Feigning understanding. Who cares anyway?

@wwaycorrigan

[Listen to an audio version of this blog entry here.]

'Wow, your Spanish is very good.'
'Well, I've been based here for over ten years.'
'Oh.'

Some things are better left misunderstood.

That's how the conversation generally goes when I meet a new Spanish-speaking acquaintance in these parts. The initial positivity that this "gringo" (I'm not a gringo, I'm Irish!) can speak Colombian Spanish fairly well is tempered by my longevity in the country.

Plateau effect

Indeed, the initial boost received from being told I converse well in my second language can often rapidly bomb when some appear baffled as to why my Spanish doesn't sound more Colombian after all these years. (At times, when the mood takes me, I think I can do an OK Costeño [those from Colombia's Caribbean coast]/Venezuelan accent. I think, that is.)

Having never taken any official classes, the Spanish I have has been largely down to my own dirty work — self-taught. Somebody said to me self-learning, but isn't all learning, in effect, done by the individual? It's not learning if it's not!

My general understanding of the language is solid. I can read it pretty well — I've got through a novel and a couple of academic history books in Spanish — while my speaking is, well, fine, depending on how one views it, as we've determined above.

'My observations suggest that on many occasions the locals aren't really listening to each other.' They don't care about what others have to say.'

Nonetheless, I've certainly plateaued in the last few years. I usually feel I've enough to get by, especially considering that I use Spanish predominantly for socialising, thus the drive for further advancement is low. Indeed, I used to make it my business to regularly listen to Colombian talk radio. Now, I rarely do.

That I'm not using Spanish too frequently in a professional setting is key here. Basically, my true comprehension doesn't really get tested. There's no "tienda test" at the end of the month. How I'd fare if I had to answer questions on recent conversations and engagements, I'm not so sure.

It's not all that uncommon to find myself nodding as to signal that I understand, uttering the odd 'entiendo' or appropriate exclamation when I'm actually at best only getting half the conversation.

Of course, in the barrio tienda, there's plenty of colloquial Castellano (the official tongue of Colombia, after all) used. It can be almost like a language in itself.

Alongside this, I can at least take comfort from the fact that most of the time I am genuinely trying to listen.

'You say it best when you say nothing at all'

I say this because my observations suggest that on many occasions the locals aren't really listening to each other. This manifests itself most blatantly when the supposed listener's attention is taken up by his/her phone.

However, even when there's no device distraction, the body language — the distant look — tells me that the message isn't really being received.

When this happens to me, when I feel somebody's not really listening, I'll say it. I'm not a major fan of talking to myself — when there's company about anyway.

In these parts, though, it seems that some people don't care too much whether those they are addressing are listening or not. 'Ah sure, even if they only get a word or two, it'll have been worth it. I've had my say.'

It could point to a grand indifference on all sides. The person doing the talking doesn't care if nobody's taking in what he/she says and the supposed listener(s) equally couldn't be bothered if such nonchalance is noticed.

Sure as the song puts it, it's only words.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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Backpacking in 'no-go' Venezuela

During my recent 16-day visit to Venezuela, I had a host of people asking me, "What's it like 'for real'?" I'm still getting asked that since my return.

Via an article in The Irish Times I did touch on a number of the everyday issues that Venezuelans are currently facing.

Party border.

Here, I want to describe things from the point of view of entering the country overland as a tourist, which is effectively what I did.

Visa issues in Colombia meant I had to do a border-run and while I could have opted for Ecuador, Venezuela appealed far more to the adventurer/journalist/reporter in me. From that perspective it was like having the World Cup on my doorstep. I couldn't not go, especially now that I had the visa excuse.

Don't go

For sure, it wasn't a decision I took lightly. Not only was I strongly advised against it by a high-up diplomat friend at our Irish embassy in Mexico, but even some Venezuelan acquaintances here in Bogotá thought it wasn’t the best idea.

On top of that, there were the daily news reports on Colombian media that made the place seem akin to hell on earth. Only a lunatic would consider a holiday there, especially doing it overland.

What made me feel a little bit more relaxed about going were the messages from my friend Yessi in Caracas. I'd stayed with her and her family for my previous visit back in December 2015.

This time Yessi told me that while the situation for Venezuelans on the ground was more desperate due to, amongst other things, the hyperinflation and food shortages, in terms of security it wasn't much different. And it was this, safety, that concerned me most.

So with Yessi's somewhat reassuring messages and, more importantly in terms of giving me the final push to go, an arrangement that her cousin living in the Venezuelan border town of Colón would accompany me from Cúcuta across the wild frontier, it was, 'Venezuela here I come'.

A cash-laden sitting duck

I was, I have to say, quite nervous thinking about what lay ahead during the 15-hour bus journey from Bogotá to Cúcuta. Arriving in Cúcuta, that apprehension worsened on receiving WhatsApp messages from Yessi's cousin informing me that she couldn't meet me in Cúcuta.

What's more, she asked me to go to a different border crossing to the one I was familiar with in San Antonio. It all sounded a little too complicated.

In any case, Erika from the money exchange office I used at the bus terminal in Cúcuta wasn't sure if I could get my passport stamped at this other border crossing.*

I decided I'd go it alone to San Antonio.

Getting the Venezuelan entry stamp.

The 'What am I doing?' thoughts ramped up further still at the money exchange. On discovering I had emergency US dollars and euros on me, alongside a decent amount of Colombian pesos, Erika told me I'd have to hide everything exceptionally well.

She relayed stories of Venezuela's infamous Guardia Nacional (National Guard) recently strip-searching people, looking for their hidden foreign currency, pretty much essential for any visitor to survive economically in Venezuela. I'd faced the intensity of the Guardia Nacional before, but the way Erika was speaking, it seemed like things were far worse.

My suggestion to hide the cash in my shoes, as I'd done before, was "too obvious" she said.

Thus, for the good part of an hour we carried out surgery on the Lonsdale tracksuit bottoms I was wearing in order to make places to hide the cash.

Incidentally, based on Yessi's advice, I only changed a small amount of cash, 50,000 Colombian pesos (COP), into bolívares. I received slightly less than 10 million, about 60 per cent of the value you'd get for doing a black market bank transaction, which is what most Venezuelans exchanging foreign cash do. 

They send the money to a Venezuelan bank account. Due to the shortage of bolívares, you don't get the full value making cash-for-cash exchanges. 

That aside, with the foreign currency hidden on my body as best we could, I took a shared taxi to the border.

Fiesta frontier

The first thing that struck me on arrival was how lively it was. Street vendors and tiendas blaring out music catering to thousands of people. It was like a little city of its own. 

This was completely different to the last time I crossed. It was more like a funeral procession back in 2015. The liveliness of it put me at ease, even if I did seem to be the only foreign face about.

After queuing for about 90 minutes to get my Colombian exit stamp — unfortunately on the Colombian side it's the same queue for those entering and exiting, so I was lumped with all the Venezuelans going the opposite way — I walked across Puente Internacional Simón Bolívar, the bridge over the River Táchira, the divide between Colombia and Venezuela.

On my previous visits, the office to get the Venezuelan entry stamp was in the middle of the town of San Antonio. Keeping myself to myself, I headed that way, but not before a Guardia Nacional checkpoint. I mentally readied myself for a very thorough inspection.

To my pleasant surprise, the rather pretty lady officer barely opened my backpack. A more chilled-out Guardia Nacional, I couldn't believe it. She was even quite friendly! 

When I asked her about my entry stamp, she told me that I'd already passed the place, and I better hurry as it would soon close (it was getting late). The office is now right on the border, just as you come off the bridge; much more conveniently located.

On the Venezuelan side there is a separate queue for those entering as opposed to those leaving. There was, unsurprisingly, nobody in the queue for entering, so I got my stamp in seconds. (It's important to note here that there wasn't much of a queue for leaving either. Two weeks later, when I was leaving, this had dramatically changed.)

With my passport stamped, I passed by the Guardia Nacional checkpoint again where my friend waved me on. OK, I'd only just entered the country, but I was already beginning to think, 'What was all the fuss about?'

On failing to reach Yessi's cousin from a minutos stand (a person on the street with a mobile phone you can use, charged per minute) I decided I'd go to San Cristóbal that night, a place I knew relatively well.

All this time, the fears I'd had about visiting Venezuela were decreasing. As in previous visits, a big factor in this was down to the friendliness and helpfulness of the locals.

For example, the minutos guy helped me board the right bus to San Cristóbal and told me exactly how much I had to pay. Laden down with over ninety 100,000 bolívar notes, I was still trying to figure out its value. (As it turned out, the bus from San Antonio to San Cristóbal cost 250,000 bolívares. Using the exchange I got, that worked out at about 1,200 COP, or 35 cents in euros. Pretty cheap for a 90-minute bus journey.)

Crazy currency

It was well into darkness, about 9 pm, when I reached San Cristóbal. Bus terminals pretty much anywhere aren't the safest places, especially at night, but I'd always stayed close to the one in San Cristóbal on previous visits and I'd had no problems.

Considering the time, I took the first place I found. "How much?" "5,000,000 bolívares." 

With the exchange I got in Cúcuta, that was over 25,000 COP, expensive for what was a very basic place. I'd basically spend more than half my bolívares on one night and I still needed cash for my bus ticket to Caracas. "How much is it in Colombian pesos?" "5,000." "What?!"

I obviously paid with my pesos! I'd soon discover that when paying in cash with your Colombian pesos, one million bolívares equals 1,000 pesos. So it was much better for me to use my pesos for everything save transport, which was either cheaper in bolívares or more or less the same.

Take a 222 ml Polar, the tipple of choice for Venezuela's beer drinkers. It costs between 800,000 and 1,000,000 bolívares. With the exchange I got, that would make a bottle cost about 5,000 COP, pretty expensive for a small beer. Yet paying in pesos, it's just 800 to 1,000 COP. Madness.

Once I'd got my head around the money, knowing my pesos made me rich in San Cristóbal and meeting yet more friendly locals, I ended up staying three nights there. Even though many employees in the food stands and bars around the terminal told me to be careful, I never felt anything untoward.

On the contrary, I was having a great time being the 'only foreigner in the city'. At least it felt that way anyway.

Facing down the Guardia Nacional, Irish style

In fact, the most, nay the only, intimidating, uncomfortable experience I had was on the overnight bus from San Cristóbal to Caracas. 

I was preparing myself for it in fairness. Experience had taught me that Guardia Nacional checkpoints on busses heading deeper into Venezuela are where you tend to meet the meanest officers.

Thus, just after the city of Barinas, half-way on the journey to Caracas at about 2 am, came the Guardia Nacional treatment I'd been expecting. You might avoid them on the street, but there's no hiding on a bus.

Being a foreign-passport holding man (I'm not sure how women fare) means automatic selection for a bag and body search. Unlike other times, I actually had Venezuelan company on this occasion. With the other four lads, it kind of felt like safety in numbers.

Wearing the remodelled, money-laden Lonsdale tracksuit bottoms again, before alighting from the bus, I hid a 'dummy' 40,000 COP in my boxers. The reason: I figured the young officer would expect to find foreign cash on me, so I thought I'd let him do so with some relatively easily.

After meticulously revising all our bags followed by an equally thorough frisking, especially around the groin and hip areas (but not my shoes, damn Erika!), the officer let the other guys back on the bus. I was held back.

"What's the money you've got hidden around your boxers?", he asked. "Has he felt my neatly concealed dollars and euros?", I wondered, the heart beating a little more intensely. "Surely not, but they are in that area."

I pulled the 40,000 COP from my boxers, explaining that I live in Colombia and this was left over cash.

He walked me to a different area, where another two guards, one clearly being the head honcho, were waiting. I felt like it was a scene from a Tarantino movie. All the seated sergeant was missing was a fat Cuban cigar. I was asked yet again to empty my pockets.

"What do you think of President Trump?" the boss man asked with a grimace. "I'm Irish. Trump means nothing to me." "Ah, you're Irish. Ireland is a friend of Venezuela, isn't it?" "Of course!"

With that, he let me on my way, but not before taking a small packet of chewing gums I had. I didn't protest about that. 

My next Guardia Nacional experience would come at the border back in San Antonio, where I stayed for two nights waiting, in vain, for the ridiculously long (a 10-hour wait at least) exit-stamp queues to die down. And I can happily say that those who I dealt with there were cordial. One even let me film the queues on my phone on my first evening there (officially, recording was prohibited). 

On the return journey from Caracas to San Cristóbal there was a Policía Nacional, National Police, checkpoint. 

This arm of Venezuelan law enforcement was far more even-handed than the Guardia Nacional. Everybody on our overly-crowded minibus (transport options departing Caracas were thin on the ground; it was a case of taking whatever you could find), women included, was asked to get off and we all had our bags searched, but not our bodies.

Beer: Payment in kind

As for Caracas, staying with my family in their working-class barrio, I had a great time. The only inconvenience was not really being able to spend my own money.

It wasn't all hard work in Venezuela.

The Colombian peso is less accepted there compared to the border regions. Also, with hardly any bolívares available, alongside needing bag loads of them to pay for just the cheapest of items, the majority pay for things by card. Without a Venezuelan bank account, that option wasn't open to me.

So my hosts pretty much paid for everything. On departure I paid them in dollars, money they can get very good value for on a street market transfer or the like (one dollar is currently at 3.8 million bolívares on the black market).

I did also buy three crates of beer — to share, of course — from the local tienda, the owner there was happy to take my pesos. 60,000 COP in Colombia is just one good night out in the local barrio. The equivalent price of the beers in bolívares, 60 million, is twelve-times the monthly minimum wage.

In terms of security in the capital, I never felt uneasy. 

Now, it is important to note here that at practically every moment I had someone from my Caracas family by my side. It might be a different experience for a foreigner wandering around the place on his/her own, taking public transport, availing of the free metro, that kind of stuff. But maybe not.

Of course with no end in sight to Venezuela's major problems, there are similar, less complicated places to visit. There's Colombia, for one. It's just the Venezuelans are friendlier. Relax, it's a joke!

*Erika's money exchange office, located in Cúcuta's main bus terminal at Local N1-90, is called 'Luna' and she can be contacted on +573163228453.
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Just DON'T want to dance the night away

That old adage, 'If you can't beat them, join them', is pretty much contrary to what this blog is all about. However, for some things, putting up resistance can be personally damaging, both in the short and long term.

To the victor (on the dance floor) go the spoils ...

You see in Colombia, as is the case throughout Latin America (Chile excepted, somewhat), a night out with the locals invariably involves dancing; and normally a lot of it. 

Not only that, but we're talking dancing with style and rhythm, the chief types being salsa and vallenato, along with what might be seen as the less stylish yet more erotic champeta.

So this isn't your skill-less, jumping-around tomfoolery that you typically see in most Western world clubs and pubs. No, there's a pattern to this and not to know it leaves you at a distinct disadvantage.

Now as a recognised 'wooden' northern European there is, thankfully, a little bit of leeway from the ladies on the rare occasions I do, reluctantly as it is, take to the floor. Heck, there are usually even words of praise as I awkwardly shuffle about the place.

Well, when in Colombia ...

The reality, however, is that they are humouring me. That's very clear when they match up with somebody who actually knows what he's at; their true joy at not having to move around with a log is disenchantingly (from my perspective, that is) palpable. (See video, below, for an example of the 'prize' for being able to dance 'properly'.)

Plus, having been based in Bogotá for over three years at this stage, the tolerance towards my lack of dancing nous is steadily decreasing. This is even more so the case considering I realised early on the advantages – in terms of picking up chicas anyway – of knowing at least the basic salsa steps. I should, so it goes, be able to move much better by now.

The reason why I can't or, more accurately, don't isn't puzzling. In fact, it's simple: I do not enjoy it. On the contrary, I pretty much detest it.

Yes, as noted, I've been 'forced' into it over the years, buoyed up with a little Dutch courage. But whenever I have engaged in it, the general feeling is I'd rather be shovelling thick concrete in a hot midday sun (um, in a figurative sense that is).

Before it's said I'm a complete statue, I do move to music. But the way I ‘feel’ it, Wrong Way style you might say. And as many Colombians have observed, I tend to move more in the shoulders than the hips, which certainly doesn’t complement the Latino style.

What’s more, dancing is not the focus of a night out for me; it’s a distraction if anything. I do it because I feel I must rather than having any real desire. I guess that’s why I generally avoid locations where dancing is an integral part of the place. OK, this is hard to come by in Colombia, but some social settings, such as most of my preferred tienda bars, are a little lighter on the dancing front than others.

Thus, as damaging as it may be in some ways, the partial resistance looks set to continue. In any case, I’ve always got my mock Irish dancing to impress the locals. ‘Hup ya boy ya!’

'Flagtastic' result! Thanks Scotland!

Phew! They’ve pulled through, and with a little bit more to spare than it looked immediately beforehand. 

A huge section of Colombian society can breathe easy once more. The right decision has been made. Scotland is staying in the UK.

Why bother with the Colombian tricolour when you can fly the Union Jack?

You see, had our Tartan friends voted to leave, one of the possible changes made to a streamlined union would have caused a big headache here in Colombia.

I’m referring to a modified Union Jack, minus Scotland’s cross of St Andrew and the accompanying blue colour. This is because the most popular flag in Colombia is, it appears, not their own national tricolour but that of the UK.

'Jack on the back.'

It’s everywhere. Taxis, buses, shop windows, pubs, clothing, dogs – the works. It’s a safe bet that the majority of those here who have this strange affinity with it have no real idea of the place it represents. 

For one, you’ll meet Colombians who think that London is a country, if they’ve actually heard of the place before that is.

In some ways I can see the attraction that this mixture of white and red crosses on a blue background has. As flags go, it’s aesthetically impressive. Plus, it did represent greatness and endeavour in the not-too-distant past.

Yet, at the same time, for others the flag is – or at least was – a symbol of repression and subjugation.

As an Irishman born into and brought up on the nationalist, separatist tradition, that latter interpretation was the one I was destined to follow. 

Nowadays, with what I hope is a more balanced, worldly view of things, I tend to be more relaxed when I see the good old Union Flag. Well during my sober, right-thinking moments that is.

Sure isn’t it just three colours put together in a particular pattern, after all? 

At times, though, it’s not just bulls that can have adverse reactions to flags and how they’re flown, or not flown as the case may be. (Check out the video below or click on the following link for an example of that: www.youtube.com/watch?v=_HkyokhX9Ag.)

In weaker moments, I do question Colombians who display the flag or wear it on their jeans, T-shirts and suchlike. A lot of them, as alluded to above, don’t know its origins. Plus, they tend to be a bit bemused as to why it should bother me. Fair enough; as I said, I’m learning to let it go.

However, when I don my Venezuelan football shirt – the country that is now Venezuela being the birthplace of Simón Bolívar, the chief liberator of South America from ‘old’ Spanish rule and thus a Colombian hero – it doesn’t go down too well with some here. 

Come on guys, the two peoples and national flags are practically the same, right?*

I guess we could all do well to retract from this rather abstract symbolism and focus on more concrete, practical things. Now, where did I put my Union Jack briefs?
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*For a more general piece on Colombian (and others') independence, read Whose land is it anyway?

Colombia's good cops

OK, credit where credit is due. We can all be quick to criticise but slow to give praise where it is warranted. 

In this regard, since this writer first uncovered the simple delights of Bogotá's less-than-safe (to say the least) barrio of La Perseverancia, the lack of a regular police presence for such a notorious spot has been frequently mooted on these pages and elsewhere.*

It might look like something from Fr. Ted, but this CAI unit does make a difference.

So the recent arrival of a new mobile CAI (Centro de Atención Inmediata or Immediate Attention Centre – basically a small, 24-hour police station) is something to be applauded. For sure, I'd like to take credit for this, believing that my constant reminders to the Colombian police force via Twitter and other sources were a factor. Somewhat unlikely that, though. 

A recent protest march by the residents of the adjoining, more affluent – and thus more influential – La Macarena neighbourhood to do something about the poor security in the area was a more forceful message you'd have to think.

Those of a more cynical nature about this, such as a somewhat left-leaning friend, say it's quite telling that as soon as ex-mayor Gustavo Petro was finally disposed of, more police were put on the beat. Surely coincidental, right? It couldn't be a case of a political game being played with such an important issue?

On another point, while the extra police presence on that side of town generally gives a safer feel to the place, it hasn't come without some drawbacks for the local revellers. The biggest one of those is that officers are quick to stop people from drinking on the street outside the little tienda bars. On a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon that's a bit of a pity for the likes of Don Fernando's (aka 'La Panella'). But we can't have it all our own way.

Of course, some say that a more visual police presence, especially in Latin American countries, doesn't mean much. That is, you can't trust many of the upholders of law and order in these parts.

Personally, however, I have always found the Colombian police to be decent – perhaps overly so on occasions considering what their duties are – and trustworthy. Indeed, there have been times when officers here have taken a much lighter approach to some late-night antics compared to what my native Irish police would have done when faced with the same scenario.

In fact, a lot of the time Colombian police behaviour mirrors that of the local population here at large: they are much kinder and more helpful towards foreigners than they are towards their own. One just needs to pop over the border to Venezuela for an opposite example. There, a foreign face generally guarantees extra heat from state authorities.

Venezuelan cops: A little harsher on foreigners? (Pic from Facebook.)

So it is quite off-putting to see what basically amounts to giving Colombian cops the middle finger by outsiders who have benefited from their leniency. 

When you've just been let off the hook for not only driving without a licence but also driving under the influence of illegal drugs and breaking red lights while at it, you might think the least you could be is quietly thankful you weren't charged or deported. 

Moreover, you should be grateful that nobody was killed because of your stupidity.

But no. For one particular Nordic expatriate here, he found it appropriate to publicly post on Facebook the above misdemeanours. 

In an arrogant and rather condescending, yet at the same time childish comment, he wrote how the police were happy to send him and his accomplices away with a 'hope you've learnt your lesson' telling off. This he clearly hasn't done, considering the style in which the post was written.

Hence, while the light-touch approach taken by many Colombian cops towards some foreigners may be welcome, there are times when you wish the letter of the law was applied in full.

Lessons might be learnt then.

And the police would be deserving of a bit more hard-to-come-by credit.

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*A good place to start on the La Perseverancia front is In defence of hoping (and fighting) for, at least, a 'Freer Bogotá'.

Of course, there's always work to be done in keeping things safe, as stated in Bogotá's 'dark side' rises.

Fighting for 'Free Bogotá'

We value and like to be able to demonstrate our freedom, as relative and limited as it sometimes feels*. 

On a daily basis, this manifests itself by walking to and through public places when we want to do so; that is, not being concerned an individual or individuals may potentially violently interrupt us.

Leafy suburbs -- eh, not quite.

In many places across the world this tends not to be a concern anyway. 

However, in some parts, minding one's own business does not automatically mean one will be left to one's own devices. 

And as much as we have wandered Bogotá’s streets at times when, and places where, most others wouldn’t dare, the fact can’t be hidden that each time we do arrive home safely, specifically at night-time, there is a sense of relief. A victory for the common, law-abiding man you might say.

Considering our mentality in this regard, thankfully, luckily even, we can count on one hand the number of times when dodgy incidents happened to us on the streets here (for details of earlier occurrences, see http://bit.ly/XLDyLg). 

Yet, it would be remiss of us to use the expression that ‘we have nothing to fear but fear itself’. For in a number of neighbourhoods (barrios) in this city, and the exact locations can be quite fluid, there exist people who will attack you for the simple reasons that they can. You are different and/or they feel you have something they want – money, a mobile phone or whatever.

It must be said at this point that in certain parts of the last city we lived in for any considerable length of time, namely (north) Belfast, such perils were also in existence. Again, though, we often flagrantly tossed those aside whilst making our way home on foot at night.

To make light of these real threats is clearly not a wise thing to do. We don’t. But there is a conflict between watching out for threats and our belief in being able to walk the streets without compromise.

The standard defence mechanism we apply whenever we feel threatened is to to play ‘crazy’; in other words just try to blend in or at least look as equally as deranged and/or intimidating as the person/persons who we secretly wish we didn’t have to pass by. 

However, our most recent Bogotá late night/early morning incident has given us some more food for thought – we’re pretty much at the banquet stage in this regard now.

This time around there was less an element of opportunism and more a statement of intent in the deeds of the three assailants, at least one of whom was armed with a knife. Although our ill-advised decision to cross the street, parting company momentarily with our two companions, was surely a help in pushing our wannabe muggers into action.

'Wrong Way' Country.

That they left empty handed (we think we just lost our mobile phone in the commotion rather than by theft) was down to our fellow Irish friend’s handy work with his extendible metal baton. This is something he rarely leaves home without and considering he is another man who likes to feel free enough to walk home, a smart move. 

The idea is to give the holder peace of mind and most people hope they never have to use it. On this occasion, it certainly was needed and it got a good run out, more than making up for its relatively small cost. We’ve taken note.

Nonetheless, we also realise that had we been on our own that night, or at least certainly minus our friend plus baton, the outcome could have been a whole lot different and much nastier. 

Throw in the fact that all this happened pretty close to our new abode in Bogotá (La Perseverancia, next to La Macarena) and we would be quite stupid not to take evasive action in the future. OK, the attackers may have become the attacked that night, but there’s a fair chance they’ll remember our foreign faces before we recognise theirs.

Continuing to mix, socialise and do business in the less affluent part of our new barrio – that being the infamous La Perseverancia – as is our wont, might help somewhat. 

We’re beginning to be known and recognised in what we feel is a positive way. Yet the phrase ‘trust no-one’ could have been coined for these parts in dealing with the locals; and we do our best to abide by it.

Perhaps that’s another reason we continue to rely on ourselves to get home safely. 

Something of a victory for freedom each time we do. Or is that just plain old foolhardiness?

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*For a related article on 'freedom', see http://bit.ly/SOQUl0.

Love fool

The default mode for most Irishmen has traditionally been to show a cold, hard exterior, especially in matters of the heart. Or more specifically, issues surrounding romance.

Things are a little hazy right now.

It’s generally something we’ve subscribed to over the years. 

Now this is not to say that we suppress emotions – not a healthy thing to do that, obviously. No, we just tend to deal with them internally. A '‘tis our business and ours only' kind of approach; and the majority of time we feel this is not a bad way to go. Heck, we’ve made it this far, just about.

However, considering we’re in a place that’s a bit more, let’s say, "emotionally liberal", we’re going to deal with some personal romantic issues here.

You could perhaps blame this softened approach on the Colombian air we’re once again breathing – well, that and the local chicas, or ladies if you will. 

That withstanding, this could be seen as an advisory tale and we always like to help where we can; we’re just not sure what the advice actually is.

As regular readers will be aware (cue long, awkward silence), we were back in the homeland between August and early November this year. A family wedding drew us back while visa issues coupled with doubts as to our next move kept us there a bit longer than we had initially expected; well, that and Mammy’s cooking, of course.

Before we left, we had met a girl here in Bogotá who seemed to tick a lot of the right boxes for us. Indeed, we thought she was so cool that we were happy not to let her Santander background bias our thoughts; we like to live dangerously from time to time.*

While we seemed to be getting on well, we were never anything other than casual partners; the fact that our departure date for Ireland was looming together with uncertainty as to whether we would be returning to Colombia or not played a big part in this.

So when we did leave, it was a case of let’s see what happens. We did keep in regular, practically daily contact via Facebook and the occasional Skype call. Thus, we stayed on each other’s radar in a sense.

A quite significant spanner was thrown into the works at the end of September when our friend (we’ll call her Colombiana from here on) told us she had met someone else. On further examination, Colombiana told us that it wasn’t that serious, and we continued to stay in friendly contact.

Once we finally sorted out our next move, that being the default option of a return to Bogotá, we were quick to let Colombiana know our news. 

This was greeted with the extremely generous offer of picking us up from the airport (we’d never had anyone specifically come to a South American airport to collect us) along with the suggestion that we stay at her apartment for the first few days. Nice.

This left us under the impression that perhaps we could pick things up from where we had left them in August, maybe bring them a bit further.

However, we were left in the dark, until we arrived, about one rather important piece of information. Namely that the relationship with the guy Colombiana had met in September, who for the record is Spanish and not Colombian, had now advanced into a more serious stage. 

Well, put it this way, when a man decides he’s going to divorce his wife on the strength of meeting another woman, it does take on an element of seriousness, right?

Cheryl — worth fighting for? Probably.

Now, contrast that bold statement of intent with our heretofore laissez-faire attitude and you can, perhaps, understand why Colombiana went for the, what might be seen as, "steadier" option (we’ll put the divorce issue to one side for now – sure marriage these days isn’t what it used to be).

Needless to say our presence in her apartment for those first few days on our return – as generous as the offer was – wasn’t the most comfortable. Although, it must be pointed out that we’re still very much on friendly terms and we have met up since finding alternative accommodation.

So where does this leave us? Any serious analysis can’t ignore the fact that we were quite relaxed about our relationship before leaving. Or at least we thought we were; a first hearing of Passenger’s Let her go song on the flight back to Europe did resonate and left us pondering things somewhat.**

There is, though, the argument that we’re just lusting more for Colombiana now for the simple fact that she’s currently out of reach, in a romantic sense anyway. Verifying that, given the current circumstances, is not easy however.

There are generally two schools of thought as to what to do. Follow the Cheryl Cole (or should that be Tweedy once again?) lead and ‘fight for this love, for if it’s worth having it’s worth fighting for’.** Or we go with our tried, but not altogether trusted, laissez-faire attitude – whatever will be, will be.

The phrase ‘time will tell’ lets you know, perhaps, which one we’re leaning towards. 

Right, we’ve said enough. We’re reverting to type now and putting those emotions firmly back on the inside.
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*For a, um, light-hearted look at Colombian women's personality traits broken down by regions, see Colombia's locas http://bit.ly/XzHltA.

**You can check out Let Her Go by Passenger here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBumgq5yVrA; and for Cheryl Cole's Fight For This Love see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4umc87T5UMs.

A Globish affair

Many native English speakers, ourselves included, can be accused of laziness and/or indifference when it comes to learning other languages. It's a fair enough comment, especially when compared to the linguistic exploits of the likes of the Dutch and Germans, to name just two nationalities.

The fact that our language (yes, we’re Irish but we won’t pretend to be anything close to fluent Gaelic speakers) is the world’s chief business tongue means we generally more than survive and mingle in foreign countries without having to master – or even come close to mastering – others.

'Is there a refund if we don't make it across the bridge?'

Language laziness

Basically, if English isn't your first language, there’s a high chance it’s your second, or at least you desire it to be. In contrast, for native English speakers, there isn't a common second language we gravitate towards. 

Looking at our situation here, we have what we’ll describe as an OK grasp of Spanish simply because we've spent the last two years-plus surrounded by it in Colombia and elsewhere. Had things worked out differently, it could be French, German, Dutch or what have you that we’d have as our second language (using that phrase lightly). 

In other words, things happened by chance rather than design. For those with English as their number two tongue, the chances they gained it in such a similar ad-hoc manner are pretty slim.

At the risk of making an excuse for many native English speakers’ language laziness, the words of a good Israeli friend are a nice synopsis of the current state of play. 

As he opined, in a professional context in any case, knowing Spanish is great if you’re in a country where it’s widely spoken (as we have been) or if you need it for work, but, outside of that, it’s not going to win you much favour. The same can be said for most other languages. (Obviously, being able to speak and understand every language on the planet would be great, but let’s stay in the realms of reality for now).

In fact, it can be a bit frustrating when we make efforts to speak to somebody in their first language – we’re specifically referring to Spanish here – and they automatically switch to speaking English. Our Spanish isn't that bad, come on! 

Moreover, in all our travels across the world, we only need one hand to count the number of times English was not the default language when we found ourselves with groups of people from a range of diverse countries.

Taking all this on board, it leads us on to the rapidly growing, evolving and contested area of ‘Globish’ – that is of course ‘Global English’, or as some might see it, dumbed-down English. 

To put it simply, it’s the "English" you’re likely to hear if, for example – to give it a truly international or global feel considering the point we’re making – a Colombian man strikes up a conversation with a Chinese counterpart at Frankfurt airport. 

What’s spoken is unlikely to meet the approval of guardians of the English language in Oxford or Cambridge (we'll put aside Irish English for the moment), but the people in question will fully understand each other (more or less) in their common tongue.

For us, anything that helps different cultures communicate and comprehend each other is generally a good thing. 

Thus, we do our best not to frown upon what, at times, seems like the bastardisation of English. (It must be pointed out, though, that some non-native English speakers have a better understanding of the language than many native ones.)

Even, ahem, quality Colombian TV productions make some mistakes.

Now, due to its position as the global business language, it’s fair to say that there is a greater tolerance for English not being spoken entirely correctly. 

We find, and given where we’re coming from there’s perhaps no surprise in this, native English speakers are more inclined to let slide errors made by others compared to when an English speaker tries to speak in another language.

Maybe we’re just being a bit paranoid about this; but if we wanted to we could, for example, correct every second word uttered by some of our Colombian acquaintances. 

In a teaching environment, that’s obviously what we’re paid to do; but outside of that, if we get the sentiment, we’re happy to let things go. We believe it's not as smooth vice-versa. Then again, we would, wouldn't we?

With more time, this might not be an issue. Yes, we haven’t really needed excellent Spanish in a professional context here in Colombia. 

However, for matters closer to the heart, it may be prudent to be much sharper than we currently are. Then again, maybe not.

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For more on English in Colombia, check out The 'money' tongue.

Bogotá's simple pleasures II: "Up the hill", "Nazi" and free beer

We’ve written before about the simple pleasures that we enjoy here in Bogotá.* In the last half year or so there have been two important additions to that list to which we must give due mention. Indeed, considering the time and money we’ve spent (well spent that is, most of the time) in both locations it would be remiss of us not to pay them homage.

They both fall into the tienda bar category – that is cheap-and-cheerful, rough-and-ready places to consume a few beers. Perhaps it’s an Irish trait, but no matter where we are in the world we always like to find a place (or two) we can call our local.

Elusive Lucio – keeping the beer flowing.

Initially, here in Bogotá’s La Candelaría district, we stumbled upon the popular, fairly reasonably priced Doña Ceci’s. It fulfilled its purpose for a while, but after devoting a nice chunk of time to the place, it became a little disappointing that we remained just another number, another ‘foreigner with money’ to the rather cold, tacaña owner. 

We don’t demand a lot, but a little appreciation and recognition from time to time that we’re good customers wouldn’t go astray – what a local should, at the very least, be about. Alas, with Doña Ceci, this was never forthcoming.

However, the tiendas where we now like to relax at the weekends (and the odd weekday) score high on those points and more. Both places are such bog-standard, Colombian drink holes that they don’t even have a name – at least not an obvious one that we’ve noticed. Thus, we’ve had to christen them ourselves (and regularly continue to wet the baby’s head at that).

So there’s Up the hill due to its location which is, predictably enough, at a bit of a higher altitude than where we live, on the borders of the supposedly not-that-safe barrios of Egipto and Belén south of the city centre. 

Then there’s Nazi bar which, perhaps not so predictably, has nothing to do with – in any meaningful sense anyway, as far as we’re aware or concerned – the fascist movement that found its home in Germany in the 1930s and 40s. 

It’s been dubbed that because the very affable twenty-something-year-old owner, Lucio, has for some reason that we’ve yet to ask him, a faint swastika tattoo on his hand. Considering he doesn’t exactly resemble nor have the ethnic background of a typical Nazi, we like to think that the symbol for him represents one of its non-violent meanings – ‘to be good’.

In any case, actions speak louder than words (or symbols) and Lucio has only ever been a complete gentleman to us. Indeed, of late he has adopted the Irish custom of the lock-in after hours. A free grande (that’s a 750ml bottle of beer, Poker being our preferred option) on our birthday was also very much appreciated. Small things, but they make a difference. 

Now, while Nazi’s grandes are a tad more expensive than our other local (3,000 pesos versus 2,500 pesos or €1.20 compared to €1 if you like – every little helps) Lucio’s friendly demeanour and appreciation to have us as patrons (how privileged he is) more than makes up for that. It also must be said he does benefit from a location advantage – he’s just a stone’s throw away from our residence.

Fun & games Up the hill. Is there anybody serving, though?

As for Up the hill, while the cheaper beer may have been the initial strongest pulling point, the treatment we receive, not just from the extremely friendly Paisa-blooded** owners and staff but the other Bogotáno regulars who drink there too, means that we feel bad if we don’t make a visit at least once a week.

Indeed, the chief owner is almost like a mother figure to us – in a good sense, that is. Not only was there free beer for our birthday, but a cake to boot. As for the other revellers who frequent the place, it’s rare we leave without getting at least one free drink landed on our table; all this from one of the city’s "poorer" regions, especially so when compared to the exclusive north.

So much have these places become what you might call our home from home, the constant salsa and vallenato music that’s played in them is almost becoming likeable for us. We’ve even been known to do a spot of salsa-ing once we’re merry enough (for a greater discussion about our Colombian dancing exploits, see http://bit.ly/S7A8eS).

All that’s missing in both places are a few prettier chicas from time to time – perhaps the ones that generally frequent the plush north could visit, just leave the attitude and arrogance at home. We can dream, can’t we?

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*'Bogotá's simple pleasures' http://bit.ly/Uzc3lk.

**Paisa is the name given to a person hailing from north-west Colombia, specifically the departments of Antioquia, Caldas, Quindío and Risaralda. 

The 'extranjero-files' — that is, not a xenophobe

Right, we’re admitting defeat. Or, to put it more correctly perhaps, we’re changing our angle of attack. It’s all to do with the word gringo and our sometimes laborious attempts to ‘correct’ numerous Colombians and other Latinos who refer to us as such. 

You see, for us the word has always referred to English speaking North Americans only (which we obviously are not) and, to be honest, most locals in these parts go along with that.

A bunch of foreigners.

However, at first glance some people here automatically think we’re from the US and hence call us gringo. We generally get a little uptight and politely tell them that we’re not gringos but Irish, so the word ‘extranjero’ (foreigner) is a more accurate label. 

Yet, the ‘g-word’ is theirs (Latinos) and some do use it to describe any foreigner. So in fairness, they can apply it as they see fit.

In terms of accuracy, though, and to avoid, heaven forbid, being mistaken as a Yank, if we are called a gringo in the future we will respond by saying that if you’re using it in its broader all-foreigners sense, fine, but if not, then we must clarify.

Then, of course, many of the people here who do call us gringo or extranjero or whatever are not that far removed from the Old Continent; that's Europe if you will, or more specifically Spain. 

So perhaps the only people here who have a real right to call us any of the above are the true indigenous – they could also call many of the Latinos they now share this land with the same.

In any case, they are just words, so should we really give them as much thought as we’re doing right now? 

Heck, Colombia is a country where the inhabitants regularly call their friends ‘gay’ (marica that is; for more on that see http://bit.ly/18eEfhd) and have no problem referring directly to people by their distinctive features: ‘gordo/gorda’ for a fat person; ‘negro’ for blacks; ‘mono’ for fair haired/skinned people and suchlike.

Supporting minorities.

As a Dutch friend mused, because of many other, real life-or-death problems this country has recently faced (and still does), what might be seen as offensive/racist words in some other places cause little fuss here (for more on not getting too worked up about words, read http://bit.ly/NNg2E8).

What is important in the above, though – and is the case the world over – is how those words are delivered and the actions that thus follow. 

That is to say, is there real meaning to what is uttered? Are they just throwaway, jovial remarks or is there more of, in the case of referring to people’s skin colour and the like, a racist element to it?

It will come as no surprise that we’ve witnessed racism here – you’ll find it in every corner of the globe. Very often it’s directed at the Afro-Colombians and/or the indigenous. That is, those on the peripheries, not generally part of the ruling class. They don’t quite fit in. 

Of course, for different reasons, you’ll also find some anti-US sentiment here which could be considered racist too – even though, politically speaking, Colombia is the most pro-US country in South America.

What might be seen as ironic is that many Latinos, when they depart for the Western world, will encounter discrimination, suspicion and racism aimed at them for no real logical reasons other than that they’re different.* Yet, surrounded in the comfort blanket of their own, they do the same to the minorities in their midst.

At the end of it all, this is our lot ...

This, of course, is a global phenomenon, far from restricted to this region. 

Many Irish see no problem hurling, at the very least, generalisations at immigrants who seek refuge on the island – a practice that often influences government policy – while at the same time expect right of passage wherever they go in the world. 

OK, some will argue this isn’t a racist tendency and more to do with protecting a small, bungling economy but that’s not always the case.

You see at certain times and in certain contexts, we can all be part of the minority, the outsider. We found it interesting to read in a newspaper in Malaysia that they referred to the West as the ‘minority world’ – the ‘haves’ versus the ‘have nots’ that is.

It can be a good practice to think outside your group – try to place yourself with the outcasts from time to time. 

We all have prejudices – it’s part of being human. The trick is trying not to let them unduly and irrationally influence us; easier written than done, of course.

As the saying goes, ‘before you criticise someone, walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticise them you’ll be a mile away and you’ll have their shoes.’ And if you’re lucky, they might be the right fit.

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*Things may be changing on this front. Check out Latinos on the rise http://bit.ly/1784NCY for more on that.

You may also want to check out Phantom freedom at http://bit.ly/SOQUl0.

More than words: Colombia's useful-to-know gestures

It’s not just Spanish you need to have a decent grasp of to be in a position to truly get by in Colombia. OK, there are lots of things outside of the language that are necessary to understand before you can attempt to get it here. 

Some of those, such as relationships, we’ve discussed on many occasions and we’ll probably never figure out. But on a quirkier note we’re going to take a look at what you might call Colombia’s ‘speechless language’ (use of gestures, hand signals and facial expressions that all have special meanings) that we’ve seen used daily here. 

This list isn’t exhaustive but it details the ones we like the best:

Tight-arse.

Tacaño(a) – Mr Scrooge

This signal is done by raising one of your elbows and slapping it with your other hand. It basically describes a person who is tight-fisted with money. Of course, our mantra has always been there is a big difference between being mean and wise with your cash – we like to think we fall into the latter category. Nonetheless, some Colombians don’t agree it would appear.

Not good.

Paila – something’s wrong

The open hand or one finger cutting to the neck gesture signifies that something is wrong or not going to happen. Well, in fact, we’ve seen it used in many circumstances, but it’s always in a negative sense, such as some place is closed so you can’t go. If it’s used for your ‘delectation’, then you need to revise your plans.

Italianate but Colombian.

Llena/tetiado – ‘No space in here tonight, buddy’

For those who follow Italian hand signals, this means something completely different – that is something is really good we believe. Here in Colombia though it means a place is packed full of people.

Watch your stuff.

Ladron/ratero – ‘Beware, there’s a thief about’

Don’t misread/ignore this one, it could save you a peso or two. When you’re on the Transmilenio* and you see a guy staring at you lightly scratching his cheek, it isn’t just that he has an itch. It’s more than likely a warning that there’s a thief about, so hold on tightly to your stuff. This is not the time – as if there ever is one – to ‘dar papaya’ (see http://bit.ly/XLDyLg for more on that).

Over there.

Lip-synced

Why point directions when you can use your lips? It works for many Colombians anyway. They’re not being rude, they’re telling you the way to go (we’ll let the fact slip that the directions they give tend to be wrong – it’s the thought that counts, right?).

'He was this high.'

‘My child is not a dog’

We never gave much thought about demonstrating the height of somebody until we got to Colombia. Etiquette exists though and if you get it wrong you might upset somebody. To show the height of a person, you put your hand out vertically; for an animal, horizontally. It’s best not to confuse the two. Regardless of the behaviour of someone’s child, you don’t want to give the impression that you think they’re not human – well then again...

You're stupid, boy.

Tonto/idiota/gueva/marica – ‘You amadán’ (Irish language one, that) or fool

Two can work for this. The first is a dumb facial expression with hands out like you’re holding a ball under your chin, slightly shaking them. The second is just one of your hands, palm side up, again waving it a little directly under your chin.

Uhh-eeee.

Que cagada – ‘What a b****cks!’

When you notice somebody not being very sincere with another person – being two-faced for one – you can express your displeasure (or approval as the case may be) by loosely shaking your floppily held hand at the side of your head.

'Back-off lad.'

Montada – scissor fingers

If somebody’s in your face a bit too much or giving you hassle, use your index and middle fingers as scissors ‘cutting’ the wrist of your other hand to let them know you want them to back off and cut you some slack. If that doesn’t work, make a fist shape out of your strongest hand and aim it with force at the person’s face.

Ushhhh!!!

‘Feckin’ hell’

A floppy shake of the hand in front of your body is used when something happens that surprises or shocks you. We’ve got to the stage in this country where we hardly ever feel the need to use this – unless of course somebody turned up on time for an event. So no, we haven’t used it.

'He's a bit camp.'

Marica – queer/gay

Covering your nose with your hand and gently rubbing it with your thumb and index finger signifies that you think somebody is gay or ‘marica’ as they say in Colombia. Do note that the word marica is used in an affectionate way too; you’ll hear people addressing good friends with it. It’s also used in contexts that may surprise you or for something daft as listed above. 

Basically it’s used for practically all situations from what we can gather (sure we’re all gay at heart) – so if you really want to point out somebody is gay, use the gesture.

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*If you need reminding what the Transmilenio is, see: http://bit.ly/N68gKL

 A big thanks to Pedro for demonstrating these gestures - Colombia's next top model perhaps?