Anyone watching this blog would have seen the my South American Journal set up as static pages, then uploaded in bulk into the blog, and now it’s disappeared??

I wanted to post it somewhere as it was my original blog from 1996, but I’ve decided the best way to do it is to drip-feed installments along with some background info and photos, rather than just uploading the lot in one go.

I went to Bogotá, Colombia, in 1996 where I lived till Gabriel was born in 2000.

Why?

I’d ‘done’ traveling with Quen post degree and despite doing my best to be unemployable had managed to get taken on the ICL graduate trainee scheme and had a good job, so what happened? Well while I was traveling Jo was finishing off her degree and she had now decided that she wanted to travel somewhere – anywhere! – and was going with me or without me. The rest is history

Here’s my first installment of the SAJ, written in August 1996:

Annoyingly the part where I should have had my journal at hand to record my initial reactions upon arriving at Bogota was not yet even set up. Furthermore I had the lack of foresight to record them on a slip of paper. As such I have two weeks worth of information to download from my head which it has to be said is not the most reliable of records the world has known.

Initial initial reactions: dark upon arrival. Could see the lights of Bog from the plane – they went on for ever. Once we’d landed I had more than some trepidation upon arrival at immigration due to what some might say is my irrational fear of ‘The State’ (whichever State that may be), especially beaurocratic States and of officious officials who like to be seen as being extremely important. This was not made any easier by the presence of a large number of men in sunglasses present in the small dark hall standing around with nothing better to do than look menacing. Trepidation’s aside, I got through without a hitch.

Having retrieved my luggage I headed outside towards where I had spied Jo. I had started to relax: I was here. I had got my luggage and Jo was there. No problems. However as I headed for the exit I was stopped by the door by some officious officials who waved and gestured and spoke in guttural words whilst looking swarthy and unpleasantly important. I eventually got the idea that I could not take the trolley outside of the airport. That obstacle hurdled I made my way out into the mayhem where Jo was waiting with Pete and Karen, accompanied by some man who had decided to pick one of my bags up.

Outside: lots of people milling round, lots of taxis, smiling Jo, Pete and Karen, shaking of hands and kisses. We paid the man who had picked up my bag without me asking him to & started the bartering with the taxi drivers. Eventually we agreed a price and piled in.

The next day I was left to my own devices. I was in a hotel like any other and everyone had gone to school. I didn’t feel like reading, watching the telly or anything else. I wanted to go outside but I was scared! After all the build up to coming to Colombia, having heard of ‘two hundred murders a day’, ‘kidnapping of Westerners’ and so forth I had then been given the garbled advice of the Anglo-colombia staff who I’d met the previous evening: “don’t be seen with money”, “don’t look like a tourist”, “dress down”. I tried on several outfits and checked them out in front of the mirror: did I have a sign on my forehead saying Mug Me or not? I peered through the windows from behind the curtains again. I decided enough was enough. I went out.

My senses were ready for their first true taste of Bogota: Sunny. Pavements which were possibly more uneven than if they had not bothered and had been just earth and stones. Big busy roads with lots of exhaust fumes in the air. Apartment blocks left right and centre, all in some state of being built, some with activity, some just looking sad and abandoned. After all my concern the day proved uneventful, the worst part of it being trying to get understood in a KFC. (I didn’t quite feel up to trying out the traditional Colombian restaurants at this stage).

This is where it gets somewhat hazy as to the exact order of events. As such I shall try to summarise a few of the events which stand out in my mind most: SCHOOL. Security guards at the entrance (as with everywhere else, including shops, apartments and even whole streets!) but otherwise green and pleasant. Very laid back about who goes where and as such for the first few days I installed myself in the school staffroom where there was a regular supply of people to talk due to the way the breaks were staggered. The staff room even has a ‘courtyard’ area where it’s possible to sit outside under sun shades. Excellent. Everyone here seems happy and Jo is certainly more relaxed here than she was in Tunstall. Surprise surprise.

APARTMENTS. After the initial night in the hotel we moved out into Mike & Nadine’s place so as to avoid paying hotel bills. Very nice apartment, very clean and with all mod cons. They had been given a set of magnetised words which were stuck on the fridge and which Mike had arranged into sentences on the lines of ‘his pole of hot red meat ..lips..white love milk..” and so forth. You get the jist. Sounds crap but funnily enough I liked it. Mike & Nadine were very hospitable throughout.

TRANSPORT. Ooohh this is a topic and a half. I always used to hear people say things on the line of ‘the traffic has to be seen to be believed’ etc. etc. when talking of developing country cities. Well it’s true. UNbelievable. Shortly after arriving in Bog I was in a taxi which drove the wrong way down a three lane carriageway in order to avoid an awkward junction. I don’t understand to this day how they don’t just snarl up and grind to a halt. There must be an unwritten code somewhere because traffic lights, one way streets, even which side of the road to drive on is all seemingly ignored. If I could spot a rule which all drivers followed then I think it would be: which ever side of the road has the biggest pothole, drive on the other side.

GRINGOS. Maybe this is not necessarily the most correct heading for what I mean, but it’ll do. Us gringos stand out like a sore thumb, especially those of us who are 6 foot plus with blondish hair and blue eyes. The result: we get ripped off at every opportunity. They see us coming, they wait for us to stammer out some ridiculous phrase in Spanglish just to confirm that we’re not JUST gringos, but gringos still wet behind the ear, only for them to give us a price out of the range of just expensive (for Bogota) and actually a complete rip off. The result: we don’t know how to argue; we know it’s a rip off, but we don’t know how to say so; we get ripped off.