Last week I got new gig writing about the Colombian presidential election, which required a little research. It seemed wise to start at the campaign headquarters of the two front-runners.
Currently ahead by a nose is Antanas Mockus. He is a flamboyant character with a Michael-Eavis beard, promising clean politics, change and hope. All good, inspiring stuff, apart from the disastrous beard.
The poll-topping status of the Green Party candidate must come as much as a surprise to him as it does to everyone else. It had been assumed the election would be a victory for Juan Manuel Santos, the supposed heir elect of the wildly popular President Uribe.
Only behind by a whisker, Santos was Defence Minister during the Uribe government, which its supporters credit for pacifying the Farc and saving Colombia from anarchy. He promises continuity, which is difficult to find overly exciting but possibly vote-worthy.
Were they ice creams, Mockus would Ben and Jerry’s (strong, in-your-face new flavours that you’ll love or hate) to Santos’ Haagen Dazs (classics that are comforting or you're sick to death of).
The two HQs are walking distance from each other in the affluent north, which was thoughtful of the party organisers.
A short, spluttering bus ride up the Septima took me to the Green centre of operations. Cleared through security, I was inside the smart, converted family house, which is now home to countless, terribly busy people in green T-shirts.
The walls were covered in signs about upcoming flash mobs and funky posters of their candidates. Posters were hurriedly passed to hard-working activists in green Converse boots emblazed with the party’s sunflowers symbol, slurping (I assume) organic espresso from biodegradable plastic cups.
Further back, cooler, older heads discussed strategy. The charming press lady spoke like the Skatman’s Latina cousin on speed.
The atmosphere was of place where a lot of highly focussed people were going about their business but still finding time for a little flirting and a laugh. In short, if they win, I imagine the party will be a lot of fun—assuming they can find enough fair-trade booze.
And so to Haagen Daaz. A three-block walk past the elegant locals and a couple of tiny, displaced indigenous women breast-feeding infants took me to the U Party HQ.
Rather than an evil empire hidden inside a volcano, it looked like it had recently been a functional municipal building.
For a party selling itself on its trustworthy security credentials, it was a surprise to walk straight in without any of the guards asking who I was.
Once inside, I wondered through the building, which had seen better days, looking for the reception.
I was expecting a lot of sharp-suited, US-educated political experts. Instead a youth with a heavily pierced nose sat next to his mother at the reception desk, in front of a quad/building site. Having asked to speak to their media department, I followed the lad about on his search for the illusive dahlings.
Our quest proved fruitless, and we eventually discovered that they were in another building. Alastair Campbell would have been distinctly unimpressed, he might even have sworn.
The media department were a block away in a lovely adapted home, like the Greens’. Past security, I was shown into what would have been the wood-lined dining room.
Something felt wrong, and then I realised that the whole house lacked any sign of a forthcoming election. It also lacked people. There were banks of computers with one person sat on his own—there was no sign of urgency here.
An elegant, young Colombiana arrived. While she was undeniably convivial and extremely professional; taken as a whole, the Santos brand was looking rather uninspired and shapeless.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Saving Panamericano
Yesterday I had lunch in a relaxed Hare Krishna restaurant overlooking Caracas—one of the city’s main thoroughfares. Unusually, the traffic was noisily backed up for blocks.
Throughout the meal, the air was angrily pierced like a teenage goth’s ears with endless horns and policemen’s whistles. I dread to think what it did to the staff’s chakras.
Intrigued by the brouhaha, I strolled down the street not knowing what to expect. Despite the motorbike police heading towards the problem, pedestrians heading the other way seemed relaxed—there were no signs of outrage, blood or the effects of tear gas.
I arrived at the crossroads to find an unusually enervated school trip. Uniformed children were blocking the city’s Transmilenio bus route and the traffic in all directions.
Like a precocious St Trinians student, a 10-year-old girl happily faced a line of her classmates who were blocking the road, while she led them in an exuberant chant; behind the children, the girl faced a black, tank-like vehicle.
Kids sat in the route of the buses, preventing their passage. They had shut down the city’s entire flagship public transport system and two of the cities main arties. And why?
Their school, Panamericano, was to be knocked down and they did not want to let it happen.
While they fought for its survival, their headmaster stood anxiously on the pavement. When I tried to speak to him, he spotted some movement from the police and was desperate to get away.
The headmaster’s students, however, were not so easily intimidated. After some four hours, a police chief arrived. He was clearly angry and vented this to the TV cameras. His frustration was quickly drowned out by a girl, who may have been as old as 14, expressing the views of the members of the school.
The evening rush hour was approaching and clearly this could not continue indefinitely. The police had been told that enough was enough.
I’d been told that to end demonstrations, Colombian police routinely use tear gas, which in my limited experience is not much fun.
To whistles and jeers from the children, the riot tanks fired up and trundled towards us. This was no idle threat; they meant business and we all ran: kids, press, police.
It seemed the cannon knew no distinction, I watched water spray off the back of a laughing policeman’s tabard. As we all ran for cover from the menacing vehicles and despite the riot police in their wake, the sense of fun seemed to continue—adrenalin and laughter reigned.
Part of me remembered the last day of Common Week, when the fire brigade would spray the squealing kids on Chorleywood Common.
Perhaps I had been deceived by their earlier composure. As I hung down a side street, a girl ran up to me. Hers was not the face of shock and exhilaration from cold water, she was terrified.
One boy purposefully knocked over a police motorbike as he ran—this was not playing the game. He was grabbed and hit by a policeman, an adult remonstrated, and the boy was taken away.
Clearly, while the children knew they were playing a grown-ups' game, the adults would only indulge them so far. Their school, Panamericano, is due to be demolished in a month; I hope they save it.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Going round the cheesey twist in Bogota
This was originally published at Food Tripper. Take a peak for an edited version complete with a snap or two.
There’s even a couple of films on Food Tripper TV.
Surely the foodie’s greatest joy on arriving in any new place is discovering the local gastronomy. The guidebooks are right, landmark museums and galleries can be a great source of culture. My tip is to make a beeline for them and, making the appropriate noises, nip round.
Then, and this is the important bit, hit the invariably excellent restaurant for a taste of what the country is really all about.
Bogotá’s major attractions are mainly around the Séptima (the equivalent to Oxford Street). Sundays are the best day to explore as the road is closed to traffic and freed up for pottering by bicycle and mincing by roller blade.
For a less-energetic jaunt, the road also offers dozens of delicious bargain treats, mostly catering to Colombians’ love of baked pastry and maize.
Setting a cheesy precedent for the day, my first and favourite snack was the arepa de choclo, where the thoroughfare skirts the Parque Nacional. Melted cheese oozed out between two delicious hot, smoky unleavened patties. It’s a moveable feast, as the baker built the wood-fire clay oven onto a silver tricycle herself.
To Colombians, the addition of cheese is as unquestionable as a bonus to a banker; separation is beyond comprehension, no matter how utterly inappropriate it may seem to anyone else.
The combination of saltiness and sweet is beloved by Rolos, as more simply Bogoteños call themselves. They devour cheese with everything: fruit salad, hot chocolate, ice cream, arequipe (caramel-like sauce)… I’ve learnt not to be surprised.
This eccentricity is partly explained by Colombia’s favourite cheeses. No Stinking Bishops, they’re dairy Coldplays: there’s really nothing to dislike—grated, they are more salty texture than flavour.
Along from my flat in the La Macarena district is a fabulous burger restaurant, La Hamburgueseria. The first time I ordered a cheeseburger, I was offered campesino (peasant) or doble crema (double cream) cheese. I asked which has more flavour. “Neither”, came the disappointing but honest reply.
After arepa de choclo, our next snack stop was for a pan de bono: delicious, soft dough bubbles with either cheese or guava jam blended into their centre. They’re widely available but my favourites are from a tiny café/fruit shop—the only bake pan de bono and mini pan de bono, so they’re invariably fresh and exquisite.
Past the vast cinema posters and fishing rod salesmen, who make an unlikely trade on the pavement, is 18th street. A left towards the looming forested mountains flanking the city is a flourishing baker, the Yogurteria. I’m sure their yoghurts are delicious but I’ll never know, as they also sell pastries.
While all the usual suspects are available, my favourite is dangerously hot arequipe in flaky pastry. Unspeakably delicious, it’s only for the sweetest of teeth and most diet averse. I love them. Even Greggs would blanche at selling this to the public: a moment on the lips, a lifetime clogging the pulmonary artery. They probably wouldn’t be legal.
Colombia’s most famous street food is the empanada, which I expected to adore. However, experimentation exposed a sort of fried Cornish pastry, the colour of a radioactive fish finger. Disappointed, I returned to the Séptima.
Despite the setback, I vowed to continue to keep an open mind and greet each offer welcomingly. So when a pretty but bored teenage girl offered me a flier, I looked in her eyes, flashed a winning smile and said: “Perfect, just what I needed!”
A discrete distance later and approaching a bin, I looked down at the flier: “XXX cinema, gay, couple, lesbians”. In retrospect, she had looked a little bemused.
There is a danger that the lure of the new leads to recklessness. In London, I would never buy a hotdog from one of those dirty-finger-nailed sellers’ malodorous stalls; no matter how “relaxed” I was. Go abroad, however, and I’m much more open-minded.
But even I have my limits. Some things are instinctively A Bad Idea. I once met a girl in an internet café crying from pain having eaten a cow’s heart fried over a kerosene stove after a night’s carousing. Fresh from the clean streets of Stockholm, she’d caught her system somewhat unprepared.
I have a more conservative approach to gastronaughting. There’s plenty of delicious street food here without venturing into the meaty vats bubbling on the pavement by the Parque Nacional.
While the providence of the beef is unknown, there are cows living in the more bucolic top end of Parque Nacional. Chewing the cud, they ruminate thoughtfully over the vast cityscape below them.
Despite their setting, a few hundred metres from the “centro internacional” of one of Latin America’s financial hot spots, the cows’ presence is less incongruous than some of the foods combined with their cheese.
Further along the Séptima—past the displaced families, fruit hawkers, (grated cheese an optional extra) and crazies—on the corner of Plaza de Bolívar is a charming oblea seller’s stand. Oblea is a circular wafer sandwich, smeared with arequipe, jam, thick sweetened cream and, of course, grated cheese. Post-lunch office workers get through them like Pac Man devouring pac-dots, while I found a whole one rather testing.
Besides, it was time for the national institution of onces (elevenses), when Rolos dip blocks of cheese into hot chocolate. I like to think someone once had a cheese fondue followed by a chocolate fondue, languorously dragged themselves upright and cried: “Eureka!” To me, the combination is as strange as taking elevenses at 4pm but that’s when it’s taken here.
This peculiar practice is most famously enjoyed at the Puerta Falsa. The tiny old café is off the Plaza de Bolívar in the colonial Candelaria tourist and government area. Generations of elevenses-takers have spent their afternoons here peeling strands of chocolate-flavoured cheese from their chins.
Surprisingly given its popularity, I found the blend of cheese and hot chocolate exactly as bad as it sounded. The campesino gave an oily sheen to the hot chocolate and I can only assume the flavour must be acquired in childhood.
In Puerta Falsa’s window was a range of outrageously enticing sweets. But this was no time for a snack, I ought to take in some culture at the nearby Museo del Oro (Gold Museum). However, I really felt I had eaten enough.
There’s even a couple of films on Food Tripper TV.
Surely the foodie’s greatest joy on arriving in any new place is discovering the local gastronomy. The guidebooks are right, landmark museums and galleries can be a great source of culture. My tip is to make a beeline for them and, making the appropriate noises, nip round.
Then, and this is the important bit, hit the invariably excellent restaurant for a taste of what the country is really all about.
Bogotá’s major attractions are mainly around the Séptima (the equivalent to Oxford Street). Sundays are the best day to explore as the road is closed to traffic and freed up for pottering by bicycle and mincing by roller blade.
For a less-energetic jaunt, the road also offers dozens of delicious bargain treats, mostly catering to Colombians’ love of baked pastry and maize.
Setting a cheesy precedent for the day, my first and favourite snack was the arepa de choclo, where the thoroughfare skirts the Parque Nacional. Melted cheese oozed out between two delicious hot, smoky unleavened patties. It’s a moveable feast, as the baker built the wood-fire clay oven onto a silver tricycle herself.
To Colombians, the addition of cheese is as unquestionable as a bonus to a banker; separation is beyond comprehension, no matter how utterly inappropriate it may seem to anyone else.
The combination of saltiness and sweet is beloved by Rolos, as more simply Bogoteños call themselves. They devour cheese with everything: fruit salad, hot chocolate, ice cream, arequipe (caramel-like sauce)… I’ve learnt not to be surprised.
This eccentricity is partly explained by Colombia’s favourite cheeses. No Stinking Bishops, they’re dairy Coldplays: there’s really nothing to dislike—grated, they are more salty texture than flavour.
Along from my flat in the La Macarena district is a fabulous burger restaurant, La Hamburgueseria. The first time I ordered a cheeseburger, I was offered campesino (peasant) or doble crema (double cream) cheese. I asked which has more flavour. “Neither”, came the disappointing but honest reply.
After arepa de choclo, our next snack stop was for a pan de bono: delicious, soft dough bubbles with either cheese or guava jam blended into their centre. They’re widely available but my favourites are from a tiny café/fruit shop—the only bake pan de bono and mini pan de bono, so they’re invariably fresh and exquisite.
Past the vast cinema posters and fishing rod salesmen, who make an unlikely trade on the pavement, is 18th street. A left towards the looming forested mountains flanking the city is a flourishing baker, the Yogurteria. I’m sure their yoghurts are delicious but I’ll never know, as they also sell pastries.
While all the usual suspects are available, my favourite is dangerously hot arequipe in flaky pastry. Unspeakably delicious, it’s only for the sweetest of teeth and most diet averse. I love them. Even Greggs would blanche at selling this to the public: a moment on the lips, a lifetime clogging the pulmonary artery. They probably wouldn’t be legal.
Colombia’s most famous street food is the empanada, which I expected to adore. However, experimentation exposed a sort of fried Cornish pastry, the colour of a radioactive fish finger. Disappointed, I returned to the Séptima.
Despite the setback, I vowed to continue to keep an open mind and greet each offer welcomingly. So when a pretty but bored teenage girl offered me a flier, I looked in her eyes, flashed a winning smile and said: “Perfect, just what I needed!”
A discrete distance later and approaching a bin, I looked down at the flier: “XXX cinema, gay, couple, lesbians”. In retrospect, she had looked a little bemused.
There is a danger that the lure of the new leads to recklessness. In London, I would never buy a hotdog from one of those dirty-finger-nailed sellers’ malodorous stalls; no matter how “relaxed” I was. Go abroad, however, and I’m much more open-minded.
But even I have my limits. Some things are instinctively A Bad Idea. I once met a girl in an internet café crying from pain having eaten a cow’s heart fried over a kerosene stove after a night’s carousing. Fresh from the clean streets of Stockholm, she’d caught her system somewhat unprepared.
I have a more conservative approach to gastronaughting. There’s plenty of delicious street food here without venturing into the meaty vats bubbling on the pavement by the Parque Nacional.
While the providence of the beef is unknown, there are cows living in the more bucolic top end of Parque Nacional. Chewing the cud, they ruminate thoughtfully over the vast cityscape below them.
Despite their setting, a few hundred metres from the “centro internacional” of one of Latin America’s financial hot spots, the cows’ presence is less incongruous than some of the foods combined with their cheese.
Further along the Séptima—past the displaced families, fruit hawkers, (grated cheese an optional extra) and crazies—on the corner of Plaza de Bolívar is a charming oblea seller’s stand. Oblea is a circular wafer sandwich, smeared with arequipe, jam, thick sweetened cream and, of course, grated cheese. Post-lunch office workers get through them like Pac Man devouring pac-dots, while I found a whole one rather testing.
Besides, it was time for the national institution of onces (elevenses), when Rolos dip blocks of cheese into hot chocolate. I like to think someone once had a cheese fondue followed by a chocolate fondue, languorously dragged themselves upright and cried: “Eureka!” To me, the combination is as strange as taking elevenses at 4pm but that’s when it’s taken here.
This peculiar practice is most famously enjoyed at the Puerta Falsa. The tiny old café is off the Plaza de Bolívar in the colonial Candelaria tourist and government area. Generations of elevenses-takers have spent their afternoons here peeling strands of chocolate-flavoured cheese from their chins.
Surprisingly given its popularity, I found the blend of cheese and hot chocolate exactly as bad as it sounded. The campesino gave an oily sheen to the hot chocolate and I can only assume the flavour must be acquired in childhood.
In Puerta Falsa’s window was a range of outrageously enticing sweets. But this was no time for a snack, I ought to take in some culture at the nearby Museo del Oro (Gold Museum). However, I really felt I had eaten enough.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Bullfighting: sherry, coiffures and ballsy men in pink tights
Bullfighting does not have a good press outside of its heartlands and I was interested to see what its fans found to enjoy. The detractors’ case seems pretty clear.
The handsome bullring was packed with an older crowd. We’d shelled out a wopping £70 to spend a couple of hours perched on a few inches of cement to watch livestock being slaughtered.
There was a lot of anticipation and excitement for this—the last event of the season and starred the celebrated José Tomas. The atmosphere was not dissimilar a Latin American version of corporate seats at Twickenham before an international, only with a lot more women and sherry.
Having belted out the national anthem, the freshly coiffered crowd returned to joking, blowing kisses to friends and arcing sherry into their mouths from suede gourds held an extravagant arm’s length away. So far, so good.
The arrival of the bullfighters into the amphitheatre was greeted with cheers. There was no doubting their courage. Not many men can carry off pink stockings into embroidered bib, shoulder pads complete with hanging baubles, and ballet shoes. And do it with machismo.
The first bull, Divinio, was released. Huge, pitch black and furious; he belted around—goaded in his search for something to clatter.
The first matador stepped out with only a pink and yellow cape to protect himself. To cries of “Olé!”, he encouraged the bull to charge at him and get as close as possible.
While the result of the fight may be forgone conclusion, the danger is real. The fighters really have balls—tights don’t allow a great deal of modesty. I couldn't fail to notice that they all ostentatiously dressed to the left. A wayward horn would spell reproductive disaster. Not to mention death.
Two horsemen “picadors” then entered the ring—the heavily padded rides with their eyes covered. To whistles of disapproval, one of the riders speared the bull between his shoulder blades.
Two more men entered the ring with short, brightly decorated harpoons. They eyeballed the bull from a few yards and then ran at it in an attempt to pierce between the bull’s shoulder blades. One of them, El Gourdo—the fat one—was roared with approval as he daintily leapt past the horns, hammered the harpoons home and then vaulted the wall surrounding the ring, with his feet high over his head.
All this was the introduction for the return of the bullfighter, now sporting red cape and sword. This was the time for bull and fighter to perform a peculiar stylized dance, with the fighter showing his control over a half-ton of aggressive bull.
The band broke into pasodobles and the crowd shouted encouragement for a good fight. I was in no position to judge the standard of the performance but there was no doubting the crowd’s infectious excitement.
Eventually, the fighter faced up to the weakened bull, holding the sword over his head, parallel to the sandy floor. We fell deathly silent, the fighter would run, leap over the horns and attempt to sink his sword.
I asked the friend next to me how bull fighting was defined. "Not as a sport but an art," he said. Now, I've been to Tate Britain and bull fighting is more complicated than that: it’s also living history, pantomime, Roman games and bloody slaughterhouse. Much more like Tate Modern.
The bulls’ jet-black hide disguises blood, they make no noise and show no signs of pain or fear. Bloody sand is quickly removed. As such, exposure to the reality of what must be really bloody excruciating is minimized, making the event more palatable to view. If bulls were white and squealed like boiling lobster it would be a much tougher spectacle to appreciate.
In some senses, the cruelty does appear to be limited: administering a clean kill is congratulated. Failure to do so leads to growing discontent from the rumbustious crowd. The result of really great fight is not the death of the bull, instead the crowd calls “Indulto!” If the president of the fight agrees, the bull sees out his days siring further celebrated animals for the ring.
And I assume the toreador must also occasionally come out second.
The penultimate fight built to a crescendo with the crowd shouting Ole and flapping white scarves. It was a truly incredible atmosphere as the kill approached.
Silence. The fighter soared, perfectly administering the coup de grace, the sword disappearing to the hilt. To a man, the roaring crowd rose to its feet.
This was it, the finale of the best fight of the season. Adrenalin ripped round the arena. Everyone seemed to be waving a white scarf. Flowers, hats and cushions were thrown in the ring. The bull stumbled and fell. I felt an overwhelmingly wave of sadness.
One of my group at the fight was a regular. I asked him why he went so often. “To see one like that,” he replied.
The handsome bullring was packed with an older crowd. We’d shelled out a wopping £70 to spend a couple of hours perched on a few inches of cement to watch livestock being slaughtered.
There was a lot of anticipation and excitement for this—the last event of the season and starred the celebrated José Tomas. The atmosphere was not dissimilar a Latin American version of corporate seats at Twickenham before an international, only with a lot more women and sherry.
Having belted out the national anthem, the freshly coiffered crowd returned to joking, blowing kisses to friends and arcing sherry into their mouths from suede gourds held an extravagant arm’s length away. So far, so good.
The arrival of the bullfighters into the amphitheatre was greeted with cheers. There was no doubting their courage. Not many men can carry off pink stockings into embroidered bib, shoulder pads complete with hanging baubles, and ballet shoes. And do it with machismo.
The first bull, Divinio, was released. Huge, pitch black and furious; he belted around—goaded in his search for something to clatter.
The first matador stepped out with only a pink and yellow cape to protect himself. To cries of “Olé!”, he encouraged the bull to charge at him and get as close as possible.
While the result of the fight may be forgone conclusion, the danger is real. The fighters really have balls—tights don’t allow a great deal of modesty. I couldn't fail to notice that they all ostentatiously dressed to the left. A wayward horn would spell reproductive disaster. Not to mention death.
Two horsemen “picadors” then entered the ring—the heavily padded rides with their eyes covered. To whistles of disapproval, one of the riders speared the bull between his shoulder blades.
Two more men entered the ring with short, brightly decorated harpoons. They eyeballed the bull from a few yards and then ran at it in an attempt to pierce between the bull’s shoulder blades. One of them, El Gourdo—the fat one—was roared with approval as he daintily leapt past the horns, hammered the harpoons home and then vaulted the wall surrounding the ring, with his feet high over his head.
All this was the introduction for the return of the bullfighter, now sporting red cape and sword. This was the time for bull and fighter to perform a peculiar stylized dance, with the fighter showing his control over a half-ton of aggressive bull.
The band broke into pasodobles and the crowd shouted encouragement for a good fight. I was in no position to judge the standard of the performance but there was no doubting the crowd’s infectious excitement.
Eventually, the fighter faced up to the weakened bull, holding the sword over his head, parallel to the sandy floor. We fell deathly silent, the fighter would run, leap over the horns and attempt to sink his sword.
I asked the friend next to me how bull fighting was defined. "Not as a sport but an art," he said. Now, I've been to Tate Britain and bull fighting is more complicated than that: it’s also living history, pantomime, Roman games and bloody slaughterhouse. Much more like Tate Modern.
The bulls’ jet-black hide disguises blood, they make no noise and show no signs of pain or fear. Bloody sand is quickly removed. As such, exposure to the reality of what must be really bloody excruciating is minimized, making the event more palatable to view. If bulls were white and squealed like boiling lobster it would be a much tougher spectacle to appreciate.
In some senses, the cruelty does appear to be limited: administering a clean kill is congratulated. Failure to do so leads to growing discontent from the rumbustious crowd. The result of really great fight is not the death of the bull, instead the crowd calls “Indulto!” If the president of the fight agrees, the bull sees out his days siring further celebrated animals for the ring.
And I assume the toreador must also occasionally come out second.
The penultimate fight built to a crescendo with the crowd shouting Ole and flapping white scarves. It was a truly incredible atmosphere as the kill approached.
Silence. The fighter soared, perfectly administering the coup de grace, the sword disappearing to the hilt. To a man, the roaring crowd rose to its feet.
This was it, the finale of the best fight of the season. Adrenalin ripped round the arena. Everyone seemed to be waving a white scarf. Flowers, hats and cushions were thrown in the ring. The bull stumbled and fell. I felt an overwhelmingly wave of sadness.
One of my group at the fight was a regular. I asked him why he went so often. “To see one like that,” he replied.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Street life, XXX flicks and fishing rods
Even without a proper job, I try to avoid spending my days aimlessly wondering about Bogotá's calles and carreras in my slippers. But a look at local street culture gives a glimpse into the city’s soul and forces me to get out of the flat.
A friendly fellow by nature, when someone offers me a leaflet in the street, my instinct is to look them in the eye, smile broadly and say something like: “Fantastic! That’s exactly what I was need.” I like to think it makes a nice change to being treated like the Invisible Man.
Today, I went through my usual routine. In my mind, I’d put a little light the heart in the pretty teenage leafleteer. A discrete distance away and in reach of a bin, I looked at my new acquisition: “XXX cinema. Gay. Lesbian. Couples.”
In retrospect, her look had been a little quizzical.
The streets are a great place to go shopping for some specialist spontaneous purchases. Vying for trade are the expected magazine and snack stalls, ethno tat and food stands, you would expect.
Private DVD sellers also do a good trade. They’re a bargain too, only 65 pence for perfect versions of new films in a flimsy plastic sheath with a badly photocopied cover.
Memory sticks are also widely available. In an interesting piece of cross-marketing, these same salesmen also flog fishing rods. Not an obvious impromptu purchase and tricky to hide if the police arrive, none the less, they’re a common sight.
Another example of street-hawking optimism is the floggers of 12-foot high cinema posters. Who would suddenly decide they wanted a Saw IV poster, the size of an upended Land Cruiser, I have no idea but their ceilings must be an epic height.
A friendly fellow by nature, when someone offers me a leaflet in the street, my instinct is to look them in the eye, smile broadly and say something like: “Fantastic! That’s exactly what I was need.” I like to think it makes a nice change to being treated like the Invisible Man.
Today, I went through my usual routine. In my mind, I’d put a little light the heart in the pretty teenage leafleteer. A discrete distance away and in reach of a bin, I looked at my new acquisition: “XXX cinema. Gay. Lesbian. Couples.”
In retrospect, her look had been a little quizzical.
The streets are a great place to go shopping for some specialist spontaneous purchases. Vying for trade are the expected magazine and snack stalls, ethno tat and food stands, you would expect.
Private DVD sellers also do a good trade. They’re a bargain too, only 65 pence for perfect versions of new films in a flimsy plastic sheath with a badly photocopied cover.
Memory sticks are also widely available. In an interesting piece of cross-marketing, these same salesmen also flog fishing rods. Not an obvious impromptu purchase and tricky to hide if the police arrive, none the less, they’re a common sight.
Another example of street-hawking optimism is the floggers of 12-foot high cinema posters. Who would suddenly decide they wanted a Saw IV poster, the size of an upended Land Cruiser, I have no idea but their ceilings must be an epic height.
Friday, 18 December 2009
Heeeeey Macarena!
We’ve now moved to La Macarena. An optimist, I’d hoped the locals would pour out of the restaurants and bars to greet our arrival by performing “the dance”.
I was cruelly let down. However, I was pleased to see a policeman carrying an enormous gun sitting on the steps of our building.
Unlike equivalent blocks, ours doesn’t have a doorman. Instead, it is opposite a police school.
As a result, the 24/7 security that would usually be offered by a dozy doorman is provided by a succession of seemingly identical, heavily armed teenagers. All teenagers are dozy, even heavily armed ones.
In this sense, the police station is a clear security boon. However, there’s a flip side: if the charming young men are attacked in a riot or a bomb, we’re right in line for any over-enthusiastic rock throwers or the blast.
Still, no-where’s perfect; and La Macarena is restaurant-rich and right in the centre of town. On the downside, it’s also right next to Perseverancia.
We’re warned by everyone never to go there. It’s two blocks to the right of the flat and, yet, it’s so dodgy that we shouldn’t drive through it. Even during the day.
We’re told that La Macarena is also home to the son of President Uribe. Again this is a double-edged sword, security in his neighbourhood will always be tighter but on the other hand he must a tempting target to any hostage takers.
My fears that we’d hear the screech of endless sirens have proved unfounded. This morning, however, they were howling outside. Nervously, I peered through the window fearing the horrors unfolding on my doorstep.
Nothing had prepared me for the sight of a life-size nativity scene on a police float. The thin blue line was now dressed as cows, horses and—in a revisionist version of the holy birth—snowmen. It was the centre of cavalcade, complete with policewomen outriders in sexy Santa outfits.
Merry Christmas, all!
I was cruelly let down. However, I was pleased to see a policeman carrying an enormous gun sitting on the steps of our building.
Unlike equivalent blocks, ours doesn’t have a doorman. Instead, it is opposite a police school.
As a result, the 24/7 security that would usually be offered by a dozy doorman is provided by a succession of seemingly identical, heavily armed teenagers. All teenagers are dozy, even heavily armed ones.
In this sense, the police station is a clear security boon. However, there’s a flip side: if the charming young men are attacked in a riot or a bomb, we’re right in line for any over-enthusiastic rock throwers or the blast.
Still, no-where’s perfect; and La Macarena is restaurant-rich and right in the centre of town. On the downside, it’s also right next to Perseverancia.
We’re warned by everyone never to go there. It’s two blocks to the right of the flat and, yet, it’s so dodgy that we shouldn’t drive through it. Even during the day.
We’re told that La Macarena is also home to the son of President Uribe. Again this is a double-edged sword, security in his neighbourhood will always be tighter but on the other hand he must a tempting target to any hostage takers.
My fears that we’d hear the screech of endless sirens have proved unfounded. This morning, however, they were howling outside. Nervously, I peered through the window fearing the horrors unfolding on my doorstep.
Nothing had prepared me for the sight of a life-size nativity scene on a police float. The thin blue line was now dressed as cows, horses and—in a revisionist version of the holy birth—snowmen. It was the centre of cavalcade, complete with policewomen outriders in sexy Santa outfits.
Merry Christmas, all!
Friday, 11 December 2009
Bikes, camp Jazzercizers and a tumbling unicyclist
On Sunday, we hired bikes from a shop in the Candelaria, the colonial part of town. To the south, north and west, the city of nine million stretches endlessly. Only a few blocks to the east, it stops.
Here, civilization ends; huge green hills loom over the capital in a reminder of the wildness that still reigns over much of the country.
In the city, the police and soldiers keep the fragile status quo from seemingly every street corner.
However, this is a very pleasant city to live in, it would be easy not to pay too much attention to the madness beyond its border.
Every Sunday, one side of the major thoroughfare, the septima or seventh, is shut to traffic.
Bicyclists, runners and rollerbladers replace of the usual chuffing traffic. Stalls are set up on the street side to supply fruit, food and drink, and provide repairs.
I’d not ridden a bike since my jaunt down Bolivia’s Road of Death and Susi hadn’t cycled since we left England nearly two years ago. La Paz is not cycle-friendly, in the way that Kabul isn’t ideal for stag parties.
Frustrated bikers happily back on two wheels, we pottered happily along, finding our feet on the alien pedals and adjusting to the roads.
We were quickly drawn into the park by the promise of people watching and loos. Girls competed at street hockey; boys belted a football; a mixed group played capoeira, while twanging and chanting; hundreds bounced more or less camply in front of stage doing Jazzercise.
It was great to see people enjoying being outside, mostly lying about eating ice cream.
A boy was being taught to ride a bike, while a unicyclist practiced on a new higher ride. He pedalled into a group of cyclists and fell off. An uncharitable part of me, that had previously kept itself hidden, found this quite amusing.
That’s wrong, isn’t it?
Here, civilization ends; huge green hills loom over the capital in a reminder of the wildness that still reigns over much of the country.
In the city, the police and soldiers keep the fragile status quo from seemingly every street corner.
However, this is a very pleasant city to live in, it would be easy not to pay too much attention to the madness beyond its border.
Every Sunday, one side of the major thoroughfare, the septima or seventh, is shut to traffic.
Bicyclists, runners and rollerbladers replace of the usual chuffing traffic. Stalls are set up on the street side to supply fruit, food and drink, and provide repairs.
I’d not ridden a bike since my jaunt down Bolivia’s Road of Death and Susi hadn’t cycled since we left England nearly two years ago. La Paz is not cycle-friendly, in the way that Kabul isn’t ideal for stag parties.
Frustrated bikers happily back on two wheels, we pottered happily along, finding our feet on the alien pedals and adjusting to the roads.
We were quickly drawn into the park by the promise of people watching and loos. Girls competed at street hockey; boys belted a football; a mixed group played capoeira, while twanging and chanting; hundreds bounced more or less camply in front of stage doing Jazzercise.
It was great to see people enjoying being outside, mostly lying about eating ice cream.
A boy was being taught to ride a bike, while a unicyclist practiced on a new higher ride. He pedalled into a group of cyclists and fell off. An uncharitable part of me, that had previously kept itself hidden, found this quite amusing.
That’s wrong, isn’t it?
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