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Published: September 11th 2010
Thursday 2nd September to Saturday 4th September, 2010 I was stood in the queue for check in at LAX for my 1.30am flight when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find a small, weathered Mexican man gazing up at me
“Excuse me sir, do you have a peen ?”
I knew I did but reluctant to go through the hassle of delving deep into my bag I in turn tapped one of the two elderly gentlemen stood next to me who seconds earlier had been writing baggage labels and repeated the question.
As I handed him the pen the Mexican thanked me and asked where I was going.
“Bogota” I replied
A blank expression washed over his face, something that was to become a common response to my spoken words throughout the next few days
“Colombia” I suggested in a slower, more pronounced manner
“Ah, Colombia”
“Yeah, Bogota”
“Ah, Bogota”. He nodded his head a couple of times before adopting a look of grave concern
“Be very careful, the people there, they have no respect”
I raised my eyebrows feigning a look of surprise that
hopefully said ‘oh really, thanks for your concern’, all the while recalling my Tijuana experience and the encounter with his countries law enforcement officers and thinking how he was a fine one to talk.
Fortunately I was saved from having to say as much when the girl at the desk gestured to me that it was my turn to check in and as I moved away he called after me as though I was about to enter the lion’s den in a voice loud enough to turn the heads of several by-standers,
“Good luck senor”.
Ten minutes later I was sat outside taking a last fix of nicotine for ten hours when I noticed him approaching delving nervously into a pack of Marlborough’s as he walked. We exchanged small talk for a couple of minutes but it was patently obvious he was having trouble understanding my speedy scouse brogue and after decimating his cigarette in four long hard draws he made to leave which he did with just five words “Good luck…and be carefool”!
Bloody hell, if what the Mexican was implying was true then the The Lonely Planet book I’d purchased the day before had,
Bogota; Mack The Knife
The Primate Cathedral.with the simple statement ‘Is it safe ? Simple answer; Yes’ obviously lured me into a false sense of security. What the hell was I letting myself in for ?
Three flights and twelve hours later my taxi pulled up outside The Chapinorte Hostel in the Zona Rosa district in the north of the city. I entered, checked in to a single bedded en suite cell and, with the re-assurances of hostel owner Antonio that the area was completely safe still ringing fresh in my ears immediately set out to explore.
It’s funny how you can build an image of something or somewhere in your mind before experiencing it first hand but my initial impressions of Bogota were that I should perhaps have used my invaluable vacation time to have travelled elsewhere.
Avenida 13, the main highway through a hectic commercial zone was dirty and run down, the sidewalk’s peppered with persistent hawkers selling everything from chewing gum to padlocks not to mention holes and level changes that made walking akin to completing a challenging army assault course. The traffic, which consisted of every conceivable variation of motor, horse and man propelled vehicle buzzed around here, there
and everywhere with a lack of discipline that told me only the strong or the very fortunate would survive.
The myriads of people too, who flitted around hurriedly like armies of ants and who judging by the amount of stares I was attracting were not used to seeing short wearing, white caucasion males amongst their numbers were surprisingly a predominantly indigenous and seemingly impoverished bunch. The beautiful, long legged Miss World’s I was expectantly hoping to see were definitely conspicuous by their absence !
If first impressions of Bogota were decidedly disappointing amends were more than made in my first full day in the city when I took a forty five minute, standing room only articulated bus ride to the La Candeleria district, the oldest part of town. Dating back to the 1500’s and centered around the pigeon infested La Plaza de Bolivar, La Candeleria is a chiefly residential area littered with beautiful colonial architecture, churches, museums, cobbled streets and, perhaps more importantly if the Mexican's word was anything to go by, police officers.
Feeling totally safe I spent the whole day walking and exploring stopping for lunch in a tiny colorfully painted restaurant on the hill.
I dined on Banjeda Paisa, a Colombian specialty dish consisting of an inconceivble mixture of rice, beans, avacado, plantain, ground beef, chicharron (fried pork rind), arepa (fried corn bread) and all topped off with a sunny side up fried egg and returned to the hostel bushed but ready for a Friday night out. Matt, a 29 year old from Blackburn was enjoying a drink in the kitchen with his Colombian girlfriend Adriana when I returned and I accepted their invitation to join them and a couple of her friends for the evening.
At least it was supposed to be for the evening but excitement, or maybe drink got too much for Matt and at 1am poor Adriana had to carry/escort him home. By this time we’d been joined by another hostel resident, Canadian James Whale lookalike Mark and when the bars closed we retired to the apartment of some local birthday celebrator’s we’d got chatting to. A whip round for beverages was arranged and one of them disappeared to the local liquor store returning five minutes later with no beer and no wine, just three bottles of Aguardiente, the local aniseed flavored, sugar cane based rocket fuel and two
packets of Lucky Strike cigarettes. By 7am with the bottles sat empty on the floor I decided I’d had enough.
I’d read several warnings about the safety of taxis, in particular bogus ones in Colombia and the advice offered by all the travel guides was to phone for one and to make note of the licence number and the drivers name. That’s all very well but being without a pen or a phone and longing for my bed I simply flagged down the first cab that passed and jumped in.
It immediately became apparent that the driver, a small, scruffy little man in his thirties had a fondness for Colombia’s favorite export and he wasn’t cradling a coffee cup. His eyes were glazed and his nose constantly dribbling causing him to inhale deep sniffs every fifteen seconds or so, either that or he was suffering a severe case of flu. His driving too, considering he was supposedly a professional was erratic to the point of reckless. To make matters even worse when I asked him to take me to the Unilago Metro, the large shopping center close to the hostel his shrugged response told me he had no
Bogota; Mack The Knife
Santuario Nacional de Nuestra Señora del Carmen idea whatsoever where or even what it was !
Bogota is flanked to the east by two large mountains and I knew we were south of the hostel so I pointed to them and beckoned him to drive reasoning that if we turned left somewhere along the line we’d soon be home. At this stage I was totally relaxed and settled down for the fifteen minute drive but when, after 45 minutes we found ourselves in the unfamiliar surroundings of a totally alien neighborhood my concerns started to grow. Flashing through my mind at regular intervals were the warnings I’d read prior to departure so I somehow managed to get across to him the need to stop and ask someone directions. He did so and as he returned to the car my heart stopped beating.
I glanced down and there on his seat was a slightly rusty, wooden handled, eight inch, serrated edged hunting knife. WTF ! I tried not to panic but my heart had started up again and was now racing. The streets were busy so surely he wouldn’t do anything silly like slit my throat in ana ttempt to rid me of my possessions. But
then again......
Ten minutes later, the whole duration of which had seen my sweaty hand tightly clutched around the door handle mentally preparing myself for a sidewards roll to the tarmac we came to a halt and before the wheels had barely stopped moving I’d thrown cash into his lap and was on the sidewalk heading briskly to the hostel door.
Antonio was on the computer in reception when I got in and I relayed my tale. He looked unfazed and nonchalantly explained that a couple of cabbies had been robbed recently and that the knife would have been purely for the driver's own protection. That didn’t help me or my condition.
The previous evening I’d asked Adriana for her thoughts on where else in her country I should visit. Before leaving the US I’d been planning to visit Cali, Colombia’s third largest city and the home of salsa but she insisted I must go to Cartagena instead. Who was I to argue ? I stood over as Antonio booked my 3pm flight, bade him good morning and went to my bed.
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