Colombia's foreign press clampdown?

In previous posts I wrote about, or at least mentioned in passing, the visa issues I had in Colombia this year.

Indeed, the chief reason for my recent visit to Venezuela was down to being unable to renew my 'independent journalist' visa. (I am somewhat thankful to Colombia that it forced my hand and I was able to return to the 'brother country', despite all the pre-journey fears.)

Is there an official Colombian clampdown on independent journalists? (Image from web.)

While I wasn't actually denied the visa — the door is still open to get it — new requirements in relation to my journalist diploma made things much more awkward and time consuming than they had theretofore been.

Had it been my first visa request it wouldn't have been as disheartening a saga. "OK, these are the requirements and I have to follow them." However, I was going for my fifth, after which I would have been entitled to apply for residency, and that lasts for five years.

So considering the time and money I've invested here, that I'm now back at zero in terms of visa continuity is a little bit disappointing.

Now, it must be said I'm not terribly down about it. I'd been considering my future here anyway, before the visa complications started. In some ways it's been positive. Since my return from Venezuela I've been focusing on work areas more 'down my street', or what I think I should be doing in any case.

It remains to be seen whether this new, um, 'Wrong Way' results in my immediate future still being here in Colombia or it means moving on to pastures new. The next few weeks will tell a tale. Whatever the case, I'm relaxed. Things are happening.

Specifically in terms of the visa stumbling block, though, it never crossed my mind, not with any real belief anyway, that there were more, let's call them 'sinister forces' at work.
In fact, I still don't think there are.

However, it appears that a good number of foreigners in a similar position have had the same issue. So much so that the head of Colombia Reports is getting European diplomats and other international agencies to look into the matter.

Of course it is rather difficult to prove that there is a concerted effort from Colombia's La Cancillería — the department responsible for visas — to remove independent journalists from the country.

What's more, officialdom here is fully within its rights to change the visa requirements as it sees fit. From an Irish perspective for one, it's not like we have an open-door policy for the few Colombians who wish to make Ireland their home.

Personally, the idea that I was a 'target to take out' for La Cancillería is a little amusing, flattering even. As much as I'd like to think differently, this blog and the occasional other media groups I've collaborated with to write and talk about this country are unlikely to have caused much, if any, fuss amongst Colombia's powers that be.

For sure, there have been a few negative articles, but it's safe to assume they didn't set the alarm bells ringing. Hey it'd be great in a way if there was a 'Wrong Way Out' campaign. Alas, I haven't quite made it that 'big' yet.

This isn't to say that other journalists/reporters from here haven't been singled out. They may indeed have been. The most likely scenario, if there is something untoward at play, is that it's more of a general sweep, the idea being to cut down on these 'volatile' independent journalists/writers.

It will be interesting to see where Colombia Reports gets with its investigations in this regard. I'm guessing it will be a case of, 'Nothing to see here guys, move along.'

That being said, there are, unsurprisingly, some grey areas in the whole process.

Previously, so it went, with journalism being an unregulated profession no official qualifications had to be submitted with the application. It was all about proof of actual work.

Now however, as mentioned above, La Cancillería is demanding the translation and certification of the relevant qualifications — a long and relatively costly process.

This does beg the question for those going for an independent visa where they actually don't have a qualification to 'prove' their skills in what they're doing, what do they do?

For example, I have dabbled in a bit of acting, basic and ad hoc as it has been. So what if I were to apply for a visa as an actor? I don't have papers to say I am one, I just discovered I'm good at it and there is a demand for my services in the country (relax, it's a hypothetical scenario!).

Plus, of course, not all journalists, broadcasters or presenters have the qualifications in those specific fields. Some just fell into them by chance.

So you'd have to think there are allowances for such things.

Then again, in a country that tends to value the piece of paper over actual real-life ability, maybe not.

Perhaps they just want to let in those of a more academic disposition. Good at the theory — or as often happens in Colombia, with deep pockets — but not great in practice.

Talk the talk, but can't walk the walk. Good luck to them with that.
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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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Refocusing the energy

Sorry, sorry. I know the, um, legions of Wrong Way readers have been wondering where I've got to the last while.

The recent presidential election and Colombia's World Cup exploits, nay the tournament in general, have been distractions for sure. 'Yet', I hear you ask, 'haven't they also been great things to write about?' Of course.

More pertinently and personally, ongoing visa complications have been occupying my mind. A right saga indeed. Akin to an existential crisis really — well, in terms of my permanence in Colombia anyway. A visa-run to Ecuador is now firmly back on the cards.

Focusing on a new path ...

Again, a good blog topic that, you might say. However, sitting down to upload new posts hasn't seemed the most important of exercises of late. (Having my laptop stolen has also played its part; you can just never switch off in these parts.)

No more Mr Blog guy?

Now, truth be told, this lack of enthusiasm to write isn't just because of the aforementioned. No. The thing is, there's been a slight refocusing of energies.

Basically, the blog posting has always been a labour of love. Well, the Google blog initially had a small chance of becoming profitable, but, as detailed at the time, that lucrative avenue was closed off years back.

This blog, launched back in late 2011, and the El Tiempo space which began at the beginning of 2014, were started with a view to being springboards to something greater. For the record, there has never been any hope of getting financial reward for the El Tiempo blog.

In some ways, they have served this route-to-reward purpose. They've maintained my hand in journalism of sorts as well as, so I like to think anyway, helping to develop my writing skills (I class myself a broadcaster first and foremost, the only full-time, professional job I've had in my life to date). 

It's unlikely I would have been used for reports from here for Ireland's national broadcaster RTÉ if I hadn't the blogs to prove my credentials.

The El Tiempo blog also played an important part in getting an independent visa as a journalist, something I've had for the last four years and hoping to get again if and when I get the new paperwork requirement sorted out. Let's just say La Cancillería hasn't made the visa process any easier.

Pet projects

These blog benefits now, however, appear to be on the wane. Other things have become more worthy of devotion, at least for the time being.

In a previous post this year I alluded to writing a book on my experiences here in Colombia. That's still a work in progress, slow progress. 

Indeed, while I will finish it, it may never see the light of day in terms of getting it published, be that self-published or otherwise. Whatever the case, trying to put it together is proving to be an interesting, worthwhile experience.

On top of this, the prospect of working on a long-yearned-for project with other Colombian media groups is back on the table. Or at least it seems that way. More meat should be put on the bones of that in the next few weeks and months.

If not, it will more than likely signal the time to hit for the exit door — I can't keep ignoring these signs. It would have been nice to try this project with El Tiempo considering I've been writing on its website the last four-and-a-half years, but that hasn't been possible. It's been a closed shop.

Thus, while I don't intend to scrap the blog-writing completely — it can be a bit of an addiction — the frequency of posts will drop considerably.

The barrio panadería lifestyle isn't that excessive, but one still needs to earn a bit to put that bread on the table.
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Colombia: The risk is seeing your paradise go up in flames

We don't have to go too far back to find a time when Colombia was pretty much considered a no-go area.

At the turn of the millennium, only the true adventurous, nay mad in the head, would consider visiting the country as a tourist, let alone actually settle down and invest decent time and money in it.

For the last number of years, as most readers of this blog will know, this negative reputation has been rapidly changing.

Uribe's utopia

The peace agreement signed with the Farc guerrillas in 2016, officially ending over half-a-century of internal conflict between that group and government forces, was a significant moment in this regard.

Up in smoke: The damage caused to 'Finca Entre Ríos'.

Yet, as important as that has been at an official level, the truth is this viewing of Colombia in a much more positive light internationally had begun years before.

Unpalatable as this may be to many Colombians today, especially younger generations, between 2002 and 2010, under the hawkish presidency of Álvaro Uribe, the general security situation improved considerably.

Whether the ends justified the heavy-handed means — heavier on some violent types more so than others, it could be said — is something still being discussed today.

A home from home

Nonetheless, from a tourism perspective, visiting the many natural gems the country has to offer became much less risky, for locals and foreigners alike.

This trend, some hotspots notwithstanding, has been continuing.

Alongside increasing tourist numbers, a not-insignificant number of foreigners have made Colombia their home. They've voted with their feet in a positive way, demonstrating to those who care to listen that this place is not the violent backwater some in the more 'developed' world still think it is.

At times, however, the country gives us all a little reminder that it has a bit to go before we can compare it favourably with other, more established spots when it comes to investing in it. Quite a bit to go.

Para-dise's price

One of these more sinister sides is extortion, which reared its ugly head for fellow Irishman Patrick Fleming who has called Santa Marta his home since 2001. While we've heard stories of police being directly and unashamedly involved in this practice, this particular example is to do with suspected paramilitaries.

In some ways, that Patrick managed to avoid trouble for so long could be seen as good fortune. Paramilitaries did operate in the area in question when he first arrived, but nothing untoward had ever happened.

That aside, when your little piece of paradise on the Caribbean, a magical place visited by this blog last year, gets deliberately burnt to the ground at any stage, it's difficult to view it in a positive light.

In fact, after years developing his 'Finca Entre Ríos' at Paso del Mango on the foothills of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, where he provided employment for a young family, this arson attack now has the generally easygoing Patrick and his Colombian wife contemplating their future in the region.

The reason it happened is quite simple.

Pay or go?

Earlier in the year Paso del Mango's small community experienced a number of petty robberies. Shortly afterwards a hotel in the area was approached and asked to pay the dreaded 'vacuna', the word for protection money in these parts.

The community got together and decided they wouldn't fork out the cash to the extortionists. Extra police protection was asked for, which duly came. It didn't last, though.

As a further buffer, the community also managed to get additional army patrols, but again, the frequency of these soon decreased.

Thus, with little sustained help from state authorities, be it by accident or design, the rather secluded community was ripe for the picking. Cue the arson attack.

Now, it must be said that one man was arrested and charged in connection with the incident. Authorities seem content, by all accounts, that they've done their bit.

Yet, for Patrick and the Paso del Mango community in general it's a question of, 'What next?'

Mob rule appears to have taken hold, where the only options seem to be pay up or leave. The hope is that this retrograde step is just temporary.
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Up your Paipa

Since we first came to know a few years back of the various Irishmen who played significant roles in modern Colombia's history, the town of Paipa came into our sights.

That's because the main park/square of the somewhat popular tourist spot is named after Dublin-born James Rooke — well they've Hispanicised the name to Jaime Rook, but we won't castigate them for that. The park is also home to a bust in his honour, in need of a power wash and lick of paint as it is.

The bust of James Rooke, aka Jaime Rook; we think!

Irish, English or Colombian?

Coronel Rooke fought and died here in the wars of independence against the Spanish.

How Irish he felt is open to debate. As the story goes, when he lost his arm in battle he shouted, "Viva la patria" ("Live the homeland"). When asked if that was Ireland or England, he is alleged to have responded, "The country that will bury me." Now, as far as we are aware, although we've been unable to get it confirmed, he's buried in Colombia.

That aside, considering Paipa is less than a three-hour drive from the north of Bogotá, it falls inside our 'short escape from the madness of the metropolis' category.

It's not quite the 'pueblito' we were expecting — it's a decent enough sized town. Yet, it's still far more chilled-out than midweek Bogotá (OK, that's not too hard to achieve, in fairness).

Lake placid

Like other lake-side towns we've visited through the years — Queenstown in New Zealand and Chile's Pucón spring to mind — it seems to have a very pleasant vibe to it. The man-made Lake Sochagota's tranquillity appears to exert a calming influence on the locals. (It might be slightly different at the weekend when more visitors are about, but the locals say it doesn't change that much.)

Paipa from a high.

For those, like ourselves, who like to do their own thing, a stroll around the lake, with a 1.6-kilometre surface area, is a nice way to take it in and get some light exercise in the process.

If you're up for something a little more taxing, great views of the town, lake and surrounding countryside can be got by trekking up the hills to the north, behind the church on the main square.

Kayaking and other activities on the lake are also an option, but for our short stay on a tight budget, we gave them a miss.

Hot springs are another popular attraction that we left out — we've experienced our fair share of them.

Cheesy cazuela

From a culinary perspective, Paipa is known for its dairy-related products, particularly cheese.

In this regard, the cazuela Paipana is worth a try to kick-start your day. It's basically a super-charged changua, packed with almojábanas (a rather delicious-when-just-baked type of cheesy bread made from corn flour, another favourite in these parts) and decent offerings of quality cheese.

Hearty & wholesome-ish! Cazuela Paipana.

Speaking to some other Colombians, Paipa has a bit of a reputation for being costly in terms of accommodation. For sure, there are a number of relatively expensive, 'fancy' hotels overlooking the lake, but budget lodgings can be found as well.

The respectable Canada Hotel has single rooms from 20.000 pesos per night. It's not gold standard, but it more than adequately does the job.*

All told, and not that we're making any connection with James Rooke, but if Paipa was to be our last Bogotá escape before we potentially have to leave the country (very much alive, though, we hope), it's not a bad one to go out on.

*Canada Hotel is on Carrera 20 #23-61, just a few blocks away from Parque Jaime Rook. The friendly owner Adelaida can be contacted on +573138314483.

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All that you can't leave behind

Many people on the outside looking in think our Colombian life is kind of cool. An exotic existence, away from the dreary 9-5 drag with a nice amount of time to travel.

On that score, it is. Our work life is anything but 9-5, Colombia certainly is exotic and we've been able to explore a fair chunk of it.

What's more, a few somewhat surreal 'acting' gigs have come our way that were enjoyable to be part of.

The end of an era?

Nonetheless, when you do the same, economically unstable thing for a number of years, the gloss does wear off. It's not for nothing there's the saying, 'A change is as good as a rest.'

Of course, making that change is not always easy. Plus, it's not always clear when we should make it and what exactly it should be. As we've oft said, that grass over yonder may not be as green as we think.

However, if there's a feeling that progress isn't really being made as regards the current situation, then it's probably a good time to shake things up, even if it is a step into the unknown as such a move often is.

We've become somewhat cosy in our Colombian comfort zone, albeit one that for most other high-income Westerners would be anything but comfortable.

Now, it is easier, in theory anyway, to move on when things aren't going to plan (we do have a rough plan, honestly we do).

So the fact that the goalposts to obtain what is a 'key' fifth consecutive independent work visa have moved should make bidding adieu to Colombia a less difficult decision. (For the record, after five back-to-back year-long visas you are entitled to apply for residency, which itself lasts for five years.)

With official Colombia making it harder for us to stay coupled with our own long-lingering doubts about being here, it could be said it's a no-brainer. Our previous four work visas were obtained with little hassle, thus opting to 'give it a lash' for another year required less soul-searching.

This time around the thinking is, 'If you're going to make it more complicated to stay here, no thank you.' It's not like we're looking to stay in everyone's favourite Latino country, Venezuela. (It's a joke, relax. Although, it does seem our loyalty to Colombia over the years has counted for nothing!)

Yet, Colombia has been home since late 2011. As frustrating as many things have been during our almost seven years here, there have been plenty of highlights as well. 

It's proving to be more difficult than we'd thought to just quietly walk away from it all. (Not having something concrete to go to elsewhere is playing a significant part, for sure.)

In some ways, it's a similar mindset to the one a rather green 'Wrong Way' had back in 2008 before making the decision to leave Ireland and take flight for a period of solo travelling.

Once on the road, the many hiccups aside, it was a case of, 'What was all the fuss about?'

With that as a guide, ten years on albeit and slightly more concerned about our financial situation, leaving our Colombian comfort zone is unlikely to prove fatal. Unlikely that is; things could happen outside of our control.

In any case, while losing our work visa status will be a little bit deflating, the option to stay here as a tourist until the year is out is still on the table.

We don't have to drop everything in an instant. Although, at times, that's the best strategy to adopt. When it's done, it's done. Move on, at haste.
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Colombia's EPS: All in its own good time

After over six years based in Bogotá, we've experienced many aspects of Colombian life, from the hugely enjoyable to the utterly frustrating.

However, there's one thing that, thankfully, we've yet to sample (and hopefully never will): The health service (well, that and scopolamine).

OK, we've had to get some dental work done, but that was a private affair, not through any health scheme, and not a sickness issue either — having front teeth isn't completely essential, is it? (On that, um, front, it did take some time to find a trustworthy, reasonably-priced dentist. We got there in the end, though.)

Sura: Seen as one of the best EPSs out there ... (Image from Facebook.)

That aside, the 'opportunity' hasn't arisen to use an EPS ('Entidad Promotora de Salud', health-promoting entity), the somewhat private health service that's the default option for the majority of Colombians.

Basically, for a relatively small monthly fee, you get what results in pretty much free health care when the need arises.

For the very poor there are other, government-subsidised options, while private health insurance is a more attractive alternative for wealthier Colombians. Yet, going through an EPS is where it's at for most.

There are many of them to choose from, all operating in more or less the same way. Naturally enough, some are rated better than others — the EPS you use determines which clinic or hospital you get sent to for any specialised treatment you may need.

Thus, they function as a sort of middleman between you and the medical specialists. Minor issues are generally dealt with by a GP at an EPS clinic.

For problems of a more serious nature, but not emergency life-or-death ones, your EPS has to grant approval before any treatment is given. It does foot the bill after all — with a little help from your small monthly contribution, of course (and the government in some cases).

So that the EPS has to give prior authorisation is fine, in theory. In practice, however, it can lead to a lot of time wasted waiting in line just to get signed off for surgery or whatever.

Take the case of a friend who was in a bicycle accident recently. His EPS sent him to hospital — unnecessarily by ambulance as it was — for an X-ray of his injured arm. The doctor who saw him first up was unsure if surgery was needed or not. Further examinations were required to determine that but they couldn't be done at that specific time.

Our friend got a temporary cast on his arm and was told he'd have to come back to fully ascertain the extent of the damage. But before that could happen, he had to return to his EPS to get the green light.

In short, for practically every additional step in his treatment, he had to keep on going back to the EPS for official approval. The result was that a whole three weeks passed from the date of his accident before he was told surgery was necessary. And, before that surgery could actually happen, the EPS had to give the official stamp of approval. All rather convoluted.

Nonetheless there is some method to this medical madness. It helps to ensure that the EPS isn't forking out for unnecessary, costly procedures.

You see, so it goes, some of these institutions have been rather lax, in a beneficial way albeit, about their patients' needs, resulting in their accounts requiring some emergency treatment of their own.

Somebody eventually has to pay for expensive medical operations. And somebody has to, or at least should, pay the professionals carrying them out. That doesn't always happen in the Colombian health service. We've heard stories of doctors waiting months for their remuneration.

Being that as it is, we're happy not to be an extra burden on the system. Long may it stay that way.
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