Colombia's tienda trap

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

Whenever I'm back in Ireland, I make it my business to get some Marks and Spencer chocolate-chip cookies. They are, as far as I'm concerned, the best of their kind around. But while I find them truly delicious, I also know that I shouldn't over indulge in them. Too much of a good thing and all that.

A beer a day keeps the blues away, doesn't it?

So it's just as well that the nearest Marks and Spencer department store is a good distance away from my Irish base. Were there one nearby, I'd be tempted to make these scrumptious sweet treats a daily delight on visits to the land of my birth. Although the price of them these days does help to make one think twice before temptation tends to take over.

Indeed, the price of most things in Ireland gives me pause for thought. My Colombian pesos lose much weight in euro-land, notwithstanding the currency's strong performance during the last few months.

Not-so-dear beer

Back in Colombia, while the price of many staples continues to rise, this hasn't really been the case with beer, especially when one takes the steady increase in minimum wage into account. Compared with other products and socialising pursuits, beer is fairly competitively priced.

'Santandercito's at-times hedonistic haunts do put one's temperance to the test.'

In working-class barrios, such as my current abode of Santandercito in Bogotá's far north, one can get a 750 ml bottle of ordinary-but-fine Costeña — my tipple of choice these days — for 3,800 pesos, the equivalent of about one euro. In comparison, the price of a cinema ticket is around 20,000 pesos — over five times more expensive; a standard lunch in Bogotá, about three times more costly. In fact, Colombia is placed towards the top of the list for countries in the world with the most affordable beer.

So, when at a loose end of an evening and not wanting to be in one's quite cramped, shared place of residence — pretty much an everyday feeling — a couple of beers at the local tienda bar is an appealing option.

Yet, like the Marks and Spencer cookies, I know that it's not the healthiest consumption choice one can make. I do, though, only sporadically indulge in the cookies — that I'm only in Ireland every now and again is a significant help, of course.

In contrast, consuming Colombia's competitively priced beer is a far more regular occurrence. And while I'm usually disciplined in the art of moderate drinking, at times I go over my self-imposed limits. Santandercito's at-times hedonistic haunts do put one's temperance to the test.

I used to think that if I had my own well-equipped place, this tienda temptation would decrease significantly. But experience over the last couple of years has told me differently. I generally prefer to be in a public setting for most of the day — or at least out and about — and while panaderías serve their purpose during the daylight hours, by nightfall tiendas are more appealing.

Downwardly dining

That I can take to the tienda with such regularity is mostly due to the fact that I am single, childless and not an employee. Were any of these to change, then so would, most likely, my late-evening routine.

Right now, I don't see those conditions changing, not organically anyway. Thus, it leads me to sometimes think that I'll have to force the change.

In my recent mini-series on Dr Samuel Johnson, I noted how he advised that one should endeavour to 'smile with the wise, and feed with the rich.' Now, I'm not saying that there are no wise or relatively rich folk in Santandercito's tiendas. For one, intelligence comes in various forms. And there are a fair few in the barrio who seem financially comfortable.

It may be just the case that my current preferences are doing little to advance my cause. One slight problem is that I'm not sure what cause I should be advancing towards right now. It's like I'm caught in a trap. Colombia's tienda trap.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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I am neurodivergent. But of course!

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

While I find it hard to see myself back in full-time employment, as an employee that is, any time soon — if ever — every so often I see a job vacancy that piques my interest.

Most of these questions require more than a simple yes or no answer.

And if the application process is not too tedious, I'll apply. My guiding motto in such cases, particularly in relation to journalism and media gigs, is that it's better to be a known unwanted than an unknown unwanted. I used to say loser instead of unwanted, but I now think that's a bit too harsh. Just because somebody doesn't want me, this doesn't make me a loser, does it?

Truth presenter

With that in mind, I figured I might as well let Human Resources at BBC Radio 5 Live know that I'm willing to be considered for the role of Chief Presenter currently being advertised. Were the station looking for just a mere presenter, I may not have bothered applying. I'm above such mediocrity at this stage.

As it is with many major employers these days, the initial application has to be made online via the BBC's own career portal. Having used this portal before for previous applications, details such as my employment history are already saved to my profile.

Normally, the only fields that require attention are questions related to the specific job being advertised at the time. In this latest case, one is probably expected to give a different answer as to why one is suitable to be a Chief Presenter as opposed to why one would make a good Presenter. 'I perform better when I'm overpaid and underworked' is my approach to the former.

Also falling under the BBC's job-specific questions are those related to a candidate's socio-economic background, health and wellbeing. I guess it makes sense. One's health and wellbeing between job applications could take a turn for the worse. Or for the better. (The BBC calls it a Disability Questionnaire but, as we'll see, that's a debatable title.)

'Does a gentle but rather annoying years-long pain where my left leg meets my buttocks count? It is a pain in the arse anyway.'

Nonetheless, it's almost as if these questions are included as nothing more than a box-ticking exercise. There's no scope to go into greater detail. It's like somebody asking you how you are when they actually couldn't care less. They certainly wouldn't want to get a truthful reply.

Differently abled

For example, there's the statement 'I am neurodivergent' to which one is obliged to respond. Like all the others in this section, it can only be answered with either 'yes' or 'no'. My preferred answer would be 'Yes, but it depends what you mean exactly.' We're all neurodivergent, aren't we? What's neurotypical, after all?

Then there's 'I have a learning disability: yes or no?' Well, I probably do. For one, I often think I'm a slow learner. Or I certainly wish I could read faster and still retain much of the information in the process. That I can't do so is something I consider a disability, particularly when compared to those who not only seem to be voracious readers but also have great information-retention faculties. There is the possibility that such types are just better spoofers than me, though.

Next on the list: Do I have a physical impairment or repetitive strain injury? Does a gentle but rather annoying years-long pain where my left leg meets my buttocks count? It is, I can say with certainty, a pain in the arse. Or in that general region anyway. I've been told by people who know more about these things than I do that it could be an issue with my piriformis. 'Sorry, you haven't been considered due to your poor piriformis.' Story of my life.

How about a speech impairment? I do sometimes struggle to find the right words, which can be, um, what's the word . . . Frustrating?

I also regularly pronounce words incorrectly, although the English language does allow a little more wriggle room in this regard compared to my now second tongue of Spanish. I believe, however, that the Spanish world should make more of an effort to accommodate my accent and pronunciation. Come on, if Chilean Spanish is acceptable, then Wrong Way Corrigan Spanish should be more widely tolerated.

So with all these, it would be nice if the BBC's job portal allowed one to give more thorough responses. We are talking about a corporation that has its celebrated Verify fact-checking service after all. The BBC, of all media groups, should know that a question can rarely be properly answered with a simple yes or no.

I look forward to pointing this out in person when I get shortlisted for an interview for this Chief Presenter position.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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Letter to the editor: Trump truths

@wwaycorrigan

My latest letter to the editor, published in the Sunday Independent, 26 July 2026. See photo below or read it at https://www.independent.ie/comment/letters/letters-youd-have-to-pity-the-cows-if-mayo-win-today/a/159172990.html.

It was the editor's decision to publish that the letter, nay email, came from Bogotá rather than Lisacul, Co. Roscommon — from where it did actually originate. I gave her the option, in fairness!

As for the theme, if only we could have have more honest politicians. If only.

President Donald Trump: He doesn't always do what he says, but he's often truer to his word than many other politicians. 

Little joy from the west of Ireland's summer sun

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'The summer sun was sinking low
Behind the western sea
The lark's loud song was pealing sweet
But it brought no joy to me.'

A brighter future lies just over the horizon. It's hard to reach, though.

So go the opening lyrics to the Irish ballad, The Woodlands of Loughglynn.

It was a favourite of my late Uncle Jackie's. I suspect one reason why he liked it so much is that Loughglynn is a neighbouring village to his — and my — birthplace, Lisacul, with the latter in the parish of the former. So for a man who lived most of his life in England, the song probably made him feel that bit closer to his west of Ireland origins.

Lamenting the death of Irish rebels fighting British colonial forces in the War of Independence, the song's tone is understandably melancholic.

Farm friendly

As I write these words just a few miles from those same Loughglynn woodlands, watching the summer sun sinking low — and slowly — with the sweet song of various birds for background music, the tranquil scene brings little joy to me, if not quite no joy.

This is not, thankfully, because I'm mourning lost comrades in arms. It has more to do with my reminiscing about what were more hopeful bygone times.

For despite all I've done and seen over the last 20 years, returning to where I grew up, the land where I dreamt of a fabulous future, leads me to dwell on all that I haven't yet achieved, and perhaps never will.

Such feelings are even more pronounced when I find myself engaged in the same tasks on the family farm that I carried out in those days when I was dreaming big. What has me back in this scenario is a sense of filial duty together with some gentle persuasion from an exiled elder sibling to lend a hand in his stead.

'There's a certain novelty in returning to the mid-summer chores after a long absence, but being a farmhand indefinitely?'

The various farming tasks themselves aren't the problem; some of them I enjoy, specifically those that I can do on my own, that is to say when I'm not taking direct orders from my 'you're doing it wrong' octogenarian father! The real roots of my melancholic mood in this environment are due to my own uncertainty. Or, to put a more positive spin on it, my employment flexibility and relative independence.

Climate change

Now, this uncertainty is independent of place — I very much have it in my adopted country of Colombia, too. However, it seems more manageable, more tolerable there. There's also the feeling that my life in Colombia seems rather surreal, as I've explained here before. Ireland provides something of a reality check: there are those unwanted 'What do you do in Colombia?' questions, for one. 'Various things' tends not to satisfy the inquisitors. Come on, just ask me about Colombia's climate; I can deal with that one more easily.

Mentioning climate, or more specifically weather, my first July in Ireland in 16 years has, fortunately, coincided with a long dry and fairly warm spell. I certainly wasn't expecting to be basking in the west of Ireland's summer sun. It's usually buried behind thick, cantankerous cloud.

Indeed, as something of a sun worshipper, were Ireland like this most of the time — mid-20s in degrees Celsius with the long daylight hours and not a mosquito in sight (the cumbersome horsefly's bloodsucking attempts are easily thwarted) — I'd almost be tempted back to live here. Almost.

Yet, I know only too well what the standard is. Navigating the colder, darker seasons is one negative; the usual inglorious summer weather another. And then there's the what-would-I-do-in-Ireland question.

Lending a helping hand on the family farm isn't a long-term solution. Nor would I want it to be. Yes, there's a certain novelty in returning to the mid-summer chores after a long absence, but being a farmhand indefinitely? The thought of that brings little joy to me.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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Mingling with Colombia's killers

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'You know, I'm a paraco now.'

That's what a 25-year-old acquaintance, let's call him Juan — not his real name — told me when I was reunited with him in March of this year in Santandercito, the barrio in the far north of Bogotá in which I normally reside whenever I'm in Colombia's capital.

AGC presente: Autodefensas Gaitanistas de Colombia, aka Clan del Golfo, is Colombia's largest paramilitary group. 

Pawn of the paracos

Juan offered this information to me after I told him that I'd just spent the last few months in San Martín, Meta, an area said to be largely controlled by paracos.

These paracos, Colombia's paramilitaries, originally came into being in the 1960s as a counterpoint to the guerrillas. Both groups can trace their origins to left versus right political ideologies, nominally at least, but today they're all just effectively gangland criminals vying to control the cocaine trade and other illegal activities.

Just over eight weeks after Juan — whom I'd known since 2016 when he was a happy-go-lucky teenager — told me of his employment, he was shot dead. It was a planned hit. Loved ones left behind include an inconsolable mother, a shattered stepfather, and heartbroken brothers, people with whom I have shared many enjoyable moments in Santandercito over the last ten years.

Neither Juan's telling me that he was a paraco nor his tragic demise surprised me much, however.

I'd suspected for the last few years that he was involved in dodgy dealings of some sort.

In fact, he and another young man and friend-of-sorts of mine from the barrio, a guy I'll call José — again, not his real name — were sent away for a few months to a paraco training camp in the Antioquia department some time back. So the story goes. I did ask both of them, separately, to divulge a little more information about this camp, but it was never forthcoming. Although José didn't completely rule out doing so. I stopped asking after a while, though.

'A paraco he may have been, but he was no more than a pawn for greater powers. He was certainly no capo dei capi, that much is now clear.'

On their return to Barrio Santandercito, I noticed Juan's behaviour change. A harder, meaner edge came to replace the cheerfulness he had previously displayed in abundance. José, in contrast, has remained largely easygoing. He is that way towards me anyway.

Juan began to give off an air of invincibility. The way he strutted around the barrio was as if he thought he were a feared mafia boss. Now, a paraco he may have been, but he was no more than a pawn for greater powers. He was certainly no capo dei capi, that much is now clear.

In a journal entry the day after Juan told me of his paraco status, I noted that ill winds could soon be blowing his way, owing to his cocky behaviour. Only those truly in control could get away with such posturing. But even the bigwigs are brought back down to size at some stage.

Those ill winds did blow Juan's way. And with fatal force.

José was with Juan on the night he was shot dead, Friday 29 May, on a footpath on Calle 188 with Carrera 16, in the Verbenal barrio of Bogotá, just a few blocks away from Santandercito. José wasn't harmed, not physically anyway.

Mowing down Mauricio

On the day of Juan's burial, I was told by a somewhat reliable source in Santandercito that both Juan and José were the ones sent to kill another acquaintance of mine in this part of Bogotá, the affable Mauricio, a man who ran a number of tienda bars in Verbenal. Mauricio was murdered in April 2025.

His crime, so it goes, was to sell cocaine, which he got from his own sources. That is to say, he didn't get his white powder from the gang that is said to control the underworld in the greater Verbenal area.

My Santandercito source told me that Juan, recognised as a talented motorbike operator, rode the bike used to take José to Mauricio. José, as the better marksman, fired the weapon. That's the conjecture doing the rounds in the barrio. We'll probably never know for sure. And it's something I'm not too keen to ask José about, not directly anyway.

The cost of crime

Over the last few years, I had heard that José regularly got on the wrong side of some of his superiors. At one stage, he was apparently forbidden from entering Santandercito. If somebody had said to me two years ago that just one of either Juan or José would be soon gunned down, I would have thought that José would face that fate. Although, as I mentioned, Juan's behaviour in recent months would have led me to change my thinking.

Seeing as how José was with Juan on the night of his murder, in a location seen as close to ideal to carry out such a hit, there is speculation that José had some part to play in it. That he sold out his partner in crime to protect himself. Again, it's all hearsay.

The chances of us ever finding out exactly what happened on the night Juan was gunned down are slim.

It's unlikely there'll be any thorough investigation carried out. The general approach by Colombia's authorities when it comes to gangland murders is that as long as they're killing each other, then it's not a major concern. That's how it appears, anyway. 'Let them knock themselves out.'

The old adage that crime doesn't pay was certainly the case for Juan. The ones who do make big bucks out of criminality in Colombia tend not to get their hands bloodied and are fairly well protected. The paraco pawns, on the other hand, are very much dispensable.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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Captivated by Colombia's magical (sur)realism

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'So, what do you do?'

It is one of the most popular break-the-ice questions adults get asked. We tend to be, after all, defined by our careers. And for many people, replying to such an enquiry is fairly straightforward. Others, myself included, find it more difficult, nay uncomfortable, to answer.

Colombia: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

I do, of course, do various things, but the often unstated ending part to the what-do-you-do question is 'to make a living'. In other words, what is it you do that provides you with an income, allowing you to socialise and travel and whatnot? These days, the most accurate, succinct retort I can give is, somewhat shamefully, 'practically nothing'. Or, somewhat more positively, if misleading, 'I'm in early retirement.'

All an act

This is not to say that I haven't earned money from services rendered of late, yet the truth is that the amount in question, specifically over the last two years, is barely worth mentioning. The bulk of the paid work during that period came from acting projects, but I certainly can't call myself an actor.

Well, I can call myself an actor — I have acted, for payment, in multiple productions, after all — but to say that acting is what I do, that it's my career, would be a bit disingenuous.

Calling myself an actor would be like a guy who plays five-a-side football with his mates a few times a year calling himself a footballer.

Now, I may have thespian talent — I guess the audience, viewers and, more importantly, casting directors, production companies, and critics would be the judge of that — but I'm not exactly going out of my way to look for the leading role.

'I calculate that I may, with some luck along the way, reach the Google AdSense payment threshold of 70 euros by the year 2036.'

My acting career, if you allow me to call it thus for the moment, has been less active and more passive. I've been very much following the don't-call-us-we'll-call-you approach. I'm not too sure who I should call, in any case, in a bid to advance. Hollywood, you know where to find me.

Blogging, writing if you will, is another one of my pursuits that technically has been earning me money, and on a more regular basis than acting. However, I calculate that I may, with some luck along the way, reach the Google AdSense payment threshold of 70 euros by the year 2036. That's if the payment threshold doesn't increase. Exciting, if nervous, times ahead.

Much ado about doing nothing

So, effectively, I haven't really done much to earn money throughout these past two years. What I have been doing is keeping my costs down, largely thanks to house-sitting for a good portion of 2025 and a small part of 2024; rent, after all, is usually my biggest monthly expense. I've also been practising fairly minimalist living, something that I've become pretty adept at during my time in Colombia.

I do have savings, too, steadily decreasing as they are, yet enough, in a Colombian-peso context, where I don't have to go smashing that glass that should only be broken during an emergency. I haven't yet been forced to accept any old type of gainful employment merely to make ends meet. I still have some wriggle room.

It's this avoidance of the rat race, of being compelled to march full-time to somebody else's beat, that's one of the main reasons keeping me in Colombia.

I've been able to live a more independent life here compared to what I most likely would have to live in a high-income nation. Indeed, at times it feels a little surreal, although this isn't always in a positive sense. Nonetheless, as much as I am concerned about my future, I can't say it unduly stresses me out. But maybe I'm being a bit too sanguine about my current lot.

After all, this independence, my minimalist version of it anyway, does come at a price, as I explained on these pages back in 2021.

And to state what should be obvious, my present approach is unsustainable. I can't continue to spend more than I earn, unless I die inside a couple of years or so. Or win the lottery that I never play.

So, what do I do? I'll have to conjure up something soon to justify my continued presence in Colombia's magical (sur)realism.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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A surprising side to Bogotá's boisterous Barrio Santandercito

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

Of all the ways I could describe — and have described — my preferred Bogotá barrio, Santandercito, quiet is not the first word that comes to mind.

Silent Santandercito: Well, not quite. But it does have a quieter side.

Boisterous and bustling. Yes. Tame and tranquil. No. It is, after all, a small and rather densely populated sector of a massive metropolis in a country where the locals' overall attitude to excessive noise levels appears indifferent at best, welcoming at worst.

When an individual or group in a private dwelling decides to listen to an arrangement of noises that, amongst some cohorts, is considered music and therefore enjoyable, this tends to come with a belief that the whole barrio wants to hear it. Thus, it is played to eardrum-damaging levels. One might see it as deadbeats banging out ludicrously loud beats, but I wouldn't go that far.

Now, as a somewhat sheltered cul-de-sac barrio, Santandercito is spared the regular roars from passing vehicular traffic. Yet, the motor vehicles that do enter its environs frequently do their best to make up for this absence. Exhaust sounds that range from booming to screeching are heard more frequently than one would like — which, admittedly, is never. Indeed, I can't understand how anyone tolerates such a racket.

'Experience of similar terrain and raucous raiders told me to prepare myself for something akin to Russia's current war against Ukraine. A stalemate.'

A tad more tolerable are the occasional wandering salespeople and scrap-metal collectors who ensure they are heard well before they are seen, thanks to the pumping out of a recording describing their services, usually supplemented with some cheesy tunes. At least these guys are working.

With such cacophonies, finding a quiet corner in the barrio is next to impossible. The single-course, hollow-brick walls in these parts are, after all, thin. Sounds tend to run through them with impunity. The same goes for the single-glazed, generously permeable windows.

Cacophony conflict

So it was with some trepidation that I willingly put myself into direct conflict with all this barrio noise. Before combat, my fanciful hopes were that it might be like the Anglo-Zanzibar War of 1896 — a 38-minute affair — with me victorious, of course. After all, I had been reconnoitring the battle zone weeks in advance and figured I could sweep to success. Yet, previous experience of similar terrain and raucous raiders told me to prepare myself for something akin to Russia's current war against Ukraine. A protracted stalemate.

As it transpired, it was practically a rout. Well, it wasn't quite as swift as the Brits in Zanzibar; it was about three times as long, but I simply couldn't complete my objective any sooner.

Advanced planning told me that Operation Record Quotes and Notes on James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson would need to be tackled from three fronts, a trio of attacks that would last, in the best-case scenario, roughly 30 minutes each. Quite amazingly, it went more or less to plan. The audio-blog-recording battlefield provided very little resistance in terms of a dreaded, damaging noise assault.

Yes, to my pleasant surprise, the room I occupy in my current abode proved to be a dependable recording studio for a project with close to two hours of script. I had been expecting constant interruptions from all the aforementioned noises. In San Martín, for example, just to record a mere five-minute audio blog, I regularly needed double that time.

Silent surprise

So how is it that this spot in a regularly boisterous barrio is something of a serene sanctuary?

It certainly helps that it's a room on the second floor (first floor for the Brits and Irish) of an apartment that is isolated from the main street.

However, it's not completely closed off from the outside. It has windows, my room included, looking out onto the open square space that is a common feature in Colombian apartment buildings.

This space, about two square metres in size, is for service pipes and suchlike, apparently. It often doubles up as a rubbish-collection spot, too. Various items that escape from the windows of the apartments above find a resting place on the plastic roof covering the first floor — or ground floor, if you prefer.

'It is a lively and regularly noisy spot, but this noise doesn't seem to be as pervasive as I had previously thought.'

Despite that, I'm glad of the space because it lets natural light into my room. I couldn't stay for any length of time in a room that gets no natural light. I find such rooms utterly depressing. Incredulously, some Colombians seem to prefer them.

Anyway, these welcome light-giving windows provide no real barrier to sound.

So that I managed to record in relative silence — a small bit of background noise doesn't tend to be picked up by my microphone — is rather surprising.

To repeat, the apartment's setting is a help. The barrio noises clearly don't travel as easily as I had thought or expected them to. I was also lucky with my timing.

On the three occasions that I recorded these lengthy scripts, the neighbours on the floor above were silent. This isn't a rarity, but it's not that usual either. Oftentimes, they're listening to Christian music at levels that are a little too high for my liking. Perhaps they're trying to send me a message? The good Lord is, literally, speaking to me from above.

Excessive dog barking, from both within the building and outside, was also absent during my recording sessions. Again, quite unusual that.

That there weren't downpours also worked to my advantage. Although the sound of heavy rain falling on the plastic roof next to my bedroom might have proved an attractive background track to my voice. Most likely, though, it would have drowned me out. How terrible that would be!

This whole lack-of-excessive-noise experience has led me to reappraise my perception of Barrio Santandercito. For sure, it is a lively and regularly noisy spot, but this noise doesn't seem to be as pervasive as I had previously thought. Equally as important, however, is the somewhat isolated, insulated nature of my lodgings: a serene sanctuary, of sorts, from Santandercito's unsolicited sounds.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".