Adios a Colombia

`Hola, como esta? Soy de Inglaterra, y voy a Brasil´
`Ola. Snsh veyt minhuto bem vindo htyu ererh bassaborte´
`Er, Que?´

What the fuck? At this point I realise the utter stupidity of spending a month intensively learning Spanish only to immediately head to Brazil. Portuguese is a truly ridiculous language, of which I understand not a word. The really irritating thing, however, is that it´s sufficiently similar to Spanish that they can understand me perfectly, thus giving the illusion of ease, an illusion that is immediately shattered as soon as they commence their seemingly part Russian, part French, part Latin response, all of which with the kind of accent that should really necessitate some intensive enunciation sessions with a speech therapist.

Still, linguistic nightmares aside, I managed to negotiate my way into Brazil successfully, but such is the way with formalities here in the `Three Borders´region of the Amazon, where Brazil, Colombia and Peru converge on a narrow stretch of river, I took my shiny Brazilian stamp and immediately returned to Colombia. There is effectively no border here, as I discovered last night when I inadvertently wandered into Brazil. Despite the proximity and de facto merger of Leticia and Tabatinga into one united conurbation, the differences between the two towns are striking. Where Tabatinga is dirty, rundown and chaotic, characteristically a frontier town, Colombian Leticia is a sprightly and prosperous place. On the face of it, this fact should be slightly surprising. 500 miles from the nearest road, reachable only by riverboat and plane, aside from a nascent tourist industry there seems little here to support any kind of town, let alone one so obviously prosperous. The economic miracle of Adam Smith´s famous `Invisible Hand´has never seemed so enigmatically well-hidden as here.

The answer to this conundrum, of course, is simple. Cocaine. An oasis of semi-civilsation in the midst of vast swathes of impenetrable jungle resolutely controlled by the FARC, with virtually unpatrolled borders between the coca-leave producing Peru and the cocaine-consuming Brazil, Leticia is a prime spot on the trade route for Colombia´s number one export product. In the interests of idle curiosity I asked a taxi driver a little about the industry in these parts; he was only too happy to respond. (By way of an aside, there is something infinitely rock and roll about sitting on the back of a motorbike discussing the narcotics industry in Spanish as you roar around the streets of a Colombian border town trying to find th best exchange rate from the street money changers.) A kilogram of pure cocaine apparently costs US$1,200 in Leticia, which is quite staggeringly cheap; according to my source (on this particular topic, I think a guy who drives a motorbike in Leticia is probably quite reliable), that same kilo, once cut with various potions and powders, will make 3 kilos in the west, with a street value of around US$300,000. Suddenly it all makes a little more sense. No wonder Pablo Escobar was in the top ten of the Forbes Global Rich List for over a decade. Still, he did die in a hail of bullets in a Medellin sidestreet, so perhaps the life of an international druglord isn´t all gravy...

My brief investigation into Leticia´s import-export industry over, I head to the port to catch a boat down the Rio Javari to a remote ecolodge in Brazil. Or perhaps in Peru? As I´m already officially in Brazil, I avoid the passport formalities of my three fellow explorers, two affable Catalonians and a typically chirpy Colombian, yet follow them to Santa Rosa, Peru anyway. This is my third country in half an hour, which is in itself a little disconcerting. It feels bad to be back in Peru, a country to which, despite its inestimable natural and archaological wonders (everyone should see Machu Picchu once), I took a strong dislike on my last visit in 2002. Santa Rosa is no different. Visibly much poorer than Tabatinga or Leticia, Santa Rosa is little more than wooden shacks rising out of the mud. With typical Peruvian efficiency we find the Immigration Office closed, the presiding bureaucrat at lunch, where we join him in a quite appalling restaurant, replete with various indigenous Amazonian animals caged in heartbreaking squalor. Combined with the excruciating noise emanating from the live band, this makes for a thoroughly unpleasant half hour; finally the necessary formalities finalised, we are free to go. I am officially in Brazil, while Luis, Alfredo and Francesco are officially in Peru. All of us are actually in Colombia, as we stop once more to secure vital supplies - a crate of Aguila beer - for the six hour journey into Brazil. Confused yet? I am...

But so it is that with a slightly heavy heart I say goodbye to Colombia, a country I can honestly say I´ve come to love over the last month. The people, the culture, the scenery; what a fantastic place. I will certainly return one day, hopefully soon, and that´s not something I can say about too many places. You´ll shortly find below a selection of photographic mementos of some of my Colombian amigos and amigas - I hope to see them again one day soon. Perhaps in Nora´s case, on MTV. But for now I move onto new adventures. The Amazon!

Akiel, from Trinidad (and Tobago), and Miguel, my anarchist Spanish teacher


Samuel, the craziest dog in Colombia


Akiel and Paula Andrea. She´s quite normal, for a Colombian

Nora. Like Shakira she´s from Barranquilla. Like Shakira she´s a singer. Unlike Shakira, seeing her emerge from the bathroom in just her lacy underwear was not one of the all time highlights of my time on earth.

Love In The Time Of Cholera

Bougainvillea fringed wooden balconies overhang narrow cobbled streets lined with brightly painted houses. Horse drawn carts clatter across the stones as laconic, dark skinned men sit on the dusty pavements swigging beer from the bottle and playing dominoes. Music wafts into the night air on the warm ocean breezes, and the most beautiful girls in the world gently sway their hips in doorways, while their grandparents rock rhymthically in their chairs.

As I've already written, the Lonely Planet guidebook describes Cartagena as "a fairy tale city of romance, legends, and sheer beauty" and "the most spectacular colonial city on the continent". I can't vouch for the second claim, as my experience of South America is thus far limited to Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia, but I can certainly confirm that Cartagena is indeed a very special place. An hour and a half flying time from Bogota, and Cartagena feels every bit of it. The palm trees lining the runway, the blast of hot air when the door opens, the pools of rainwater in the streets from the customary afternoon storm, even the noticeably darker inhabitants; make no mistake about it, this is the Caribbean.

Yet the difference between Cartagena and Bogota is more than just geographic - there's a distinct time shift between the Andes and the coast. Everything is much slower here, on island time as it were. There's another, more subtle, time difference though; in many respects Cartagena lies in a different century from the capital. While it has the same accoutrements of modern life as any big city in Latin America - internet cafes, cash machines, mobile phones - wandering the old town here could quite easily convince you you'd stepped into a timewarp. Put it this way, Cartagena is the only place I've ever been where the horse drawn carts seem plausibly authentic rather than tacky and artificial.

There is certainly a fairytale quality to all this: the gingerbread houses, the horsedrawn carriages, the walls defending the city from pirates, and Cartagena's history rivals any yarn from a children's storybook. Founded in 1533 on the site of an old Carib Indian settlement, Cartagena quickly grew into the most important port in Spanish America. Almost all the incalcuable treasure - gold, silver, emeralds and the like - extracted from South America's soil was shipped through Cartagena back to Spain. To put the quantities into some kind of perspective, the mines of a single Bolivian town, San Luis Potosi, reputedly yielded sufficient riches to build a solid silver bridge, 6 feet wide, all the way back to Madrid. Cartagena's spectacular architecture was one result of all this commerce; the constant scourge of piracy was another. The most famous of these buccaneers (you may wish to look away now if your version of history was taught in a British school), Sir Francis Drake, held the whole city to ransom in a long and bloody siege in 1586, graciously agreeing not to raze it to the ground upon receipt of ten million pesos. In response to this and numerous other assaults by seamen flying the skull and crossbones, the Spanish colonialiasts ringed Cartagena first with a series of forts, and later with the city walls which still stand today. Standing on the ramparts watching the sun sink slowly into the Caribbean, it's not at all difficult to imagine a pirate galleon sneaking over the horizon...

In addition to its ancient myths and legends, Cartagena was more recently the setting for Gabriel Garcia Marquez´s 1985 novel "Love In The Time Of Cholera", a fantastical fairytale loosely based on his own parents' courtship along Colombia's Caribbean coast. The book, published after his Nobel Prize for Literature yet arguably his best, will soon receive a great deal more publicity when the Hollywood adaptation hits screens across the globe later this year. Directed by Mike Newell, of "Four Weddings and a Funeral" fame, with a screenplay by 'Gabo' himself, and starring Javier Bardem, Benjamin Bratt, and Catalina Sandino Moreno, the movie promises to put Cartagena even more firmly on the tourist map as it was filmed on location in the city.

The story gets its name from the fearsome cholera epidemic which forms the backdrop to a hilariously absurd love story. In an amusingly (though not for me) apt parallel to the novel, my own whirlwind romance with Cartagena was also painted with a similar backdrop on the canvas as I battled a mysterious stomach ailment. While it obviously wasn't cholera, after some careful reading of the Health section of the Lonely planet (I strongly recommend you never try this), I am however sure that it was one (or all) of Typhoid, Amoebic Dysentry, or Hepatitis A. Still, luckily for me, Colombia, as you all well know, is renowned as the "drug capital of the world", and as a result the regulations regarding prescpriptions are somewhat lax. It seems that in place of the highly secure system in place in Britain (where any totally illegible scribble on something vaguely approximating a green piece of paper with a doctor's name will suffice), merely going up to the counter and saying "Amoxycillin, por favor" will produce favourable results. Whether such leniency extends higher up the drug potency chain is unclear. "Methadone por favor"? Hmmm... Anyway, as a result of my battle with a species of bacteria hitherto unknown to medical science, I ate two meals between last Wednesday and yesterday (Monday), subsisting almost entirely on a diet of gatorade and immodium. Personally I think it could be the new Atkins. Fortunately my initial tentative foray into the field of experimental pharmacology seems to have had some success, and I'm now back eating again. I may limit my intake of the ubiquitos Colombian "frijoles" (beans) for a while, however.

I conclude with an update on the "Usnavy" anecdote from my previous update. It seems another popular name in the Choco is taken from the currency. As the locals astutely inferred, any man important enough to have his picture on a dollar bill must be worth naming your offspring after. Unfortunately, however, that was the full extent of the intelligence on display in Choco province, hence a large number of children now run around the streets known as "Onedollar". To be fair, I'm not sure "George Washington" would be much better, but...

On that note, I'm off to conclude my homework - a 20 minute presentation (in Spanish of course) on "the history of guerillas in Colombia". I'll write again after the weekend, when I should be able to report on Cali, the self-styled salsa capital of the world, and also the Coffee Region. Pictures of Cartagena are below.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition." Except perhaps here, at the Palacio de la Inquisicion.

This being Colombia, dancing in the streets is mandatory.

Like Freddie Mercury, Fernando Botero likes Fat Bottomed Girls.


"¡Dios mio! It's the damned English again!"

Saturday Night In Bogotá

The dancefloor is packed with sweating, gyrating bodies, moving in time to the music. Space is so limited that others are shaking their hips on chairs, tabletops, even the bar; no flat surface is spared. The music is an eclectic mix of salsa, vallenato, reggae, disco, and pop; even gringa Madonna gets an outing, predictably with the ever so slightly Spanish flavoured "La Isla Bonita". All around people are swigging rum, aguardiente (the local aniseed flavoured firewater, effectively a Colombian corruption of sambuca), and whiskey by the bottle. A truly surreal array of actors, or at least I think so, join the revellers in a bewildering selection of costumes. A faun, perhaps Mr Tunnus from C.S. Lewis' classic "The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe" prances across the floor, pausing to sniff various body parts of those he passes. An Indian travelling holy man, or sadhu, sashays around, theatrically begging for alms. A pair of conjoined twins, one black, the other white, one tall and thin, the other short and fat, one gay, the other straight, dance a depraved waltz, all the while making suggestive gestures to women and men alike. Despite it all, the crowd dances doggedly on. It's six thirty in the evening.

Part steak restaurant, part bar, part cavernous nightclub, Andres' Carne de Res is a Colombian institution, recently celebrating its 25th birthday. The staff here are all outrageously attractive; it seems quite feasible that those not fortunate enough to get a job at Andres' become Abercrombie models instead. Most of the customers are of a similar ilk, though the age ranges widely from the three or four year olds taking their first steps on the dancefloor, to the seasoned pros the wrong side of seventy. Like all Colombians, however, they seem to have a natural sense of rhythm. Like all gringos, however, I do not. Luckily no-one seems to notice, or care, the dancefloor being far too full to pay attention to anything except the pounding beats.

Away from the jiving mania on the floor, other Colombians are getting on with the serious business of drinking and eating. In this country it seems that just like in London's more anally exclusive nightspots, liquor is purchased by the bottle rather than the shot. Yet unlike at Boujis, Funky Buddha or Cristal this is not to promote an atmosphere of rarefied exclusivity or conspicuous consumption, instead it seems based on the undeniably economic and logistical advantages of buying in bulk. Rather than spending an aggregate couple of hours fighting to get to the bar each time you go out, most of the evening is spent enjoying the company, the food, and most of all the music. Nowhere I've ever been has had such an atmosphere of universal and unadulterated fun on a night out, except perhaps for Pamplona. Yet this was no once yearly fiesta, but an ordinary Saturday night.

We left Andres around 11 to head for a club in the centre of town. Here too was as similar story. A thousand plus people dancing, dancing, dancing, to everything from Colombian classics to old London favourite "Bomba" ("movimiento sexy..."). There's nothing quite like that feeling of realisation that you're singing along, out of tune of course, to a song whose lyrics you have absolutely no idea of. Except perhaps the feeling of realisation that you're singing along to a song whose lyrics you have absolutely no idea of, in a language you don't speak. I'm sure it was a great look for me.

Having said this, perhaps I'm selling myself short on the language (if not the singing voice). I just managed to convince Aerorepublica (a Colombian airline) that I had indeed bought my flight out of here to the Amazon a couple of months back on the internet, and that they did have the money after all. This morning in class we had a debate about global warming, in which I was quite able to articulate (in Spanish) that, in the immortal words of a fat 8 year old from Colorado, it's all a bunch of tree hugging hippy crap anyway. Not because I believe this obviously, but because it's fun to annoy those who wear hemp, bathe in vegetable oil, and postulate that cows farting is the primary cause of climate change.

Interestingly there is no word in Spanish, or Colombian Spanish anyway, for "tree hugger". Nor is there an equivalent phrase to "political correctness". This is just as well, because some of the conversations that seem to go on around the place are rather incompatible with the concept. In the UK I'm not sure you'd be allowed to discuss the striking physical similarities between aboriginal Australians and monkeys ("micos"), the inherent amusement value of the mentally handicapped ("mongolicos"), or the fact that people in Africa are clearly more stupid than people in South America. Yet I've heard all these viewpoints in the last couple of weeks. Not that Colombians are intolerant, just that they like to laugh, and no subject is considered out of bounds.

On which note, I'm sure any Colombians reading this won't begrudge me a gentle laugh at some of their countrymen. Just like in UK, where the proliferation of little girls named "Chardonnay" and "Champagne" reflects their parents' towering ambitions for their offspring to marry a footballer, Colombia has its own share of aspirationally-monikered juniors, most of them with an Anglo-American theme. Yet aside from the cringeworthy copies ("Leidy" is apparently popular), one example stands head and shoulders above the rest. In the desperately poor, devastingly violent province of Choco, on Colombia's remote northwestern Pacific coast, exposure to the outside world comes mostly courtesy of the strong American military presence in the area to protect the Panama Canal. Still, given the fact that the US "liberated" Panama, formerly a Colombian province, from Bogota's control in 1903, one might think local sentiment would be anti-imperialist. As it turns out. so warm are the feelings of local Colombians towards the Yankees, that many of their offspring have been gifted with American names. Statistically by far the most popular is the initially odd-sounding "Usnavy". Odd that is, until you think about what's printed on the side of "US Navy" vessels.

You really couldn't make this stuff up. On which note, I'm off to do my homework on the Pluperfect tense. I'll write again after my trip to Cartagena for the weekend, where aside from the World Heritage colonial architecture, I'll also hopefully find some Brazilians or Argentinians (ideally both) to watch the final of the Copa America on Sunday. They're billing it as "El Gran Clasico" here, and I for one can't wait. If you need entertainment in the meantime, check out the pictures below, or for a laugh, the following link from the BBC website. Apparently "British forces have denied rumours that they released a plague of ferocious badgers into the Iraqi city of Basra."

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6295138.stm

No, I didn't drink it all.

Akiel informs me Burberry has now reached Trinidad. I'm not sure about Tobago.

TGI Fridays - with inflatable dolls.

Dance instructor to me - worst job in the world?

Ah no, not quite.

Apart from the flags, Colombia is in no way like France

News of A Kidnapping

"No Mas Muertes!" "No Al Sequestro!"

After a week here in Colombia´s capital, I was almost beginning to think that this was a normal country. It's a fair bet that the first words most people associate with Colombia are kidnapping or cocaine. Those were certainly the two first reactions I got when I told people I was coming here, generally preceded or followed by a polite nquiry as to my sanity. After a week here in Bogota, such reactions appeared laughable. Surely this urbane, cosmopolitan, modern city populated by hospitable, friendly, and fun-loving people couldn´t be the capital of a nation at war with itself? All that changed for me today.

According to most reports I´ve read this evening, between three and four million people piled onto the streets of Colombia´s four largest cities today, in an almost spontaneous protest for peace. In Bogota alone, over a million people joined together to demand an end to the forty year civil war, an end to kidnapping for political ends, and an end to the mindless killing by the leftist guerillas of the FARC, and ELN, the right wing paramilitaries of the AUC, and the state´s own security forces. Hundreds of thousands of ordinary Bogatanos, many dressed in white, brandished placards, banners or simple white handkerchiefs, and blew whistles, banged drums, and sang songs.

In his much acclaimed reportage of the 1990 hostage crisis instigated by infamous narco-tycoon Pablo Escobar, Colombian Nobel Laureate for Literature Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote "News of a kidnapping, no matter how painful, is not as irremediable as news of a murder". That may be so, but now, in 2007, the country´s most famous son is apparently out of step with the majority of Colombian opinion, which has tired of the ongoing brutality. Today they spoke up and said "no mas". "No more".

It was a quite amazing sight, even more incredible given its spontaneity. President Alvaro Uribe, whose controversial military and political assault on the guerillas has had such a positive impact on safety and security in Colombia in the last five years, called the rally yesterday in response to the announcement by FARC earlier this week that 11 Cali politicians captured in 2002 had recently died. The President claims the rebels murdered the men in cold blood; FARC maintain the hostages were killed in the crossfire when government forces attacked the remote jungle camp where they were held. Uribe himself led the protests in Bogota, though I didn´t see himself myself. In a slightly absurd touch, the protest initially seemed to subside around 40 minutes after it had begun at 12 noon, only to restart in earnest an hour and a half later. Trust the Colombians to break for lunch.

A few hours later and the sound and the fury has subsided. Once again, Bogota is quiet - no, not quiet, a city of 8.5 million people addicted to dancing, drinking and partying could never be quiet - but there is no sign of the momentous events of earlier. Once again this is the eminently normal capital of an eminently normal nation. In keeping with this trend I too returned to (relative!) normality, and after another intensive afternoon of Spanish class, this evening booked flights for two weekends away from Bogota. I happened to learn earlier today that in Colombia it is Tuesday, not Friday, the 13th that is considered unlucky - the Freddy Krueger films were translated here as "Martes 13th" not "Viernes 13th". This is just as well, for next Friday, the 13th, I fly to Cartagena de Indias on the Caribbean coast. Lonely Planet describes it variously as "a fairy tale city of romance, legends, and sheer beauty", and "the most spectacular colonial city on the continent". The following Thursday, on the eve of Independence Day, I´ll fly to the party capital of Colombia, Cali, from where I´ll head back by bus through the spectacular Andean scenery of the coffee country.

Perhaps one day it will be the export of that cash crop, rather than cocaine, for which Colombia will be known; perhaps one day it will be Cartagena and Cali rather than kidnapping and chaos that are the first reactions when travellers speak of this country. Perhaps one day the anniversary of July 5th and the declaration of "no mas" will be celebrated with as much fervour as the Bolivarian Revolution. As I write now the radio plays D-Ream´s "Things Can Only Get Better". The last time I heard that song a suave young leader with a winning smile and a message of optimism was striding to the fore.

Alvaro Uribe better hope he does more for his country than Tony Blair did for his.

Goooooooooaaaaaaaaal Coooloooombiiiiiiiaaaaa!

We´ve all heard clips of Latin American football commentators screaming their trademark word at outrageous volume for a seemingly impossible length of time - for many people it´s probably the one thing they associate above all others with the continent. Last night, for the first time, it actually meant something more than a moment´s mirth at the commentator´s expense. Last night, for ten glorious minutes, Colombia led the mighty Argentina in their second game in Copa America´s Group C, thanks to a smart backheel from Edison Perea. For just a moment, the country dared contemplate victory against the hot favourites for the competition, and with it some measure of pennance for their shocking 5-0 defeat to unfancied Paraguay in the opener. In the event, Argentina triumphed with ease, the 4-2 scoreline flattering my adopted team somewhat. It was something of a Pyrrhic victory for Argentina, however. Chelsea misfit and Argentina star Hernan Crespo, now shorn of his trademark outrageous greasy locks, converted the crucial penalty, but in the process proved he is still as idiotic as ever, seriously injuring himself running to the crowd to celebrate.

Unlike Crespo, however, one man who has definitely not lost his defining outrageous barnet is Colombian football icon and scourge of hairdressers everywhere, Carlos Valderrama. His gurning visage and ludicrous shock of orange hair shines out from billboards across Bogota in his new role as marketing champion for a popular brand of potato chips. Personally I daren´t go near the things for fear of waking up with an Einstein-like mop on my head, but the locals seem to like them. If you ask me he´s no Gary Lineker though.

Aside from joining in the all too familiar experience of national mourning that follows the highly predictable exit from major competition of a country´s football team, I´ve also found time to continue my exploration of Colombia´s capital, and I must say, I think I like it here. Somewhat surprisingly to many of you I´m sure, Bogota is in fact a very modern city, which in parts more resembles Mayfair, Miami or Manhattan than the grimy crime-ridden shanties of popular imagination. As I sat sinking "tintos" - the strong, sweet, black coffee on which the nation seems to run - outside a Zona Rosa cafe yesterday afternoon, watching hip, good-looking Bogatanos wander in and out of Versace, Dior, and Diesel boutiques, it occurred to me that I could really have been in any sizeable city in Europea, Australia or America. Yet 24 hours previously I had joined thousands of devout Catholics ascending Cerro de Montserrate, the mountain which dominates eastern Bogota, on their weekly pilgramage to an allegedly divinely empowered Christ statue. My own motivation was more temporal than spiritual - Montserrate provides spectacular vistas across the entire Sabana de Bogota - but it was fascinating to see the faithful go about their business.

Catholicism is at the heart of Latin America´s contradictions, and Bogota is no exception. Prior to my Sunday afternoon pilgrimage, I had inadvertently engaged in a controversial political protest. It was only after the tenth or eleventh volunteer stopped to ask for my participation in their survey that I realised the precise focus of the proceedings, however. The conversation that follows is in Spanish, though it doesn´t require any great grasp of the language to understand.

- "La primera pregunta señor. ¿Usted es - 1) gay, 2) lesbiana, 3) bisexuelo, o 4) transgenero?".
- "Perdon, er, no soy gay"
- "¿No es gay?!"
- "No"
- "Verdad, ¿no es gay? ¿No?"
- "Grrr......"

Still, I guess we´ve cleared up the apparently inexplicable ability of the supposedly nymphomaniac local females to keep their hands off me. It later transpired this survey was part of a much larger rally - this I realised when I stumbled obliviously into a mass protest in the Plaza de Bolivar. In the shadow of the ubiquitous statue of this continent´s great Liberator, an obviously ennervated series of speakers raged against the improprieties inflicted on them by the "Fascist" regime of President Alvaro Uribe. And gay rights are not the only area of Colombian life in which the dominating spectre of the Catholic church holds sway - like much of the continent abortion is illegal here. I for one find it somewhat difficult to reconcile the hedonistic lifestyle, highly provocative dress sense, and all the trappings of modern consumption culture so evident here, with the highly conservative religious underpinnings of being a Catholic nation. Perhaps Colombians do too?

In an effort to answer such questions, or at least to engage with the locals on a more meaningful level than pointing and shouting at items in shops, I today began an intensive Spanish course. When I booked the course a couple of months back I´m not at all sure I quite realised what "intensive" meant. Anyway, five hours of one to one tuition and an hour of conversation practise at lunch later, I am now struggling to stay awake. Ordinarily this wouldn´t be such a problem, however, I have significant amounts of homework to complete by 8.30am. Think of me tomorrow - while you´re swigging Starbucks, trolling the internet and sending personal e-mails by the dozen, I´ll be slaving away in a cold Colombian classroom, struggling with the rudiments of Spanish grammar. I know where I´d rather be...

Please find below a few photos from my initial explorations of the city.

Bogota - bigger than London. Less terrorism too.

La Plaza de Bolivar - you know you're in South America

Colonial architecture in La Candalaria district







Gold "Jaguar Mask" in Museo del Oro

Carlos Valderrama says: "eat Margaritas for curly hair"

For some reason they call it cloud forest

Room with a view - Cerro de Monserrate, Bogota

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?