing any closer to me, mind, there's a limit to how close I want my thrills.
Perhaps it's my overactive imagination, perhaps it's the psychotropic antimalarial drugs I'm taking now, or perhaps it's the preponderance of prostitutes, male and female, that proposition taxi passengers at the traffic lights, but I get the sense that Cali is a little bit dodgy. Once the home of Colombia's biggest drug cartel, and still a major base for the narcotics industry, the city also lies on the very edge of FARC-controlled territory. Though usually remaining in rural areas outside of the city, the guerrillas detonated a huge car bomb here in April, an incident that did not fill me with particular excitement as I boarded the plane in Bogota. Upon arrival, a long taxi drive into town ensued. Staring out of the open window into the fetid darkness of the tropical night, there was a certain thrill to be had from the knowledge that somewhere out there lurk earnest peasants in muddy fatigues, carrying AK-47s and copies of "The Communist Manifesto", agitating for the overthrow of liberal capitalist democracy here in Colombia. Just so long as they stay out there and don't start venturing any closer to me, mind, there's a limit to how close I want my thrills.
The city of Cali itself is not beautiful. In many ways nor is Bogota, but the capital has a charming historical district and a striking mountain setting; neither attribute Cali posesses. No matter, however, for despite its preponderence of low-slung American style strip malls, centreless sprawl and slightly eerie emptiness, Cali is widely famed for the beauty of its women and the insanity of its nightlife, both of which had long ago attained near-mythical proportions in my mind at least. I'm not sure why or when I first heard about Cali, but I do know that for a long time I had wanted to go there, my interest piqued by no doubt tall tales of outrageously beautiful gangsters' molls dancing till dawn in sweaty, sexy nightclubs, all underlaid with the definite dark edge that comes from being a city built on white powdery foundations.
In some respects I was slightly disappointed. The nightlife was great, but by Colombian standards lacked just a little something. My strong desire to visit a Caleño Salsatecca to see the locals showing off their salsa skills was tempered with the news that the Juanchito district, home of the Salsateccas, is widely considered off-limits to sane people, let alone gringos, on the grounds of its proximity to some pretty "exciting" slums. I'm not sure if this is true, personally I don't believe it, but for once discretion proved the better part of valour and I elected not to find out. I did, however, head to legendary Cali nightclub, Kukumukara, where I was treated to some quite incredible mountain views. The giant peaks in question were not another extension of the mighty Andes, viewed out of the club's windows however, but were rather contained, more or less anyway, in the skimpy tops of almost every female in the club.
It's quite probable that there are eminent plastic surgeons in Britain, with long and distinguished careers in cosmetic medicine, who have never seen as many silicone breasts as are to be found in a Cali nightclub. In many respects entering Kukumukura was like walking into the pages of Playboy magazine (without the ninety year old pederast in a silk dressing gown in the corner obviously), as a veritable ocean of almost-naked surgically-enhanced flesh lurked at every turn. While some of the women were undeniably attractive, a large number bordered on the grotesque, particularly those who had teamed their artificially-inflated cleavages with similarly pneumatic posteriors. With the temperature in the club rising rapidly, for a time I began to worry about the melting point of silicone, fearing I might suddenly find myself alone, save for numerous steaming piles of molten plastic on the floor. My fears were soon allayed, however, by numerous shots of Aguardiente, the potent local firewater imbibed in vast quantities here. It's nasty stuff, a lot like a kind of sugarfree sambuca, all the more nauseating for being served ice-cold. Still, it's certainly a required ingredient if I am to attempt salsa dancing, which I duly did with little notable success. The other higlight of the evening was certainly one of the bands' live rendition of "La La La La La La Bamba" - to hear a Latin group in a Latin American club actually play that was just too amusing for words.
Anyway, with enough eyefuls of silicone, not to mention Aguardiente, to last a lifetime, I departed Cali early on Friday morning to take in the scenic delights of Colombia's coffee-growing heartlands. About which, more later...
