One Night In Cali

"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.

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...

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.