Colombia's credit contradiction

@wwaycorrigan

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

'We only give credit to those older than 90 and who bring one of their grandparents as a guarantor.'

Bottle-cap accounting: Foolproof?

That's the English translation of one version of the various we-don't-give-credit signs you'll see displayed in many Colombian tiendas, convenience stores that sell products ranging from beer to brushes and much else besides. (Although some tiendas' chief business line is beverages and sweet and savoury snacks.)

What such signs really mean, of course, is that credit is not given whatsoever. (Perhaps, in a few generations, a 90-year-old might expect his/her grandparents to still be alive. Then again, in a few generations, humanity might be extinct.)

The reality is, however, that in many beer-serving tiendas, no-credit signs on display or not, the payment model in operation leaves the establishment at risk of being what effectively amounts to a moneylender.

Drink now, pay later

This is because the tab system dominates in such environments in Colombia; you pay your bill when you've finished imbibing. Rarely will you be asked for payment upfront, as is generally demanded in pubs in Ireland and the UK.

In theory, paying at the end makes more sense than doing so each time you order, particularly when we're talking about the consumption of multiple beverages.

This is even more so the case in places where cash is still king (working-class Colombia is, thankfully, in that category). It can be cumbersome having to deal with change for each order.

Nonetheless, the tab model can be easily abused, by both the customer and the owner/staff.

The former can do this by simply saying, be it true or not, that he/she doesn't have enough money to pay the bill.

In a country where the financial situation for many is far from stable, this I-don't-have-the-cash-right-now defence is commonplace. I've seen it cause plenty of beer-fuelled, heated discussions.

That much of working-class Colombia falls into the low-income bracket makes the popular use of the tab system even more of a head-scratcher.

That it persists suggests that businesses feel it's the best way to operate. They'll get the money at some stage — as long as the debtor doesn't die with the bill still outstanding. Or it could be one of those just-how-it-is scenarios that I wrote about before.

Bottle battles

As for tienda owners or staff, they can game the system by adding more products to your tab than were actually ordered.

This abuse is, unsurprisingly, far easier to carry out when the product in question is alcohol and the customer is drinking on-site, getting merry in the process.

I'm not the only one who has questioned the amount owed at the end of a session. It can lead to a tetchy tienda environment, if not to something more untoward.

Linked to all this is the method some tiendas use to keep, um, tabs of the tab.

Counting the bottles consumed is one way, something I see less often these days.

'If you happen to have a less-than-attentive tienda keeper, bottle-cap counting could work to your advantage.'

This may seem sound — and it explains why bottles are left on a customer's table until the session has finished — yet a couple of other foreigners and I were the victims of its flaws a few years ago in Bogotá. I wrote about that incident at the time in a blog piece titled, 'You've been had, Bogotá style'.

Summarising that episode, a guy who we'd befriended and who we thought had bought us a few beers actually pulled a fast one on us, or so it seemed.

As he left before us, we ended up being charged for all the beers he'd drunk, even those he'd had before joining our company.

Of course, he could have been — indeed, probably was — in cahoots with the tienda owner. Or the tienda owner might have seen an opportunity to charge for the same beers twice.

As we were in an unfamiliar place, after airing our displeasure we took the financial hit and promptly left, never to return.

Top cap

An alternative accounting approach with tiendas is the bottle cap. For each beer opened, the cap is placed on what we'll call the payment counter.

This is open to some of the same abuses as outlined with bottle-counting, minus the problem of another customer adding to your bill.

One particular flaw it has is with bottle size and associated price differences.

For example, to use my tipple of choice, Poker, very often the cap on a litre bottle is decorated the same as the 330 ml presentation.

So, if you're in a round consisting of bigger and smaller bottles of the same brew, you could be deemed to have had more bigger ones than smaller ones when the reality was the reverse.

Now, if you happen to have a less-than-attentive tienda keeper, bottle-cap counting could work to your advantage. 'Oh no, of those five bottle caps, only two belong to litre bottles, the rest were 330 ml.' One can plead ignorance if caught out.

Pen power

Slightly more watertight than the aforementioned methods is the radical pen-and-paper approach to tab-keeping.

Yes, some tienda workers write down your name — or some title that identifies you, such as gringo or mono — in a copybook and note your orders as they come. Revolutionary.

Again, it's not abuse-proof. If you lose track of what you've had, a few additional beers might be added to your tab. (And yes, this isn't exclusive to rudimentary tiendas. It can happen in fancy establishments using a digital system.)

Also, particularly in a lively tienda, a crafty fellow carouser could get his beers added to your account. Those behind the counter don't always check if a beer has been invited or not, as long as it goes on some customer's tab.

So, like many things in these parts, the no-credit policy is something of a contradiction with these tab systems in operation.

Yet, contradiction aside — and again like many things around here — tienda transactions normally pass off without much ado.

For sure, there will always be those who try to abuse it. They would do well not to, though.

A move to more advanced methods in this digital age may see them easily locked out of the market altogether. So scorn not the simplicity of the tienda's status quo.
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Easygoing El Peñón. But is Topaipí tops?

@wwaycorrigan

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

On occasions, according to some mental health experts, it can be good to just do nothing. Or the very bare minimum in any case.

Indeed, the deft Dutch have a term for it: niksen, which literally means 'to do nothing'. Or, in practice, at least doing a very basic action that serves no real purpose and is not at all taxing.

Head-to-head: El Peñón (bottom) has a nicer setting but is Topaipí a livelier town? 

Something may come of nothing

I, however, like to think that I don't enjoy doing absolutely nothing. Generally, during my waking hours, I want to be as productive as possible. Or at least feel like I'm being productive.

Yet, on deeper reflection, in the right place and time, I do actually engage in "nothingness" and like to do so. For example, I enjoy simply lying in the sun, particularly if it's in a secluded spot, away from fellow human beings and annoying animals — the latter referring to, for the most part, delirious dogs and irritating insects, be they bloodsuckers or otherwise.

Finding such places is the difficult part, regardless of where one is really. (Although, on a recent visit to the small town of San Luis de Gaceno in Colombia's Boyacá department I did happen upon an isolated sandy shore of a gently flowing river. It came close to being perfect in this imperfect world of ours — perfect for my needs at the time, that is.)

I found no such spots around El Peñón in the Cundinamarca department. They may exist considering the town's relative closeness to the Río Negro with plenty of uninhabited land about but my rather aimless wanderings didn't uncover them.

'It must have one of the lowest ratios of tiendas per capita in the country.'

Nonetheless, the very town itself could be considered a place for some mild niksen. Unlike other similar-sized places I've visited in Colombia, not every second house is a beer-selling tienda. A few panaderías fill this "void" but, based on my not-very-scientific observations, it must have one of the lowest ratios of tiendas per capita in the country.

Thus, it seems to move to a very easygoing beat. Heck, it doesn't even have one of those 'Yo amo — with "amo", "love", represented by a heart — (insert name of town)' signs in human-sized letters on its main square. Perhaps it shows the townspeople's confidence in what they have. It certainly marks the place out considering the mushrooming of these rather flashy signs in Colombia of late. Budgetary issues might be more of a reason for its absence, though.

From whence Wrong Way came: A view of El Peñón as seen from the road to Topaipí. 

If a "What to do in El Peñón and its surrounds" brochure was released, outside of walking around and just taking in its rather impressive setting, I'm not sure what else could be included.

But, somewhat aimlessly wandering is, in a way, one of my favourite forms of niksen.

Topaipí, tienda town

It was, after all, an unplanned 18-kilometre descend-ascend trek on a sporadically paved road that took me from El Peñón to Topaipí, the latter with its "Yo amo Topaipí" sign on proud display in front of the church on its quaint main square.

Arriving in the early afternoon on a Saturday, in contrast to El Peñón, Topaipí was heaving. Well, heaving in so far as a small town deep in the countryside can be heaving.

There, nearly every townhouse appears to be a sit-in tienda.

It might have just been simply down to timing but Topaipí seemed to be the wilder sibling of El Peñón. I did only spend a few hours there so further research is required.

The error in undertaking such an impromptu stroll was that I got to the town after the last bus back had left.

Whilst weighing up my return options a few drinks were had — for rehydration purposes solely — in one of the aforementioned tiendas in the company of some curious locals, all of whom were small-scale coffee farmers.

With the evening drawing in, the thoughts of walking back didn't fill me with excitement. A motorbike taxi was arranged. At 30,000 pesos it was 1,000 pesos more than the bus ticket from Bogotá to El Peñón. Oh well.

Home from home. Mr & Mrs Rincón in their new tienda in Pacho.

The atmosphere did seem a little livelier in El Peñón on Sunday but with a rendezvous in Pacho, I couldn't stay another night to see how things would develop. (That meet-up was with the owners of my local establishment in Bogotá. They've left their tienda in the capital in the hands of their daughter and have opened one in Pacho, on Calle 8 #9-24 to be precise. Do drop in and say hello if you happen to be in the town!)

As for El Peñón, as an exercise in niksen, it can be said that it served that purpose on a number of levels. One big pull factor for that what-to-do brochure.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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Home is where the barrio is

@wwaycorrigan

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

Before my adult days, I remember being rather puzzled about my father's strong desire to get back to his local haunt(s) whenever we'd be out and about.

Calm after the storm: The at times action-packed Barrio Santandercito.

In fact, even when I started my own beer-accompanied socialising and on the rare occasions I'd be with my Dad in an unfamiliar setting, this itchy-feet tendency to return to his stomping ground bemused me.

Where everybody knows your name

'Just relax and enjoy the new surroundings', I'd think to myself. 'What's the panic?'

Now, however, and perhaps with the pandemic serving as a catalyst, I better understand this fondness for "home" comforts. Similar to my father, this isn't an eagerness to be back where I sleep — I've never been able to truly call home any place I've rented. It's a case of being in the environment where I socialise the most, with my Bogotá buddies.

This is at odds with many an adage. Take your pick from, to name but three, variety is the spice of life, familiarity breeds contempt, a change is as good as a rest. I'm sure there are more.

Yet, forced for months on end to not really being allowed to venture outside my part of Bogotá, now that one can officially travel unrestrictedly around Colombia, my enthusiasm to do so is somewhat lacking.

'Thrifty tendencies do also have their mental rewards.'

In fact, it's at a stage where visiting the first barrio popular that I called "home", La Perseverancia, 18 kilometres south of my current abode, now seems like a holiday. I haven't brought the overnight bag there yet, but it might be an option next time after the hassle I had trying to get home on the previous occasion I visited. One can never rely on public transport in Bogotá.

Break free

What's more, the few times that I haven't been able to call into my panadería "office" throughout this pandemic, I've been left a little ill at ease. The panadería owners, acting in good faith, of course, play their part in this, chastising me for my sporadic absences, accusing me of being a traitor. 'If Brendan's not here this morning, where the heck is he?'

What all this basically amounts to is that I've become comfortable in my routine. Comfortable in mediocrity, in the unspectacular one could say.

Linked to this is a feeling, to a certain extent, that I'm undeserving of a holiday because I haven't had steady work — or at least work that puts pesos in my pocket — throughout the pandemic. You know, one shouldn't be spending money recklessly when one isn't sure from where the next meaningful payday is going to come.

That whole live-each-day-like-it's-your-last mentality is wonderful in theory. However, if I were to let the handbrake off and truly live as I wish, well then I'd want to be in my last few days on this planet — it would be financially unsustainable as things stand at present. Thrifty tendencies do also have their mental rewards.

Nonetheless, a break from the Bogotá barrio is coming. It must.

Experience lets me know that I can find as much joy — if not more, for a time at least — in a more tranquil setting. Every town has its panaderías, tiendas and streets to wander after all. Same, same but different.
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Listen to Wrong Way's Colombia Cast podcast here.

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Serene Suesca

In terms of little escapes from Bogotá, generally speaking, we prefer to hit for one of the many lower-lying, warmer locations dotted all around the metropolis.

This is even more so the case when the capital city is going through one of its somewhat depressingly grey, wetter-weather phases, as it has been of late.

A view of Suesca with Las Rocas in the left background.

The thing is, when it's public holiday time in Bogotá, most people have the same idea. Thus, you have a run on the likes of Girardot, Melgar, Tobia and Villeta to name just a few. And with that, the prices for hotels and other tourist-related things shoot up.

In fact, if you're your own boss and can take holidays more or less whenever you want, staying in a much more relaxed Bogotá during these peak holiday times is an appealing option.

Nonetheless, not every town in a 200-kilometre radius or so of the capital sees an influx of tourists when work's out for a few days.

A 90-minute bus drive from the north of Bogotá, the quaint, tranquil town of Suesca is one of them. At about 2,600 metres above sea level, it certainly does not fall into the 'warm-weather escape' category.

One of the main — if not the main  — pull factors is the alluring cliff rocks, Las Rocas, on the town's outskirts. 

These imposing cliffs stretch for about four kilometres and are popular with rock climbers. Many visitors avail of the camping facilities alongside them as an accommodation option; there was a steady stream of crusty campers about when we were there in any case.

Yet, around Suesca's picturesque main plaza, there's still very much a local, 'unspoilt' feel to it. This we very much like.

Now, in similar style to our San José del Guaviare trip, we just rocked up here with little or no prior planning.

So the fact that the tourism office was closed didn't help things in terms of finding out what to do and see outside of Las Rocas.

Armed with contradictory information, we did set off on an ill-fated wander to Laguna (Lake) Suesca. Had we been unequivocally told at the start that it was at least a three-hour trek and that the lake was pretty much dry — it had been dry season despite the bit of rain and overcast conditions we had for most of our stay — we probably wouldn't have attempted it on foot at all. (My fellow Irish companion wasn't up for a long, potentially fruitless hike; tut, tut Finbarr.)

So after an hour-and-a-half walk that culminated in stumbling across a 'hidden gem' of a tienda bar, where the owners told us we were still some way off the lake, we paused for a liquid refreshment before returning to Suesca. We did get some nice views along the way, as well as discovering the aforementioned tienda, so it certainly wasn't fruitless.

Wandering the hills around Suesca ... Reminds us of home, kind of!

Speaking of watering holes, Suesca could be seen as the home of the tiendas. It appears that every second establishment is one where you can sit in and have a beer. 

However, while we're not averse to a Poker or two, Suesca's rather chilly weather and exposed tiendas aren't conducive to knocking back a few cold ones. Not wanting to be rude, we did give it a go all the same.

Sipping on a tasty and very reasonably priced coffee whilst watching the day go by in the panadería (bakery-cum-café) 'Las Rocas de Suesca' on the main square is a decent alternative to the tiendas.

Whatever tipple you choose, as refreshing, short breaks from Bogotá go, weather aside (it's not that bad either, especially from an Irish perspective), Suesca is as good as they come.

*The rather expensive Hotel Casona Quesada aside, there aren't too many obvious budget accommodation options in Suesca. However, with a bit of persistence, we found a well-kept house-cum-hotel for 30.000 COP per night for a room with three beds. It's located on Calle 4, just off Carrera 5 next to a little park with a basketball court.
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Returning to a life more ordinary

It's safe to assume that most foreigners, especially those from the West, who come to Colombia on a whim don't arrive with the expectation to make money here. That is to say, those who come not having work already lined up with a decent paying school/university, NGO, big multinational or the like.

It's generally more a case of being here on an adventure. 'A see what happens' approach while making the most of this beautiful country and largely friendly people.

Time for a change of direction?

Indeed, many sacrifice a more financially stable existence to 'give things a lash' in countries not quite as 'developed' as their homelands. Some come with a cash cushion, making things much more manageable. First World savings can go a long way in these parts.

Others, and we're pretty much in this boat, don't exactly have wads of a strong foreign currency to fall back on. It's more a case of 'where there's a will, there's a way' in order to find the resources to keep the adventure alive. That 'way', more often than not, is freelance teaching. It provides a somewhat steady income while also giving the freedom to explore the country when one wishes.

Then, as time passes, a root takes hold. What initially might have been planned as just a relatively brief stay turns into years. It becomes difficult to leave. Of course, for some there are strong, solid reasons for that; a long-term relationship, an improved employment situation, a child.

For others, and again this is where we're at, it's simply a question of time itself. There's no long-term relationship (none at all, actually), no improvement in earnings, no child (thankfully). We're here because we've become used to it. (There is also the small incentive of being only months away from being able to apply for a five-year residency.)

We could, perhaps even should seek out new pastures but we've become comfortable with the status quo, with mediocrity if you will. Returning to the ridiculously expensive Western world without any guarantees of finding decent, fulfilling work just seems madness.

Moving to another 'developing' country, starting from scratch again, seems more hassle than it's worth. (Visiting them still appeals greatly, though. What's more, no place could be ruled out if a job with appealing terms and conditions was forthcoming.)

Yet, sometimes, like a smartphone app, you have to hit 'force stop' and either reinstall or forget about it altogether.

With that in mind, it will be seven years this June since we made our return to South America. Moreover, what could be viewed as the 'birth' of Wrong Way has its tenth anniversary this coming November.

It was back in 2008 that the then reluctant traveller took flight from Ireland on a personal voyage of discovery. Things have never been quite the same again, for better and for worse. (The book recounting this 10-year, life-changing phase is in the making. Watch this space!)

We've had a good innings at it. There have been some unforgettable experiences, new friends for life made (we hope) from all walks of life.

However, without some significant modifications in the coming months it feels like this Colombian chapter is drawing to a close, for now at least.

Some of those on the outside looking in might think we'd be silly to end what they see as a sort of surreal, fantasy life when there's no real pressure to do so. 'Sure you're living a relatively carefree existence. Why rock the boat?'

There is merit to that viewpoint.

Yet the reality is that it can often feel more mundane than magical. More of a frustration than a fantasy, especially from a financial perspective.

It's not all about money of course. As The Beatles sang, it 'can't buy you love'. Fair enough, but as a tienda-socialising, non-dancing foreigner in these parts, without flaunting the cash, you might not get much 'action'.

A steady job and income, our own lodgings, a return to 'a life more ordinary' among our own, this kind of living is beginning to look more appealing. If only for a time.

The transition back to that, though, could prove quite a task. For one, finding that steady and hopefully fulfilling job is not going to be easy. There are also plenty of things we like about Colombia.

We must be careful what we wish for. Yet changes are required nonetheless.
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All you need is Ecuador (for a caffeine detox)

They say that it's the small things in life that make a difference. The everyday occurrences, or non-occurrences as it may be, that matter most. 

To be honest, most of us don't think about them that often – life could become a little overbearing if we did. It's only when you step outside of your routine, encounter differences, that they may become apparent.

Ibarra: The lack of coffee is not a deal-breaker.

There's also the chance that it might come as a surprise how attached you've become to such small things – a case of 'you don't know what you've got till it's gone'.

On a recent, necessary trip to Ecuador – a country I've visited on two previous occasions – some of those, what are best described as 'home-from-home comforts' considering it's in comparison with Colombia, were noticeable by their absence.

Now, such comforts must fall into the bracket of things I've just got used to over the last 36 months or so. For when I was in Ecuador in both 2009 and 2011 their non-existence didn't bother me. 

Moreover, my own rural, west of Ireland background ensures I wasn't born accustomed to them – well, at least one of them anyway.

That one being my penchant for daily coffees with a drop of milk – café con leche, cortado, perico or pintado as you'll find them called in these parts – in value-for-money panaderías (bakeries/bread shops). 

You see, in Colombia (or Bogotá in any case) all panaderías sell coffee, all through the day. Usually, it's nothing glamorous but when you get it at a price that's easy on the pocket, it makes it all the tastier.

In Ecuador, in the places I visited on this latest trip that is, while almost every second shop is a panadería, that's just it: they are panaderías/bread shops and no more. They don't sell coffee. 

Indeed, when you ask the staff in them for one, it's like going into a police station asking for a burger and chips (watch from 3' 20'' on the link for the reference). And informing them that selling coffee in a panadería is the norm in neighbouring Colombia generally doesn't go down too well.

One panadería in the coastal city of Atacames did at least make some effort to compensate. There, the wily owners had instant coffee on each table, a hot water dispenser and even made milk available for those partial to a dash of it. Perhaps the idea might take off. It's not brewed coffee, but it's a start.

The other things conspicuous by their absence were tienda bars. I've documented on umpteen occasions my liking for such places in Bogotá. Yet, in Ecuador – well, Tulcán, Ibarra and to a lesser extent Atacames – they don't seem to be the norm. 

What would be a tienda bar in Colombia, in Ecuador it's just a shop where you can buy beer for takeaway only. Drinking it on the premises isn't really an option as there are no tables and few chairs available. Of course, they do have bars – pool halls, karaoke joints and the like – but the rough-and-ready, basic tienda one isn't in the mix.

It's important to state that I'm not pointing these out as negatives. They're not deal-breakers; as alluded to, there are alternatives. What's more, a little less coffee (and alcohol) isn't a bad thing every now and again.

Tulcán's rather arty cemetery: Everybody's dying to get in.

Plus, one of the reasons tienda bars and panaderías-cum-cafés are popular in Colombia is because they are much cheaper than many proper bars/pubs and cafés. 

In Ecuador, from what I could see and also sounding out the locals, the big price swings between different neighbourhoods in one city don't really exist. You can treat yourself in a fancy location there for much less than it would cost here in Colombia. That is to say, there appears to be more equality in Ecuador. Colombia, take note.

It is, nonetheless, interesting to notice the differences, subtle as they may be, a border can make. For landscape-wise, there's not much to choose between the two countries; both are equally impressive in similar ways. You might go as far as to say that if you were led blindfolded into one or the other, you'd do well to say with certainty which country it is.

Make a quick visit to a panadería, though, and you should get your answer. 

On that front, the famed Thai-English phrase springs to mind: 'Same same, but different.' Not in a bad way, of course.
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NOTE: If you're making the overland crossing into Ecuador at Rumichaca, seek out an old man wearing a hat called Moses if you want to change Colombian pesos into dollars. From my experience, he gives the best rate.

No somos Colombianos, pero ... (We're not Colombian, but ...)

An old Colombian flame of ours used to suggest that we’re just not compatible with her country; with a large proportion of the people that is, not the actual land. 

In fairness, it didn’t take her to get us thinking that way, whether it’s completely true or not.

Unlike some 'exclusive' spots, locals actually talk to you in tiendas such as this one.

We’ve tinkered around this topic before.* Plus, we tend to be very honest and forthright; no, you’re right, let’s not go down that road just now.

In terms of finding love (uh-oh, here we go again), where we do a large part of our socialising – see http://bit.ly/17yN8HH for what we’re on about – are not the type of places you’re likely to find the most ‘sought after’ girls in Colombia. 

We won’t go into the whole argument that such a search is fanciful in this country; or any for that matter. We’re not complete romantic cynics, just yet.

The fact is that for much of our socialising we gravitate towards modest, value-for-money, friendly, venues. You see, we do like to regularly get out and meet people but this also has to be balanced with living within our means. 

Thus, when you’re in a city/country with such a disparity in prices between different neighbourhoods, from the relatively cheap to the ridiculously expensive, and your own income is pretty average, visits to the swankier ends have to be frequently curtailed.

In contrast, most Colombian women around our age, ones with comparable backgrounds/education to ourselves, in any case, tend not to like the satisfying simplicity of the tienda bars we regularly frequent. No, they enjoy more the lavish locations – it helps, of course, when they don’t expect to put their hands in their oversized handbags for much, if not all, of the night. 

We, however, are such fans of equal rights where possible that the idea of paying far more than our fair share is anathema to us (for more see The wages of love).

Yet the question remains, are we incompatible with Colombia? Our Costeña ‘friend’ answered this one in the affirmative.** 

However, putting aside her Colombian nationality, we may be more ‘acceptable’ to, and compatible with, the masses of her country than she is. 

Her hangouts of choice align with the ‘elite’ minority of the country. Tienda drinkers are the norm, the majority. All understandable, really, considering the wage difference and accompanying social scene discrepancy between the top earners and the rest.

Our new home, La Perseverancia: no one even tried to rob our camera.

Change may be brewing on this front. With a rising middle class, places that are now seen as upper class will in time, perhaps, become more accessible to a greater number of citizens and expats alike. Such a change, though, is unlikely to happen at any discernible rate, not in these parts.

We may be a long way from the day when a Colombian parliamentarian and the local unemployed alcoholic drink in the same bar and share a conversation, something that you’ll often witness in Ireland. Although, that may not be the best example; they’re both similar types in many ways. You get the point, though.

One other feature that draws us back time and again to our watering holes, outside of the price, is that we tend to find that the locals there get that almost indescribable thing, the ‘craic’ (or ‘crack’, depending on your spelling preference). A word (not a substance) used in Ireland and elsewhere to describe many scenarios.

In this context, the craic is understanding and being able to engage in various bouts of slagging/pub banter. Lest there be still any confusion about the word and its meaning, the only drug that is usually consumed in the presence of craic is alcohol, although it’s not a prerequisite. 

Not only do they get the craic, but we find that they're usually very good at handing out free beers. Oh, they know how to 'play' us!

So while you can point to many areas where we don’t ‘fit in’ with Colombia and her people, we’ve found enough comforting similarities to keep us coming back.

You could say, like the country itself, we’re still a work in progress here, without a fixed completion date.
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*For a run through some of the things we've found 'uncomfortable' here, see Lord of the Dance and Colombia’s false friends. The Irish and Colombians do, however, have that strong Catholic background, manifested in different ways albeit.

**'Costeña' ('Costeño' for a man; literally 'coastal' in English) is the term used for women from Colombia's — and Venezuela's — Caribbean coast. It's also the name of a beer in Colombia. (We won't go into the whole 'a beer is better than woman because ...' spiel; we could, but we won't.)