For a moment I thought I was at home; a cup of tea in one hand, cricket on the radio and a contented feeling. But this unusual peace was soon disturbed by a din outside, I looked down onto the street to see a very strange sight. A young man was enthusiastically playing an accordion, not so unusual for a Colombian street, but his audience was rather out of the ordinary: A group of about 20 armed policemen. They were dancing and singing around the accordion player, snapping photos of each other with their guns swinging precariously from side to side as they gyrated.
Ah yes, I’m in Bogotá I remembered and sipped my tea whilst watching the shenanigans below.
I was staying in an area of Bogotá called La Macarena (yes like the dance) with a journalist friend named Jon and his wife Susi. Their apartment was opposite the police station where apparently these sights were very common.
“We’ve seen them in dressing up costumes before, zebras, lions, bears, quite amusing.” Jon told me.
“But don’t be fooled they look a good bit scarier dressed up in all their riot gear.”
Police and military were everywhere in Bogotá and as far as I could tell not many of them looked older than about 22, but they were all toting huge guns and attempting to look menacing, well when they were not dancing around, texting their girlfriends or listening to their iPods. I couldn’t decide whether to be scared or laugh.
Bogotá has certainly changed since Paul Theroux’s visit. He was upset by the number of homeless street children he encountered and spent his time staggering from church to church, suffering from the altitude.
The altitude, luckily, did not affect me and there were far fewer homeless than in Paul’s day, although apparently far more drug dealers.
There seemed to be a plethora of memory stick/usb sellers every few metres as I strolled down Calle 7, I needed a usb so entered into a conversation with one of the men, but rather than a straightforward transaction things got very complicated, it was too much for my limited Spanish so I walked on, later learning that his usbs were only a front for selling cocaine. I saw a good many shoelace sellers on the streets also and pondered on their technique for selling cocaine if this was also a front. Did the length of the shoelace you purchased represent the amount or strength of cocaine you required?
When I had got my bearings I took a walk to the train station. The last piece of track on the line from Santa Marta to Bogotá was still being used for a Turistren and I was determined to investigate. I managed to purchase tickets for the steam train, which departed on Sunday, but before I left I was treated to some traditional Colombian hospitality in the form of… a Welsh pub.
Edgar, the pubs owner, had married a Colombian lady he had met in Spain, 40 years ago. The couple had lived in Bogotá for most of their lives, but I’m pretty sure Edgar still missed his homeland as he had created an authentic Welsh pub in his lounge room. The strange thing was it even smelled like a pub, photos of Wales and old issues of Mersey beat adorned the walls and a welcome glass of wine was placed in my hand. The situation felt rather surreal as Edgar regaled me with tales of his youth in London and Wales while several other ex pats arrived to celebrate a friend’s birthday.
It was as if I had been transported to Wales itself and I wasn’t sure if I was happy with that.
The next day saw the Turistren chuffing out of Bogotá’s La Sabana station. It really was a tourist train and any hopes I had of finding a real passenger train still running in Colombia faded into the distance with each raucous band that passed through our train carriage.
Despite this it was a great day out, topped off by a visit to a real country fair in one of the local villages. Bands warbled on the makeshift stage and men on horses paraded nearby. There was even a float parade, but to me it looked rather like several battered pick-up trucks camouflaged in various bits of tree.
The conversation in Bogotá had been very enjoyable, I was happy not to have to explain where I had travelled to or from or discuss the merits of how cheap my accommodation was or for how many years I had been on the road.
On the train to Bogotá Paul Theroux was plagued by a Frenchman with a sore throat who extolled to him the virtues of getting the bus because it was cheaper. This is a very common travellers boast and also a most tiresome one.
With these thoughts in mind I packed my bag and prepared to hit the road again. This time with plans to lie entirely about myself, my trip and the cost of my accommodation the next time an inquisitive traveller thought to ask, which was in fact on the way out of Bogotá as I headed southwest towards the Quindo pass.