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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Rewarding the reckless

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story click here.]

Wouldn't it be great if we could all (mis)manage our financial affairs in a similar way to many countries?

Spending is the new saving. 

That is, not only be in debt but continuously add to it, giving back only a fraction of the total by way of interest repayments, if even that. And do so in a rather carefree manner.

How the wasteful are winning

Perhaps this actually is the way the world's rich (just don't probe too much into their accounts) and powerful operate. It would explain a lot. If it works for governments, then why not for individuals?

You see, it seems that trying to be financially prudent these days is a penance suffered by a small few in the hard-pressed working and middle classes. If you're not in debt or at least a serial spender, you're not playing the game right. Or you're not playing the game at all, stupid.

With speculate-to-accumulate in mind, I do realise that people deliberately overstretch themselves with the goal of seeing their investments come good, and then some, at a future date. Thus, being in debt for a time might be both unavoidable and smart. (It's something I could be more open to; playing it safe doesn't mean invariable stability.)

In the past, lent monies were usually for the purchase of assets, investment in a business, educational enhancement or suchlike. Loan requests generally had to come with rigorous cost plans, with a borrower expected to repay the lender the full amount plus interest at a defined later stage.

Of late, however, it seems the reckless state-borrowing model has taken hold at large. Rather than reduce expenditure, people look for monetary support to maintain a certain quality of life.

Alongside this, the definition of loan appears to have morphed into gift for many. Or at least the idea of being frugal, or 'good with money' to put a more positive spin on it, is frowned upon.

'The analogy to Ireland: A frugal foreigner with some savings provides access to money on the cheap for the locals, most of whom are involved in the construction industry.'

OK, this 'spend what you have today, let tomorrow take care of itself' attitude can be viewed as positive. One should be relaxed enough to enjoy his/her (usually) hard-earned income in the here and now.

However, spending what you don't really have is another matter. Ireland Inc., to give but one example, saw how that can turn nasty back in 2008. Yet, the biggest borrowers, the most spendthrift, got away rather lightly compared to the small fry. Some, indeed, are just too important to fail.

Frugal fool

Now, what could be viewed as a microcosm of profligate Ireland is my financial dealings with a friend in my beloved Bogotá barrio, Santandercito. The analogy in a sentence: A frugal foreigner with some savings provides access to money on the cheap for the locals, most of whom are involved in the construction industry.

It can be hard to say no when somebody appears in desperate need.

More specifically, in The barrio banker, I wrote about how I'd given out interest-free loans to some friends in need over the last few years. These loan requests, from one acquaintance in particular, haven't stopped — give the dog a bone and all that. And I find it hard to say no.

The latest rather substantial loan does have a small interest rate attached to it. I'm toughening up — a little (although, compared to the current interest rates for Colombia's CDT savings accounts, I'm losing out. Be that as it may, the repayment date has now passed and my friend, so he says, doesn't have the funds.

Based on previous form, I trust the man. I have no other choice. If the friendship is ruptured, I have no real legal recourse to get what's owed me. What especially bugs me, particularly as somebody who by both nature and nurture is careful with money, is seeing this man be anything but that.

It's not like I've got endless revenue supplies. This is the hard-pressed asking the slightly less hard-pressed.

Nonetheless, as alluded to, I do like to help where possible, especially for somebody truly in a bad way. In this case, however, the behaviour of the borrower immediately after he got the loan suggested it wasn't a life-or-death situation. Unless "beering" the barrio is critical to his survival.

For the moment, I just have to sit tight and try not to let the negative emotions overcome me — completely avoidable negativity at that, too, if I'd just said no. Time shall tell if this was a foolish loan on my part.

Yet, perhaps my biggest act of foolery has been my attempts to put money aside for the future. 'Just spend, spend, spend, Brendan. Somebody else will pick up the tab.' Quite.
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Abandoning the beer standard

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio version of this blog story click here.]

In Bogotá's perpetual Corner Bar barrio, I explained how a working-class drinking culture permeates the neighbourhood I frequent the most in the Colombian capital. As somebody who grew up in rural Ireland, this is quite familiar to me.

It's best not to overly rely on the beer standard. Diversification is key.

One big difference, though, is that the barrio locals don't appear to have the same complex, schizophrenic-like relationship with alcohol as many Irish have. The barrio boys just drink when they want to drink — which is regularly — without this deep guilt, that nagging question, 'Am I overly reliant on booze?'

Lightweight battle

You see, both in Ireland and abroad, the notion of the heavy-drinking Irish is effectively accepted as fact. An Irishman — or woman, for that matter — who doesn't drink to excess is an anomaly.

Now, as fairly well-travelled, I've found that all historically Christian nations have a drinking culture — some a little more so than others, of course. In fact, according to various studies, Ireland isn't even in the top five globally when it comes to alcohol consumption per capita. Those eastern Europeans are our boozy betters.

Colombia, for the record, tends to be well down the list in such studies. It is, though, far from teetotaler territory.

Comparing myself to my barrio besties, it's safe to assume my weekly consumption is now below the average.

In contrast, back in 2016, when I first started socialising in Santandercito, I had what I now view as a rather immature macho-drinking attitude i.e. I liked being the one downing the most. And, more often than not, I was.

The small problem is that this set a precedent. The barrio buddies came to expect me to drink copious amounts when I "went at it".

This had less to do with the Irish-drinking reputation preceding me and more to do with that initial form.

Thus, my gradual change to not only trying but also enjoying drinking less when I socialise in such environments appears to have taken some acquaintances by surprise. Now, I may be overstating this somewhat. We tend to think that others are judging us on certain behaviours or whatever when in reality they're not.

'While many are generous, these are balanced out by numerous freeloaders. I've frequently spent double what I've actually drunk on nights out.'

There are also the vestiges of the Ireland I grew up in at play here. One would be viewed as a lightweight if he couldn't keep the same drinking pace as "the lads". All things considered, such silliness about boozing is less of a factor in Colombia (although, this isn't to say it doesn't exist at all — where there is bravado and booze it's bound to be present to some degree).

The missing rounds

Nonetheless, the fact that I've been drinking less means some barrio buddies have been seeing less of me. Of course, one can still go out and not drink but I don't consider the barrio tienda as a great place for that. I'm far more content to be in my panadería when I'm not drinking beer.

It must be noted here, it's not that I'm in need of company when I go to such establishments. I'm often happier when left to my own thoughts.

Indeed, as regards the panadería, I usually go there to read and write, so having people talk to me is an annoyance. It's just that I like the idea that I'm "out", that there's movement about me. Spending the majority of my time in the place in which I sleep is somewhat torturous for me. Working from "home" is not something I view as a positive.

Coming back to my overall reduction in alcohol consumption, alongside the health benefits, there's also the financial factor. Not only am I spending slightly less on beer for me, but more significantly I'm also spending less on others.

This is due to the popular "round culture" in Colombia. And while there are many generous folk about, these are balanced out by numerous freeloaders. I've frequently spent double what I've actually drunk on days/nights out.

OK, inviting people to a tipple or two now and again is a nice gesture when one can afford it, but multiple times a month? It tends to put me in a bad mood. And when alcohol mixes with one's bad mood, this often results in quite an explosive cocktail.

So my drinking less which results in spending less — at that moment of socialising anyway — is good for the bank balance, body and mind.

That being said, I'm not quite ready to abandon the beer standard completely. I am, however, loosening my ties to it.
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Colombia's clothes-in-the-window bane

@wwaycorrigan

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

Getting used to the cultural quirks of one's adopted land can take some time. Indeed, there are certain mores that the outsider may never fully understand or accept.

From a Colombian perspective, this blog has looked at some of these over the years.

There's an Italian flag on display at one of these windows. That might offend some people. 

Always someone else's fault

For example, there's the pestiferous fear-of-the-hot-seat syndrome, something, mercifully, I rarely see these days as I seldom take public transport in Bogotá (it's at its most prevalent on urban buses).

Then there's, let's just call it the very relaxed attitude to customer service. It could be said that in places where one would expect this to be front and centre, it's actually at its worst. 

Add in some customers' inability to respect queues and one can regularly expect an infuriating experience when shopping and suchlike.

Another worthy mention is the verbal politeness, an overall (superficial) formality that is then often betrayed by actions that are anything but polite or praiseworthy. Just say the magic phrase 'que pena con usted' and all shall be fine. And one must never accept personal responsibility for an error, misjudgement or whatever. It's always somebody else's fault.

'I have a fair idea of what might "offend" the locals but this doesn't mean I've learnt to simply sigh and accept it.'

Linked to the previous is the refusal to engage with anyone who gets angry when something isn't done as promised or a paid-for service fails to meet the stipulated standards. Reacting with rage to injustices, even if they may be of a serious nature and this is obvious to all, is a no-no in Colombia. A significant no-no.

It's those who can keep calm, stay level-headed and even make a joke out of the situation who tend to get their issue resolved more quickly than the hotheads. Alas, I'm a rather slow learner on this one.

While the above refers to Colombian traits that outsiders from certain countries may find inane, irritating or outright infuriating, there is, of course, the flip side to this. There are things that some foreigners do that vex the Colombians.

For one, there is that aforementioned tendency for some of us to get angry when we've been wronged or at least feel we've been wronged.

Drying law

It is, however, aghast reactions to what I consider harmless, victimless practices that baffle me. 

OK, after eleven years in the country I have a fair idea of what might "offend" the locals but this doesn't mean I've learnt to simply sigh and accept it. No, not when no logical reason can be given as to why certain acts are deemed as attacks against Colombians' well-being.

No doubt, though, most locals reading the following will agree that the practice in question is a philistine one and worthy of a sanction.

Here goes. I currently live in shared accommodation in an apartment complex, one which is managed by administrators — administrators who often double up as dictators from what I've experienced. They'll say, of course, that they're just enforcing agreed-upon protocols.

'The four horsemen will be galloping through the apartment complex next.'

The violation that my now former housemate committed was to place his recently washed shoes on the window sill, in view of not just the passing public — who, I wager, couldn't really care about it — but also fellow residents. Goodness me! Declare martial law! (By the way, my South American housemate's departure had nothing to do with the offence, he was leaving in any case. In fact, he had already left by the time written notification of his misdemeanour was delivered.)

Such effrontery to Colombian etiquette has resulted in a fine, which the non-resident landlady will have to pay, I hasten to add. I'll do time before paying a penalty for something I didn't do.

Now, that this is viewed as an offence according to the administration is down to, I assume, the adverse effect of such a display, aesthetically speaking. In other words, visual pollution. Colombia does indeed have statutes for this. It doesn't appear, however, that placing items of clothing in one's window is prohibited.

One could understand the aversion to this a little more if we were talking about an exceptionally well-kept area. But we're not.

Death by shoelace hanging: Residents still haven't recovered from this grand violation.

Yet, even if it was one of the finest neighbourhoods in Bogotá, punishing a resident for airing his shoes on the window sill is ridiculous as far as I'm concerned.

Are people actually mentally hurt by such an act? If they are, I think the bigger problem is with them.

'If it's working, break it'

I would argue that noise pollution is a far greater offence, one that can cause both mental and physical damage to many people simultaneously.

I'm not sure, though, if my neighbours get hit with fines when they play music loudly. Or how about when those who live on the floor above me appear to be trying to come through my roof, a racket that raises my ire. My guess is that this goes unpunished.

Yet, inanimate objects drying in one's window? The four horsemen will be galloping through the apartment complex next.

Taking this further, surely I would be within my rights to demand the removal of curtains or the like that I find unsightly, wouldn't I? 

Indeed, in an apartment complex in which I lived previously, I was given a verbal warning for drying my clothes on the curtain rail of my bedroom window. The rule was that residents could only air clothes at their laundry-area window.

Some will say it's a weak defence to argue that of all the things wrong in Colombia, demanding retribution for clothes or shoes drying out a window is far from the most pressing concern. 

The argument for the zero-tolerance approach is the idea, akin to the broken windows theory, that it's a display of decadence and must be corrected.

Really? Drying clothes at a window is a symbol of moral decay?

I think it's more a sign of many Colombians' inability to tackle the real issues afflicting this country. They get a sense of satisfaction about "fixing" things that aren't broken whilst they neglect to deal with the practices that are truly damaging society.

Worryingly, it's an approach that seems to be taking hold across the world.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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The Bogotá curse

@wwaycorrigan

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

Friday the 13th. Considering all that's happened since, some superstitious types — not me, I hasten to add — might deem it quite portentous that this was the date of the initial, tentative encounter that would prove to be so life-changing.

The month was February, the year 2009. One day before my 24th birthday as it just so happened to be.

Where it all began in Bogotá: The city's historic centre. (Photo credit: Oli Pritchard.) 

Bothersome beginning

To what do I refer? The first time I set foot in Bogotá. My Bogotá beginning, so to put it.

I still recall quite vividly those early, uneasy moments in the city. Were they signs of how my complex relationship with the place would develop? Maybe.

After getting a rather pleasant introduction to provincial Colombia in the small city of Popayán in the south, the nation's capital was the next stop.

Emboldened following three-and-half months of solo travelling around South America — somewhat paradoxically, the few unsettling incidents along the way appeared to boost my confidence, not diminish it — arriving in Bogotá I took a public bus rather than a taxi from the main transport terminal to the centre.

Stepping off this bus on Carrera Cuarta (Fourth Street) with Avenida Jiménez I went in search of my accommodation, the-then quite new The Cranky Croc hostel (it's a Bogotá institution now). Using a map on the back of a business card from the hostel as a guide — smartphones and Google maps weren't really a thing then — I figured it would be simple to find.

'After various inaccurate directions from friendly-but-unhelpful locals, I finally found my bearings and located my lodgings.'

In fact, I was just a block and a half away from it but Avenida Jiménez disorientated me a bit. Those damn diagonal streets. They can play havoc with an otherwise easy-to-navigate grid system.

So whilst impressed with Bogotá's physical setting as I wandered for about an hour trying to locate The Cranky Croc, I started to feel like I was having a Nightmare on Elm Street experience.

Mildly intimidating "greetings" from a few "undesirables" didn't help either. Carrying about 20 kg on my back and tired after a long overnight bus journey, I was feeling a little vulnerable.

After following various inaccurate directions from friendly-but-unhelpful locals, I finally found my bearings and located my lodgings.

Pleasant Popayán: The first city Wrong Way stayed in Colombia, all the way back in 2009.

Once settled and having befriended two dormitory companions, we headed out that night — to celebrate my imminent birthday, of course. While I didn't know it at the time, we went to the swanky Zona T. Oh how my social life has changed in the intervening period.

In a club there we met a group of, um, friendly women originally from Bucaramanga. It was largely down to these ladies that saw me enticed back to Bogotá a couple of years later. (Subsequent returns and my final decision to live in the city had much less to do with them.)

Losing the centre

The story behind Elba, Paola and Sandra is one for the memoirs. Or at least for another time. For it's those first, arguably ominous impressions of Bogotá, specifically its historic centre, that I want to focus on here.

Like many foreigners who come to live in Bogotá, the centre was where I initially settled. While it wasn't really ugly when I first visited over 13 years ago, it's certainly more aesthetically pleasing today following a few facelifts and the construction of some architecturally impressive buildings. It's shedding that dreary 1980s industrial look that darkened it back in 2009.

'I disliked the university ambience before these centres of learning became fully dominated by bearded lefties, of both the male and female variety.'

Yet, despite — or perhaps because of — living in the centre for almost four years, I remain at best indifferent to it. At other times, I've more of a hostile feeling towards it. I seldom view it in a positive light.

On the rare occasions I return there — being 20 km away doesn't help to encourage one back — I'm reminded of this mild aversion.

Why this is, I'm not entirely sure. One thing, though, is the fact that compared to other parts of the city it's very difficult to shake off the tourist label in the centre. That's because, obviously enough, it gets lots of tourists passing through. So somebody of my origin tends to be seen as just another passerby.

OK, I always will be a foreigner — a gringo if you will, although be careful calling me that to my face — in Colombia.

Yet in my beloved Barrio Santandercito at least I sense that I'm part of a community. I never really got that feeling in the historic centre. (I did get it to a certain extent in La Perseverancia — a barrio in which I never actually lived, only socialised — but on recent returns there I've noticed that irritating tourist vibe creeping in. The renovated food plaza appears to be the "culprit" for that.)

Another factor for this negativity towards Bogotá's centre is due to its being a university hub. There's just something about the university environment that irks me. And this was the case before they became fully dominated by bearded lefties, of both the male and female variety.

Little wonder, then, that I felt more at ease in the centre around Christmas time, when the universities were on holiday. For the record, shocking as this may be, there's not much of a university ambience in Santandercito.

It could be said that what all this adds up to is that I don't particularly like big cities. Yes, I do live in one, but my base in Bogotá's far north has, in some ways, more of a small-town feel to it.

It's this, Bogotá's barrio beat, that I move to. And as much as it might be good for me to escape from it, at times it feels that I'm wedded to it for life.

So perhaps it's this, and not my inauspicious introduction, that is the true "curse" of that fateful first visit to the city on Friday the 13th of February 2009. I, however, don't do superstition.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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Bogotá's perpetual Corner Bar barrio

@wwaycorrigan

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

At the zenith of Ireland's Celtic Tiger period in the early noughties, a time when most of the populace had, quite literally, more money than sense, there was a public house in my local town that nicely symbolised the then zeitgeist. Or perhaps not-so-nicely for the few ascetics around.

A day in the life: There's a "nice" familiarity to many aspects of Bogotá's Santandercito barrio.

No quiet corner

The Corner Bar, Ballaghaderreen, located next to what was a busy bottleneck junction on the main Dublin-Westport road before the town was bypassed, was in many ways a representation of the Wild West for the early 21st century.

Word had it that this pub sold the most 500-ml cans of Bulmers cider, aka looney juice, in Ireland. That may have been an urban legend but my own blurry memories of the place back it up. For the record, Bulmers wasn't my tipple of choice — I was a little classier, of course.

While it attracted all-comers, it was a particular favourite with construction workers. The Celtic Tiger's flimsy foundations were laid down by boisterous builders after all, heavily reinforced by cheap money from Europe and sod-turning, market-is-king politicians at home. Thus, Ireland and her mother were involved in construction in some form or another. In a town such as Ballaghaderreen and its hinterland, this was very apparent.

The Corner Bar was the go-to place to let off some steam, shoot some pool and throw some drunken shapes after a tough four-and-a-half-day week on-site — Mondays were generally optional, particularly in the summer months.

'Alcohol-induced rows are fairly commonplace and at least one working Monday a month is spent on the cure from the previous days' excesses.'

That this establishment is no longer a going concern today is in many ways fitting. It could be said that Ireland Inc., the West especially, is still suffering a hangover from those heady, hedonistic times.

Bygone days for a now bypassed, barely beating Ballaghaderreen.

However, that spirit of The Corner Bar, a far less expensive version that is, is to be found, for better or for worse — health-wise, it's normally the latter — in my current stomping ground of Santandercito in the far north of Bogotá. It's not one particular place but the barrio as a whole really.

Familiar feeling

For starters, most of the people I socialise with there are construction workers who certainly know how to play and party hard. Alcohol-induced rows are fairly commonplace and at least one working Monday a month is spent on the cure from the previous days' excesses.

In place of pool tables and dartboards, there's bolirana, a game where you accumulate points by throwing six small metal balls into holes of varying value on a gently slanting rectangular surface a few metres away — the first to reach an agreed-upon number of points wins.

The overall ambience, the good-natured banter that can turn ugly at the drop of a bottle, it's all familiar, even comforting to me. We're not quite talking about dens of debauchery or iniquity, but there's a certain roughness to proceedings.

One might ask have I not grown tired of the scene by now? For sure, on the odd manic Monday one may question what's it all about. But by the time the weekend rolls around again, one is drawn back in.

That I'm single and childless plays a part in my regular revelling — although at a far lower intensity compared to the real hedonists in Santandercito I hasten to add. In fact, the number of partying parents in these parts leads one to surmise that having offspring doesn't necessarily result in a tamer social life.

Having not left the greater environs of Bogotá for the last 18 months and without full-time employment, The Corner Bar lifestyle has been a relatively cheap escape from the current mundaneness. Of course, it in itself has become a routine — and not a terribly wholesome one — but it nearly always throws up a memorable, if hazy, moment or two.

While the Celtic Tiger and The Corner Bar have disappeared, with both now remembered with an amount of shame, Santandercito's star doesn't look like waning any time soon.

Of course, today's characters won't be around forever, yet the cheap and mostly vivacious vibe appears perpetual in nature. Let's raise a litre of Poker beer to that.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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

Santandercito, keeping the satiated dullness at bay

@wwaycorrigan

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

I've stated previously how I'm not at all averse to routine, as long as I feel it's not too detrimental to my health and well-being.

Bogotá's Santandercito: Rough and ready.

Downwardly mobile

On the other hand, I've also let it be known that a monotonous 8-6 gig is not for me. While I might be traversing the same physical ground on a daily basis — something most of the world has been forced to do for much of the last 16 months — the important thing is that there's an amount of variety to what I'm doing.

Of course, 'being my own boss', as I pretty much am these days, means I put as much variety into what I do as I see fit, constrained both financially and legally as we all are to varying degrees.

Throughout the pandemic, however, 'spicing up one's life' has been rather difficult. It may be one explanation as to why I've found myself being pulled right into Bogotá barrio living. That is, not just socialising in my stomping ground of Santandercito but actually taking up residence there.

Yes, my living quarters are far from ideal. And lest people say 'you get what you pay for, tight-fisted Corrigan', I'm forking out the most I've ever had to for accommodation during my almost ten years in Bogotá.

'A period of small-town living might be the answer to some issues I've been largely ignoring to address. Mentally recharge and evaluate my options from, quite literally, a different viewpoint.'

My main bugbears are a lack of natural light entering and the noise from above. I'm on the ground floor while the landlady and her extended family occupy the other two floors. A two-metre squared open space from the plastic roof down projects some light into my living space. 

It also, unfortunately, ensures I hear all the chattering and regular shouting from above as if I were actually in the same room as my noisy neighbours. Kids, who'd have 'em, eh?

Unsettling issues

Some say that for the rent I pay I could find something better. In Bogotá, for a place that's largely independent and contract-free, I'm not so sure. I might find an apartment with better natural lighting but it would probably be lacking in something else. I've moved around the city enough to know that's it hard to get past mediocrity, such is life.  

That aside, there's a certain energy on the streets that I feed off. Even in the "strictest" days of coronavirus-containment measures, there was a bit of welcome life about the place.

Now, as a resident, I get a mild buzz wandering through the barrio and greeting the various folk I know. Some are just familiar faces, no more than acquaintances, others are people I regard as good friends.

To borrow from the renowned clinical psychologist and best-selling author Jordan B. Peterson, my opting to take up residence here could be linked to a shunning of the 'satiated dullness' of a comfortable existence. (Peterson said this in relation to Fyodor Dostoevsky's critique of the socialist utopia, so a rather different context. Having said that, I found nothing dull about Venezuela's, um, "socialist utopia". Also, I'm not so sure how and where I could find a comfortable existence these days.)

It must be noted, though, the location hasn't that much to do with living comfortably or not, financially speaking in any case.

Nonetheless, as Bogotá is due to start roaring again like it did pre-pandemic, a more relaxed existence could be found outside the metropolis. For I can't say that I'm currently in Bogotá for the money really. Far from it. Indeed, it could be said the small amount I earn is offset by a somewhat hedonistic lifestyle, at times anyway.

A period of small-town living might be the answer to some issues I've been largely ignoring to address. Mentally recharge, evaluate my options from, quite literally, a different viewpoint, before facing into another stay-or-go dilemma with a visa expiry date only months away.

There really never is a dull moment in this unsettled existence, is there?
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The accidental gomelo

"You're a posh boy now, a gomelo." So go the jibes from my old barrio buddies now that I find myself living in a swankier part of Bogotá (gomelo, for the uninitiated, is the Colombian word for what you might call preppy types).

Santandercito: Out of sight but by no means out of mind.

Yes, it's true, my move a few kilometres south of my beloved San Antonio/Santandercito sees me placed in plushier surrounds.

The thing is, however, when my hand was forced to move, the chance to live within a more reasonable walking distance — 4.5 km versus 10 km — of the office appealed (I'm still in that full-time job, somehow). Save time and, potentially, money.

"Perhaps I'll embrace the gomelo guise."

For, as surprising as this may seem, the rent in my new Cedritos Lisboa location is comparable to what I was paying out on the city limits. What's more, it comes with much more in terms of furnishings and appliances.

Having a well-kitted-out place is a bonus, of sorts, considering I still, after almost eight years based in Bogotá, have a backpacker mentality when it comes to settling down and making a house a home.

The state of the kitchen in the new abode could yet become a contentious issue, as it often tends to be when sharing. I have to revise my theory that all elderly women always keep their homes in pristine condition. The situation is more than manageable for now, though. 

Stranded

The biggest drawback is that it's pretty much right in the middle of Poshville. That is to say, you have to walk a bit of a distance — not a big deal for me, in fairness — to get back to the barrios populares for the "proper" panaderías, tiendas and all that kind of good stuff.

Some of Bogotá's other upper-class areas, in contrast, find themselves stuck next to the riff-raff. Closer to the centre, La Macarena bordering La Perseveranica, my spiritual home in a way, is one example of this.

On top of being stranded in salubrity, so to put it, these richer neighbourhoods tend to be a little sterile. There's no real life to them. They're bland at best. The barrios, on the other hand, have a buzz about them.

Go gomelo

Nonetheless, for as long as I have this full-time office job, staying in such a stale sector with its proximity to work is fine. 

During the week, with the current eat, sleep, work, repeat routine, I don't really have the time like before to enjoy the barrios in any case. It's purely a weekend delight these days. That's OK. Too much of a good thing and all that.

Or who knows, maybe I'll adapt to my new environment and take on this gomelo guise. "What say you, güevón?" "Osea, Lord help us!"
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Leaving behind the Bogotá standard

After almost seven years of having Bogotá as the base, the greatest, um, achievement — let's not get caught up in the semantics here — has been my assimilation into the working-class Bogotá barrio life.

While many locals with aspirations to improve their lot try to get away from it, I found myself actively seeking it out.

Sure where else would you want to be than in the local tienda?!

Indeed, in the last couple of years, with the departure of some good foreign friends who would regularly force me to change scene, I have become even more entrenched in this environment.

Mixing it with the masses

Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with this. I'm a rural, working-class man at heart, so it could be said that I was just finding my level in terms of mixing it with Colombia's normal masses rather than a minority elite, or those wishing they were part of it at least.

"Ireland's working class isn't quite the same as Colombia's."

Yet, at the risk of sounding arrogant, most of Ireland's landed working class (it exists) aren't quite in the same sphere as the majority of Bogotá's working class. Having much easier, more affordable access to quality second- and third-level education plays a big part in that.

Now, while it wasn't by design, from a personal perspective this gap has closed in recent years, monetary speaking that is if nothing else. Alas, this has had more to do with my decreasing earning power rather than the locals getting richer (and, dare I add, better educated).

A passport to riches?

So if you're a peso-pinching, non-dancing Westerner who's not a big fan of dating, any appeal that this previously imagined rich foreigner had with the local women quickly wanes. "Best to stick with our own kind if this 'gringo' isn't a passport to riches" appears to be the general thinking.

"I might yet regret this conservative approach."

Whether that's fully true or not, I've come to accept it anyway, and in a rather indifferent manner in the barrios I frequent. An old conservative head on relatively young shoulders, you might say, happy out in what are practically gentlemen-only drinking dens.

Paradoxically, I might come to regret this old-school attitude, this 'missing out on the action' when I am older. You know, as the saying goes, 'You can't put an old head on young shoulders.'

Nonetheless, the likes of Santandercito and La Perseverancia have remained the focal points. Good friends have been made, some of those friends for life I'd like to think.

My Bogotá experience would have been much different without them. Some people might believe it would have been different for the better, but that can't be said with any certainty (if I ever get this book sorted, there are plenty more tales to tell on this front!).

Barrio blues

Back in 2008, when I took my first solo steps in South America, one of my biggest worries was leaving behind Gaelic football in Ireland. I saw it as a fundamental part of my life. It didn't, however, take long for me not to miss it. I found other attractions along the way.

Ten years on, I'm now wondering how life will be without the barrios, and by extension the regular mini-escapes to Colombia's small country towns that I also enjoy exploring so much.

They will be missed if I do have to leave them behind indefinitely. Yet, there'll be other things to embrace, wherever the road may take me.

New barrios await to be broken, so to put it. Though, to borrow from the film Casablanca, "We'll always have Bogotá." For better or for worse.
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Introducing "our" Colombia

We all, those of us with links to the place at least, have our own views about Colombia and what it represents. There are, obviously enough, many ways to look at it.

Nonetheless, however you view it, do remember that it is ColOmbia not ColUmbia. For a country with so much to offer and seemingly growing ever more popular by the day, some outsiders still can't spell it correctly. Hence the line 'The only "u" that should be in Colombia is you.' Clever enough stuff, eh?

So as a helping hand in this regard, taking each letter of the country's name, here we give our — sideways, you might say — take on what Colombia is for us.

Changua: Not everybody's favourite. (Photo by Jorvato, Wikipedia.)

C is for changua

Admittedly this isn't the first thing people think of when linking the letter 'c' to Colombia. Most would more than likely go for the country's world-renowned coffee. (No? What were you thinking of, then?)

Yet, we're plumping for changua here, not only because we find it delicious, especially in combating a hangover (on the rare occasions we have one), but also because not many outsiders will know about it.

In fact, the changua we love -- a couple of cracked eggs cooked in milk with bread, cilantro (coriander) leaves, a bit of onion and perhaps garlic, ideally some cheese melted in as well, with salt to taste -- is pretty much a Bogotá speciality. It's hard to get that exact mix on offer in other parts of the country.

For most who haven't tried it, it sounds revolting. We have to admit, we thought the same. But it works, and works wonderfully if you ask us.

O is for office

One of the 'offices' ...

We've had a few offices scattered around the capital; they've generally depended on where we've been living at the time.

Basically, we're on about panaderías, the bog(otá)-standard bread and coffee shops. Delightful places to get an affordable coffee with milk (a perico) and snack-sized portions of fresh bread, all the better when they're just out of the oven. We call them the office as we tend to spend a good deal of time in them, be it to do some writing or other work, or simply just to chill out.

Giovanni's on Calle 32 just up from Carrera 5 in La Perseverancia (see below) remains a favourite even though we now live miles away from there. Max Pan in Barrio Santandercito and Vicky's in Barrio Nueva Zelandia are new regulars in our current north Bogotá base.

Lost City

L is for Lost City (Ciudad Perdida)

Colombia's Machu Picchu so to put it, but somewhat quainter and allegedly older. It's now over eight years since we visited this ancient indigenous settlement hidden away (well, not quite now!) in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta jungle off the Caribbean coast, yet it left a lasting impression.

Things might have changed a little since then, but we found the three-day trek to reach it more authentic, and certainly far less congested, than the more celebrated Inca ruins. While we're due a return, there remain other popular and not-so-popular beauty spots that we've yet to visit here; 'a lot seen, a lot more to see'. All in its own good time.

O is for Ordóñez

An important 'o' this, insofar as some people put a 'u' in here. Don't. That's a different place.

So rather than 'u for Uribe' we've got 'o for Ordóñez', the nation's former inspector general who's now a 2018 presidential candidate.

As mentioned in a previous post, in many ways Alejandro Ordóñez represents traditional Colombia, so he's worthy of inclusion here. That and the fact that of the country's political big guns, he's one of only a couple we've met, briefly as it was.

M is for mujeres

We could have used 'c' for chicas, but changua is far more important (and rewarding). So we'll mention the women, 'mujeres' here.

Colombia, of course, is well known for its beautiful women, but that beauty often comes at a price, in all sorts of ways. This is certainly the case for the majority of the ones we've tried to woo anyway.

We've practically written the book on that in a host of previous blog posts (you can start with 'Ignoring is bliss' and work back from there), so we'll say no more, other than try not to take things too seriously if you do get involved on this score. It's better in the long run.

B is for Bogotá

An obvious one, but it has been the base of our Colombian operation and it's a city that still exerts a strange hold on us.

When we do eventually leave the place, there are lots of things we'll miss. They're just not always easy to point out.

I is for IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz"

Self-serving this may be, but we're talking about our experiences in the almost six years we've been here, and IQuiz has played a significant part. Put simply, our labour of love.

Best buddies!

A is for Abril 

No, we're not referring to the month of April, which is abril in Spanish. We're on about the surname Abril, and more specifically our good friend Fernando Abril.

For sure, Colombia has many amazing and unique things going for it, but as in many walks of life, it's often the simpler ones that matter most.

In this regard, Fernando, his small tienda and a number of the clientele in the not-quite-salubrious surroundings of La Perseverancia have been a memorable find.

Yes, in other barrios we've found similar places, but Fernando's and the folk of La Perse are the original, the first 'true love' so to put it (with a worthy mention of a bar up Barrio Egipto way, the precursor to La Perse in a sense).

So that's 'our Colombia', one version of it anyway. Each to their own and all that.

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