A DEVILISHLY GOOD HALLOWEEN IN BOGOTÁ

It's a thin line between looking like a sexy devil at Halloween, and looking like a complete chopper. Despite an hour and a half to put on my red face makeup and black nail varnish, I unfortunately fell (rather, plumetted) into the latter category at El Sitio in Bogotà last night. My face looked shiny, my makeup ran, and by the end of the night, I had a large non-red fleshy-coloured clown mouth from chewing the face of my very sexy and devilish accomplice. Now I just need to get rid of my rotten aguardiente/vodka hangover, and work out how to remove black nail varnish, and life will be good again.

 its a thin line between looking like a sexy devil.....and looking a complete chopper

 

I will never, ever laugh at girls with shiny fake-tanned faces again

  

AN ARGUMENT OVER BROCOLI IN BOGOTÀ

We fed 108 homeless people today.We nearly didn´t, because there were not enough people preparing the vegetables and it took longer to prepare the meal than usual, and also because two of the men had an argument over how to cut the brocoli.

The first man had told me to cut it into fine pieces, and with the flower still on top. When the second local man arrived and saw me doing this, he he told me I needed to cut them bigger, and remove the flowers from the top. Words were exchanged  when the first man heard this. Chests were puffed. Eventually, the head Sister was consulted.

It turned out that the head Nun agreed with how the first man had told me to cut the brocolli. If the second man´s pride was wounded, he did it well. - 'Todo la gente quiere estar jefe.' he shook his head ruefully when the head Nun was out of earshot. Everybody wants to be boss. I smiled, shrugged and continued cutting the brocolli into small pieces with the flower still on.

Brocolli cut, mugs of aguapanella poured and boiled eggs peeled, lunch was eventually served, a chick pea, vegetable and egg casserole on a bed of rice. It looked delicious though I say it myself. It tasted not bad either, I found out later, when I was offered a plateful after all the homeless had been fed and watered. Even if the brocolli did seems a little small, in my personal, humble opinion.

GRAFFITI ON THE STREETS OF BOGOTA

FIRST DAY BACK AT THE ORPHANAGE IN BOGOTÀ

Today was my first day back at the orphanage in Bogotá, after two and a bit weeks of jaunting around the jungle and beaches of northern Colombia.

Within seconds of walking in the front door, one of my favourites had grabbed me by the hand and started leading me into the main area to play noughts and crosses. Within seconds of walking into the main area, one of my other favourites, Joanna, was jumping over me and asking me why had I not visited her in so long, and several other young children were shaking me by the hand.

All in all, it took about twenty seconds in the orphanage this morning to remind me just how rewarding volunteer work can be, and the next two or three hours of helping the kids with their homework to reiterate to me just how much. I cannot wait to go back tomorrow.

A LONG WAIT FOR A COLOMBIAN VISA EXTENSION

I don't think Colombia wants me to stay. That's the impression I am getting just now, as I sit in the DAS office on Calle 100 in Bogotá, waiting for my application for a VISA extension to be processes. They told me it would only take 40 minutes when they took my passport, three hours ago.

My belly thinks my throat has been cut. It was just before lunchtime when I arrived, and at this rate, it will be just after dinner time by the time I leave. My stomach is already rumbling and there is still no sign of me being told I am allowed to stay longer in the country. Perhaps the Colombian immigration officials don't want Scottish people in their country. That seems to be the only explanation as they have already processed several people that came into the DAS office after me.

Do they not realise that all the Russians that they just gave visa extensions to are probably only here to start a Mafia. Do they not realise that the mixed-race family that they just processed are actually Mexican, and are probably only here to shoot someone from a rival drug gang? Do they not realise that the Guatemalan looking couple are probably selling hand-made braid bracelets on the streets of Zona Rosa, and not declaring any taxable income? Do they not realise that the loud Gringo that speaks no Spanish and likes the sound of his own voice a lot more than I do, is actually American and should therefore be deported immediately. Do they not realise I have been waiting for more than three hours, and am Hank Marvin starving? Can the bored looking officials that are sitting behind their counters drinking coffee not just fast-track me through their shitty bureaucratic process, stamp whatever needs to be stamped, tick whatever needs to be ticked, and tell me I can stay in Colombia so I can go out and have some lunch?


Footnote:  After four and half hours of waiting, they finally took my photo and fingerprints, gave me my passport back, and told me I can stay in Colombia until 31.12.2010. Lovely.

A PIGGYBACK ON A MOTORCYCLE IN CARTAGENA

The South American Footprint guidebook advises that under no circumstances should tourists walk to La Popa, the 400 year old monastery sat atop a hill in Cartagena, due to the significant risks of getting robbed on the hour walk up.

This morning, I decided to walk up the hill to the aforementioned La Papa, rather than pay the 30,000 pesos that an English guy in my hostel paid a taxi driver yesterday to enjoy the best views of Cartagena. That was, until I stepped of my 1,300 peso bus journey to the bottom of the hill, and started walking through an extremely poor looking housing estate and a young boy came running out his house, shaking his head, and motioning up the hill whilst using a word that sounded remarkably similar to the Spanish verb 'ATACAR' (to attack) for my liking.

A motorcycle rider was summoned down the street, and so it was that I ended up paying 6,000 pesos to sat pillion on the back of a motorcycle with a naked woman painted on the petrol tank, to the top of La Popa and back down again afterwards.

With hindsight, it probably would have been a foolhardy thing to have walked up the hill by myself, if not because of the run down housing estate that I had to walk through, and if not because of the dubious looking young men lingering by the side of the road half-way up that the motorcycle sped past, then definitely because of the spray'painted donkey that I spotted on the way back down.

If a graffiti'd donkey is not an obvious sign that an area is rough and a extranjero is likely to lose his wallet, camera and fake Rayban sunglasses if he walks through it on foot, I certainly don't know what is.

The view of Cartagena from La Popa. Not worth 30 mil pesos in my opinion, but definitely worth 7 and a bit.

Two stick insects at the top of La Popa

A grafitti'd donkey on the way back from La Popa

AN IMPROMPTU ENGLISH LESSON ON A BEACH

Picture the scene. A Colombian national holiday. A beach in Taganga, near Santa Marta. Several extranjeros that have been up all night partying and haven't slept a wink since getting back from a five day hike in Ciudad Perdida, and several local children that are fascinated with one of the extranjero's blonde hair. One photograph later, a conversation has started and the extranjeros are giving an impromptu English lesson on the beach. Silence in class, please. Cheersshh.

CIUDAD PERDIDA HIKE - PHOTOS