Hiya Mexico!

Hello Mexico!

Here I am. Home in the bosom of the family unit. Oh, I cannot tell you what songs my little heart was singing, when I saw Angela's ole face looming over that of all the wee tiny Mexicans at the airport. My trip was horrid (of course), so I was ready for the contrast.

I know everyone prefers it when things go wrong for me, so I shall tell the arrival story before the good bits.

My flights were even more ridiculous than I first intimated. With my limited, and inaccurate knowledge of Geography, I didn't realise Bogota to Florida, to LA, to Mexico was quite so silly. It was, and it was rendered more so, by the nightmare that was BlueJet. If you ever get the opportunity to fly with them, I caution you to refrain. They were uber crap. Firstly, you don't even get food. You get a rubbish "snack", aka three crumpled pretzels. The seats are tiny, and the staff are rude. 

Our first flight to Florida was late, which meant that when we landed I had about half an hour to recheck my baggage and get to my next flight. When we descended I told the dimwit "managing" the queue, that my flight was about to leave, so could I perhaps go to the front? She didn't know, but thought not. Well, would the flight be held? Probably not, but she wasn't sure. How was she meant to know? It wasn't her fault, ok? 

Loads of the Colombians in the queue were on the same connection, and were spanglishing anxiously. I somehow became the spokesperson for the whole departure lounge, and went into imperious victim mode. I "demanded" (in a quivery voice, so does it count?) to know why the flight wasn't being held for us, seeing as nearly everyone here was supposed to be on it. I used all the classics;

"If you're not responsible, then I want to talk to who is" 

"I'd like to take you're name please. I'm very unhappy and intend to make a complaint."

"This is a joke" 

Etc, etc. Patronising, brusque and dogged in my pursuit of the objective, I was repellant and horrifying, but sadly this achieved results.  Our flight was held, although we were told to run through the entirety of the airport as fast as we could (not very), so I arrived at boarding sweaty and disgusting and looking less Erin Brokovitchy than I felt.  

I had promised to "take care", of a spotty youth behind me in the queue who was terrified and had zero English... Sadly however, he got taken into the scary room at customs, and my fighting-for-the-wee-guy streak, ran out and I scampered off without him. There is only so much of an airport martyr you can be. I felt bad, but not as bad as when the little nyaff at the desk said "chop chop! You're a lucky girl!", which I was too out of breath to respond to. 

When we eventually left for LA, it was about -17 degrees on the plane. I asked for a blanket, and the flight attendant who was stuffing his face with crisps, said that they didn't have any since "swine flu". He agreed(chomp-crunch) that it was chilly (munch-munch) but couldn't be of help (munch-crunch). I used to think my manager in the restaurant was being a fascist when he berated me for stuffing my face in front of customers, but it turns out it IS rude. Who knew.

The seconds part of the journey was another close shave, but entirely self inflicted this time, as I made an extremely bizarre comment whilst going through security, about hiding contraband in my hair.  I have NO idea why; I can only surmise that it was a hysterical response to a long day.  I always get really worried I accidentally take through nuclear explosives, or heroin, and in general can't help but scuttle through customs like a rolling eyed, sweaty crim, even though I'm not actually a smuggler or drugs baron in real life. 

Lucky for me the lass was lovely. She gave me a wry look, and quietly said, "you shouldn't make jokes like that sweetie" before patting down my hair in a gentle way, and shoving me off. I was almost crying with relief. 

Anyway, 24 hours after leaving Bogota, I arrived in Mexico City; a bedraggled, if euphoric mess. Angela had come to pick me up, and we draped ourselves over each other for about three hours, in delight at being reunited.

She has found us a peerie flat in the Coyoacan area, which is where Frida Kahlo lived. It's very arty (the area-NOT the flat), and has a lot of pretty cobbled streets and lovely bunting everywhere. The main square is about 20 minutes away and is full of little street vendors selling whimsical ware. I got my fortune read by a blue bird, a peerie fellow who hops out of his weathered box and selects paper fortunes for you! So beautiful, and much nicer than a mouldy old tarot card. 

The markets are to die for in Coyoacan, with lots of spangled skeletons, exquisite pottery and beautiful traditional fabrics. I am avoiding it as I'm still broke at the moment till I get paid, and every time I leave the hoose I seem to return to it with more artisanal crap and nothing useful, despite the genuine call for practical goods (a tin opener for example).

We've already made the peerie flat into a haven of awful art (paper mâché skeletons, decoupaged bottles and crepe paper bouquets to name a few) and I am thrilled to have a bookshelf, a clothes cupboard, a bathroom cabinet and a spice rack. It's the little things. 

We have used two cans of industrial strength Raid, since we moved in, in an attempt to stem the steady flow of cockroaches. If I start to think about it too much I get hysterical. They are disgusting, especially in their death throes, twitching and flailing in a horrible way, which makes me feel a combination of remorse for the hideous death we've inflicted, and irritation at its delayed effectiveness. Of a similar ilk, there is a man outside our door who sells tacos; all day, every day, from his rickety cart, and which he advertises in a bellowing voice through a megaphone. It was lovely and "ethnic" the first few times, but now it makes me apoplectic with rage. 

Since arriving I've managed to land several teaching jobs. It's gone from the sublime to the ridiculous in terms of personal effort expenditure; I have to get up at 5.00 every day (5.30 if you forgo breakfast and washing), and it takes me two hours travelling to get to my first class of adult learners, who aren't even within Mexico City. Seeing as 22 million other people are, the fact I've managed to source a teaching job in another state, is impressive, even for me.

I have two more classes as well, which are in the business district. Teaching, as I've intimated before is not my cup of tea. It's a genuinely amazing job and I have total respect for teachers of all subjects (except maths), but my God, I don't know how you do it. Probably with a degree more pride and capability than I've found exists in my feeble character.

My students are largely middle aged men, who gawp at me in a very disconcerting manner. They are very interested in my personal life and I shocked them all yesterday by saying I was going to gay pride at the weekend. I had earlier said me and Angela were living in a one bedroomed flat, and with this extra information, I could literally see their minds boggling. They were dying to ask if I was gay, but refrained from direct questioning. I will leave them to ponder it.

I've got about 12 hours teaching a week, which isn't quite enough, so I've  been attending lots of interviews, each more farcical than the last. I went to one the other day, where I managed to be fifteen minutes late, despite having hours to get there. The reason I was late, was because I was waiting for the first coat of paint to dry on my model skeleton. 

I arrived, out of breath, sweating and in disgusting men's shoes, because try as I might, I can't find any women's ones here in my size. My interviews have all  been pretty informal so far, so I was swigging a latte, clad in an anorak and with my hair in even more of a nick than usual. The fact the interview was held in something called, New York Times Building  in the city centre, should have alerted me to the fact that this was all inappropriate. 

I went up in a fancy glass elevator, and emerged into a fragrant office, full of Louis Vuitton clad secretaries and copies of Latin American Vogue, scattered artfully over the chic and minimalist furniture. You could even flush the paper down the toilet! Serious luxury. 

The interviewer was a handsome man in his thirties, which was also a new experience, and I babbled my way through the 20 minutes like an unhinged bag lady. I had to ask exactly what the job was, as I had forgotten, and he spent most of the interview looking at me as if I was a rare and unusual talking monkey. He laughed a lot too, at things that were not jokes. However, my university credentials saved the day, and I was offered the job. I hope it's one on one teaching, as that's so much easier. I have one guy at the moment who is incredibly interesting. I wrote him off as a posher, as he's some big wig in Mexico's biggest bank, but he's had an amazing life.  He told me his mum brought him up alone, in extreme poverty. He occasionally saw his dad, who was a genuine hermit, but mainly spent his childhood in one of Mexico's worst slums. He started working to supplement his mam's income when he was 7, and was obviously super clever, as he got a scholarship to one of Mexico's most illustrious private schools. He used to sit next to the presidents son in class, and then go home to a ghetto so dangerous, his mam wouldn't let him go out to play football. Anyway, he's a fascinating man and very comfortable with probing questions which makes the classes really interesting for nosy chops here. He's very thoughtful about the nature of wealth, and inequality in Mexico, which is refreshing, as I've hitherto found the attitude of wealthy Latin Americans a bit mind boggling. It seems to happen in a lot of places, that the very rich have ill disguised contempt for the poor of their nation; or at least no acknowledgement that often it's just a case of luck. I don't know, I guess I can understand the "anyone can do it" attitude, from someone like this guy, who has slogged his way from the bottom, right to the top, but he is quick to acknowledge his brains were unusual, and his mum and granny incredible in their support, which gave him an advantage.

I like him a lot, I enjoy how open he is, and my poking into his innermost private past is certainly improving his vocabulary, if nothing else. He has referred to our class as a "session" several times, which amuses me, as I do feel I've fallen into a bit of a psychiatrist role, albeit one who would be struck off, for writing about a patient on her blog....

I've not really met anyone else of much note. A nice Spanish guy at work who took us to a party. We rocked up wearing aforementioned men's shoes, and anoraks, munching the smelliest tacos ever, to find it was a soirée full of Mexicos gilded youth. Everyone was wearing designer clothes, and had hair like they were in a shampoo commercial. There was a really tall woman there, who I referred to as "massive like us" illiciting a chilly response, and I spent most of the time in the toilet, trying to sort my hair out. 

We left after an hour, shrieking with merriment at how awful it was, only to meet the host in the hall, who had heard our rude evaluation of his guests. This, quite rightly made us feel awful - as they had been kind enough to let two chat-less strangers come into their home, with their nasty tacos, ugly shoes and poor manners.  

I was also informed at said party, that everyone at the place I work, calls me Brave because I look "exactly the same". This did not go down well, and I'm still banging on about it, hoping for someone to contradict.  It's not as bad as the time someone told me I looked like Mick Hucknall, but it's not great. 

Anyway. I've got another class, so best go and find out what a phrasal verb is.

Chao. (Not ciao- turns out I've been spelling it wrong) 

Sent from my iPho

Toodlepip Colombia

I'm writing this on the bus from Santa Marta to Bogota. I'm two hours into a 17 hour journey, and already feeling regretful that I didn't fork out the extra $70 to take the flight. However, I genuinely feel a little bit bad about all the flights I take, and usually I don't mind buses too much.  If I've got a book, and some edibles, I'm in a good place. This bus is fine, except I'm sitting next to a fatty puff who likes to whistle. I hope his lips get tired soon. I'm a whistler, but a genuinely amazing one, so when I whistle, it's different. 

It was absolutely scorching in Santa Marta, so I slithered onto the bus in a whispy summer dress, which I am beginning to regret as the air con blasts and I realise I'll be arriving in freezing Bogota at 6 am, practically naked. Good oh. The man taking the tickets may have intimated to me that I would regret my choice of travel outfit, but then again, being in Spanish, he may also have been commenting on what the pigeons were doing. Who can say? Certainly not I.

I've had a nice few days, despite the fact Taganga was like something out of the Inbetweeners (without the jokes). Seedy, ugly and unsafe, as a tourist destination, it was without a discernible redeeming feature.

I stayed in a relatively nice hostel though, called Hostel Divanga, and met screeds of lovely people, with whom I ate and drank too much, and danced to questionable 80s rock. I was going to go to Tayrona park-which is supposed to be beautiful- but I actually wasn't very well; partly self inflicted (mojitNO), and partly as a result of germy air cabins, and a resulting head cold. I feel ashamed of my lack of tourist gusto, but also secretly powerful, because nobody can make me do these tourist "must do's" because I am a real adult, responsible for myself and also wandering lonely as a cloud. 

The night I arrived, I couldn't really see what it was like, but I wanted to go and buy some milk for my porridge.  The boy on reception told me I couldn't leave on my own as it was "too dangerous", which was v.reassuring. Seeing as I am pal-less Pamela, I had to have gruel made with water (which you weren't meant to drink), and some old withered raisins that I found in my bag. It was not a promising start, but when I went for a wander the next day I realised I hadn't missed much anyway. 

It is a really sad little village, but I suspect quite typical for the average poor Colombian.  There are lots of scabby fishing boats, litter, tourist drinking spots and no much else. The locals were weary and unfriendly, there were lots of unhealthy looking dogs and cats scurrying about underfoot, and dirty peerie bairns, with enormous eyes, peeping at you from dark doorways. The roads were a mess, and the beach filthy. It all felt a bit depressing, like a giant hangover, and made me think about how 18-30s tourism must be a mixed blessing and a curse, to places like there. 

It didn't stop me contributing to it however, and I went out for drinks and dancing on the Friday with some folk from the hostel.  It was all good fun. Very Posers, circa 2005(no bad thing). I'd been absolutely gagging to go out to The Doncin' after my months of captivity, and it was consequently predictably overly. I woke up feeling like death and ready to take my leave of Taganga. 4evz.

Armoured with my sunglasses and poor mans Irn Bru (a disgusting thing called BubbleGusta or something), I arrived  by bus (HORRID) to the town of Santa Marta, which is only ten minutes/eternity away.

My hostel was right in the centre of the old town, so I scuttled through a lot of markets and street vendors to get there. The fish market was not a pleasant chapter in my book of hangover moments, nor was the seemingly endless hanging-carcass street, but it was a pretty interesting market, with lots going on. I had a delicious corn and honey biscuit, and some fresh coconut water which made me feel loads better. 

I eventually got to the hostel, La Brisa Loca which was in this lovely old colonial building, with a mosaic swimming pool in the middle of the ground floor. Really beautiful hostel, if as usual a bit on the toasty side. I had a small disco nap and then went out to explore.

Santa Marta, like most South American towns, is built in a valley, surrounded by loads of massive mountains. It's a port town, so there is a nice waterfront as well, with lots of restaurants facing the sea. It's really hot and has a pretty lively feeling to it. 

There are the usual pretty plazas, and statues of Simon Bolivar peppered all over them. I liked it, but felt so sorry for myself that I had to beat an early retreat after a rather disgusting, breaded, fish-dinner, which was more like lightly-fished clumps of flour.  Minging. By this point I have to say, I was regretting leaving Cartagena which I truly love. I've waffled on about it long enough but it's just so beautiful. The place, the weather and the people. I love the mix of Caribbean and Colombian, and the fact it's preserved the old colonial features. It's really touristy which other people I met had issues with, but it's like Edinburgh; it's touristy because its so stunning. It's a bit of a cliche with all the horse drawn carriages, antiquated sweet shops and serenading elderly gentlemen, but these things are a cliche because they're fab and wonderful. I love it there, and whilst Santa Marta and Taganga are undoubtedly much more representative of real Colombian life, Cartagena is a much more pleasant stop for a holiday.

 I wish I had gone to Tayrona park because by all accounts it's jaw dropping, but we've been through why I didn't, and it's only an old beach. I must have hit some kind of six month high, because I've actually been looking at tefl jobs in Cartagena- just to see what's out there. Teaching on the whole doesn't seem so bad, if you get to recline in a roasting plaza afterwards to do your marking.... Sadly there doesn't seem to be much requirement for learning English. Probably cos they're too busy sunning themselves and eating coconuts to care about it.  

I decided I better start the long journey to Bogota this afternoon, so I hopped on a bus and here I am. I've only got two more days until I fly and I feel sick with excitement about seeing Matt and Angela. I have been really lucky this past fortnight, in that I've met a lot of lovely friendly folk, but the idea of being in the company of actual friends is beyond irresistible just now. I won't have to try and be nice, or have to make conversation all the time, or worry that I won't have anyone to have dinner with. I also can't wait for a cuddle. I realise how creepy that sounds but you don't really realise how nice it is to get a cuddle off your pals until you've gone weeks without one. Even a pat on the head would be nice just now. Human contact, a massive bacon sandwich, a cup of tea and a long gossip with some of my best pals. Genuinely can't wait. 

Just a quick footnote; NEVER, EVER, EVER get on a long distance bus wearing a wispy summer dress, fastened only by spider gossamer, because you are too lazy to open your bag before it goes under the bus.  You will regret it, and may even feel so cold, that you elevate to some kind of alternative world of sadness and horror.  People will laugh at you shuddering like a drama queen, and when you do fall "asleep" (hahahaha), crouched like a sad little ice-foetus, you may even wake up with all your front buttons popped open, and your pasty limbs (or worse) on display for all to see. Cosy jimjams all the way. 

Medellin and Motor Bikes

Lets buck the trend of this blog/my life, and start with some rays of sol.  I had one of the best "tourist" days ever a couple of days ago. The day following my horrible arrival experience (which in hindsight wasn't actually that traumatic) I wandered about the old town of Medellin. It was pretty in parts and quite interesting architecturally. I read a really interesting article about how all the internationally acclaimed and innovative architecture made a massive difference to medellin, and contributed to its massively decline in homicides.http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/20/arts/design/fighting-crime-with-architecture-in-medellin-colombia.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 I'm sure that the demise of ole P.Escobar aided a bit too, but the new buildings are visually arresting and oddly beautiful in places.  I'm more of Hogwarts turret lass myself but they were certainly interesting. Anyway that day isn't the day I mean; that day was ok. I spent most of it in the library reading Little Women, which may rank as a failure to some of you, but you'd be wrong.

The Day was the day after, when I was approached by the diminutive host of the hostel, who asked me if i would like to go out with him for the day. My initial response was mais non ma petit chum, but then I realised this attitude may be partly why I am sin amigos at this time. I was recently described (488284 times) as a little bit aloof, and so I decided to buck tradition and say oui, why not, with a carefree European laugh. He also came up to my mid thigh, so I figured he was pretty non threatening. Best of all, his English was pretty horrid, so I figured it would be a good time to get some Spanglish on the go. Anyway, I agreed to the proposal and THEN he said,

"ok, get ready and I will just go and get the BIKE."
" Push bike?" I asked in a hopeful voice.
"No." Empty pause where the carefree European laugh should have gone.

It was a MASSIVE motorbike, one of my worst things. I used to have a boyfriend who I actually knew and trusted, who sometimes asked me to chum him on his motorbike. I would always get huffy aggressive and say never in a million years, whilst googling mortality rates. And yet somehow, an hour later, there I was- old motorbike refusal head, on the back of an enormous machine, being driven by a miniature person. I was really worried my **(hem!) stone to his 3, would cause some kind of horrific mechanical combustion, but he just chuckled and patted my- significantly broader than his-shoulders reassuringly and off we whooshed. Initially I was awful. He kept smashing my knee cap on turns and saying
"Necesitas relajarse, o es peligroso." which is probably the last thing that's going to make you relax, and I felt physically sick on the bends.  To assuage my terror, he was driving at about 7km an hour in the middle of the highway, which was pretty funny as everyone was shouting at him and laughing at the terrified gringa.

 

After a while though I started to calm down and I loved it. It was such an amazing way to see the city, and he took me to loads of things that I would never have even bothered about on my own, because I am an accidental and also lazy tourist.  There are a lot of really seedy areas in the city and I got to see them too, which I think is important to getting the flavour of a place like this.

We went to Botero Plaza, which is somewhat predictably a plaza full of Botero sculptures. I think I've mentioned before that I don't really enjoy his work that much, but this plaza is pretty incredible; it's outside an enormous gothic church like building, which is the museum. There are lots of fountains and huge sculptures of enormous men and women. All sorts congregate with lots of young boys selling avocados with a microphone, literally scores of police men and the predictable mix of tourists and beggars. It's a sun trap, so the well tended flower beds and patches of grass are utilised by drunks who are collectively conked out flat on their backs and snoozing.  There are loads of prostitutes, and apparently they like to have brothels nearby to the churches, so that men can handily atone for their sins after their encounters. How charming.

We went to a castle that was built in the thirtys by some Dutch guy. It was a really beautiful stately home, if you like that kind if thing, with a pretty garden full of parrots.  The guide who showed us round was a beautiful young lass, who was visibly lacklustre about recounting the dry facts of the family. She snapped gum, pulled faces at questions and looked on with ill disguised contempt at our party for a variety of reasons. I enjoyed the tour immensely for this alone, but otherwise didn't find it particularly interesting. The grounds were lovely and cool. Medellin is known as the city of eternal spring, and when it wasn't raining (?!) it did have a pretty dreamy climate.

Medellin has a recently introduced cable car system, for the people who live up in the poorer barrios on the hill. It's been revolutionary for them, as before it would have been a real slog getting up and down the hills-which are more like mountains. Now they just hop on a cable car. We did that at night and it was simply beautiful: I think most cities are at their best in the dark with all the twinkling lights, and especially one like this which is really big, and framed by dramatic mountains. I also liked how you could see in people's windows, hundreds of little tableaux of folk going about their evening, framed in the glow from their lamps.  We went to look for some shoes for my bloodied stumps, and we were roaming about the night markets which were full of prostitutes, dealers and people who were oot their nuts. It was uncomfortable and sad, but there was also a real vibrancy about it that I didn't find later on when I moved hostel to the touristy Pueblito area. We drove back to the hostel just in time as it started to bucket down which meant I had to go to bed, rather than out for the planned salsa and beer (which I was secretly really relieved about, as I was knackered.)

It was a really lovely day, just so nice to let someone else take control and feel I was seeing things which you're meant to. I think sometimes its good to just relax on a trip and not feel obliged to do all the touristy stuff, but I feel like I've done that far too much in Colombia and this was the sort of day that I need to be forced into, and then always seem to really enjoy.  The guy was lovely. Of course he went a bit mental afterwards and sent me more emoticons with hearts in them than any grown (sort of) man ever should, but the day itself he was just a lovely, kind person who went out of his way to show me things. Good egg.

I broke up my time in medellin by visiting the nearby town of Guatape, two hours by bus from Medellin (north terminal, every hour, about 12,000COP). It was described by lonely planet as "stunning", which I wouldn't say was entirely true (more pretty/creepy) but its nice to visit for the day. It's a really wee village with garishly painted buildings, and an enormous hill which is in walking distance from the town itself. The afternoon I arrived I just walked about; it's very touristy so I found it particularly stressful in terms of hassle, but people were friendly and welcoming. The houses are mental, all really bright colours (nothing like the delicate pastels of the coast) and with strange embossed designs on the front. Like frogs. Or guitars. Or cowboys. Really, genuinely odd. I stayed in an Eco hostel. Sigh. That's all I will say about that.

The next day, I set off at about 8 am with the intention of walking to the hill and hiking up it. It's a four hour walk and pretty easy except for the end which is hellish. I really enjoyed it, just to be doing some exercise felt great and it was a gloriously sunny morning.  (More of that dear glorious sun later). I got to the car park bit half way up the mountain and turns out you've got to pay to climb up it, so I didn't bother. Id got pretty high up anyway, and the view of the archipelagos were beautiful anyway. I'm sure I missed out in some incalculable way but I'm not paying money to do something I hate (exercise).
The water levels were really low, so it was apparently not as pretty as it is usually, but it was still bonny and a nice day trip. If I had been pushed for time I maybe wouldn't have bothered going, but as I'm flouncing about doing nothing, it was a nice way to spend a couple of days.

When I went back to Medellin, I stayed at a different hostel, called the Black Sheep. The plan was, to leave after a day, but a combination of exhaustion (?!) lovely friendly girls in my dorm, and seemingly hundreds of really handsome Israelis, I stayed for four days....
In reality the handsome Israelis were the bane of my life, as turns out walking for four hours, in the morning sun had made me look like I'd been slathered in olive oil and tossed onto a George Foreman. Mam, I know you will despair at this but I PROMISE this time, I've learnt my lesson. It was just my face I forgot to do, so I looked really weird. One boy told me when I first came in he had to leave the room as he thought he was going to laugh. It was excruciating; confronted with the first eligible young men on this WHOLE TRIP and I looked like that. Aside from my battered vanity, I had a really fun weekend. I went out on the Friday night, but as I hadn't had a single thing to drink since February, I got a little bit woozy (hem) and had to come home at 10.30, where I took it upon myself to make a fish curry. Hmmm.

The rest of the weekend was spent lounging around talking to folk and gazing adoringly at a group of really funny cockneys who had the best jokes I've heard in ages.  I had seen them a few days before in a shop having banter with the shop assistant, and lurked around hoping they would transfer some of it to me. They did not, but then turned up at the hostel I was in, and I was determined to stalk them into being my pals. There were loads of lovely English lasses there too, and they were hilarious and familiar in their ways. It was so nice to be with other Brits, a sentence I hate myself for uttering but I can't help it. The group of LADS, made crap jokes about my hair, talked loudly about their bowel movements, and looked like they thought they were in the strokes circa 2001, and it was SO NICE, after months of "chao mamasita, shake it baby" and felt so relaxing to have shared cultural references again.  I think the local people you meet traveling are what makes or breaks your trip, and I've been lucky to meet some incredible Colombians, but there is also something so wonderful about spending time with folk from home, especially when you're "tinkin lang" as Granny would say.

I decided after the weekend to have a little swatch at the prices of flights, which is why I find myself accidentally back in Cartagena. It was a really cheap flight and I couldn't be bothered to take a bus for 14 hours to the south.

I am in a sweaty little room with no air-con and a zillion mosquitoes. There is a little man playing guitar under my window and I can hear the trot of the horse drawn carriages whizzing past. Tomorrow I'm going to the beach town of Taganga to live it up with mojitos, fresh fish and salsa bars. I hope. 

Sore Feet and Drunk Drivers

Remember that time I ended my blog on a positive? Haha. That was funny. Because the very next day I left the strange alternate universe of the millionaire compound, and entered real life, where everything always goes wrong.

I had decided to take a night bus to Medellìn because I thought if I was going to spend 8 hours in a bus, it may as well be whilst I slept. I spent my morning preparing substandard crafts and checking my 11 twitter followers, with the occasional look at travel options. Whilst perusing I came across a DON'T TRAVEL AT NIGHT thread, which led to full on hysteria. I was faced with the dilemma of prolonging my trip yet again, or sucking it up. Or wait. There was a third option. I could leave RIGHT NOW. So obviously that's what I did. I made the decision, and then ten minutes later I was gone, in a flurry of glitter glue and unread Spanish textbooks. There were no tears from either side, but that may be because I left 46 of my 50 kg backpack there to be collected before Mexico, so we will see each other again.

The bus journey to El Terminal (yes it does make it confusing just calling A terminal-one of many- THE terminal, but who am I to judge) is bizarrely complicated. There was no information online, and for some reason none of the staff at the Northern terminal knew.

Luckily I had my trusty friend Eduardo (who may now regret giving me his number after receiving inane requests day and night ever since) and he gave me very comprehensive instructions.

They involved three changes, a long wait and a scamper through the streets. This could have been fine as my backpack is a mere whisp of a thing and the buses are comprehensive, but of course it wasn't through circumstances which were wholly my own doing.

Instead of being a breezy two hour journey from Chia to the south of Bogota, it became an endurance test of utter agony because of a pair of stupid shoes I bought last week. They are far too small for me, and ugly to boot, but Claudia told me they were too small, so of course I had to buy them.  I hoped wearing them around the house would stretch them but alas no, and my feet now resemble small newborn piglets who have been tossed onto a coral reef.

I grimaced my way through the bus changes and the brisk walk with a nice lady who showed me the way, but by the time I hirpled into the bus station I was bleeding profusely and beyond furious at myself and the world in general.  Obviously the station was enormous, and instead of asking for help I wandered its length three times before finding the right stand. My bus was $35 not $20 because it had air con, wifi and films.  I didn't care at this point and took what I was offered. Later I would regret this, as I shivered on my seat whilst watching dubbed films in Spanish, and not using the non-functioning wifi.

Anyway, the lass at reception said that the bus would take 8 hours, as confirmed by lonely planet (my old friend) so, whilst aware this would take me in at about 10pm, I thought that would still be ok.

3 dubbed Harry Potters, and several chapters of bloody boring old Kafka later, we rolled into Medellin. All well and good, except it was 1.30am in the morning, I didn't have my Colombian phone any more and my malfunctioning uk number iPhone had deleted the email with my hostel details.

Medellin is a lot safer now. It's come on leaps and bounds since ole Pablo bit the dust, but it's still no Baltasound.

I was pretty feeble on the courage front to say the least, particularly as the station was full of about a thousand male eyes, and they were all looking at me in that special Latin way (except the ones who were looking at me because I was a shiny, hideous, dirty mess and had biscuit crumbs over my face but never mind those.).

I asked the 12 year old smoking a fag at his empanada stall where the taxis were, and scuttled down to the main road.

There were about 724828 taxi drivers, and I chose one with a nice face. I should have probably, knowing me, picked the one who radiated serial killer the most, but what ho. What followed has made it into the top ten most stressful encounters of my life, and I am DEFINITELY learning the language before I ever go and live in another country again. 

We set off from the terminal and I give him a garbled version of the address. I instantly twig he's not the sharpest tool in the box, but rightly concede that  he may not be the only one in the taxi to bear that description.  He doesn't know the hostel but the address seems to ring bells ok so figure that it will be fine. Vaguely concerned at this stage that the iPhone has deleted my email, but also quite smug that I took precaution of writing down the address. Ten minutes later we arrive in the street. It doesn't seem to be there, but that's ok because he doesn't seem worried and starts to do another lap.

By this point I can smell alcohol in the taxi, quite strongly, and I also become aware that there are quite a lot of people rolling about the road in the area. They seem to all be having quite a horrible time, but I'm ashamed to say this does not stop me locking my door and rolling up my widow. I considered how much the driver had had to drink, and weighed up the pros and cons of getting out. Old beer head seemed marginally preferable to the man wandering about with no trousers on outside the car, so I decided to wait it out.

1 hour of driving around the block, I was starting to have an extreme (if at this stage internal) reaction. Particularly as beer head kept saying he wanted to go home. I think, to his mams dinner but I can't be sure because I DON'T SPEAK SPANISH. He was really complaining about the invisible hostel, and kept shouting PUTA, which is very rude.  To give him his due, he did ask for the phone number (which I obviously didn't take note of) and if I had a friend to call for help, but after establishing early on that I had neither of these things, he didn't need to keep droning on quite so much.

By the time he took me to a house party (I kid you not) and asked in a hopeful voice if it was "aquí?", I was seriously freaked. I was so freaked out I actually considered going into said party but then I realised the only thing worse than being dead would be arriving at what was clearly a cool party, like a tragic, friendless loser.


It was nearly 3am by this stage, so phoning my few Colombian acquaintances seemed the last option. Instead I phoned Gillian M Fergie. I am fortunate in my life to have a lot of really good female pals, and to pick a favorite is nigh on impossible. However, Gillian is certainly one who has a special place in my heart. Partly because she is an beautiful, kind and wonderful person, but also because she looks after me in a way that no functioning adult should ever have to be looked after. Some examples;

1.Writing the reference bibliography to my dissertation at university, at 6 am on the day of my hand in, whilst I cried on the floor, garbling incoherently about the rape scene in Narnia.  (No you didn't miss that chapter, I was merely a student of English Literature, and quite keen on the feminist polemic.)

2.Assuming my identity in order to find out what has happened to my visa/bank account/phone bill/ relationship, whilst I was hysterically rolling on the floor and probably still babbling about the rape scene in Narnia.

3. Filled out job applications, student loan forms and council tax claims, when my sheer laziness and ineptitude meant I hadn't and was now unable, due to being abroad, stuffing my face, and looking at temples....

The list in infinite but probably is just about to get a bit embarrassing for the poor sap.  Anyway, I couldn't call my mum (?!) so I called Gillian, got her to send the phone number and some alternative hostels in the area.  The driver point blank refused to take me to another hostel saying he didn't want to as he was hungry(?!?!) but he did agree to call the hostel I had booked. Ten minutes of using my UK phone in order to call a building presumably less than 200 metres from where we were, and we still couldn't find it.

He had by that point stopped at least 14 other people and nobody knew where it was. Then, after asking another glass eyed stranger two things happened at once.  I finally started to cry, and simultaneously out of the gloom, came a beautiful, waving, lovely boy with an umbrella.  We had driven past the hostel at least 30 times, as despite the fact the hostel is signed, this sign is approximately the size of a child's hand, in roughly the same colour as the wall it's painted on.

Anyway...old smash head got to go back to his mum and I got to lurch out hysterically into the arms of small boy with brolly. I even TIPPED the drunk, because I was so relieved, and there is something wrong with me.  PWs mam asked if I got his number so I can make a complaint, but any alleged outrage would be deemed slightly inconsistent in court, were it discovered I gave a 25% tip....

Racist Pinatas and Being a Proper Tourist

Guess what?! I just got back; from a leave the house, tourist style trip! 

The family decided to go and stay in their lake house, in a place called Prado. I nearly didn't go, as had arranged to meet a few people off couchsurfing, but at the last minute felt I had better attend, incase I missed out on some time in the car. 

 

Snide remarks aside, it was absolutely beautiful. It's a man made lake, about five hours (seven if you're not Latin-American) from Bogota. We arrived at night time, and the house is only accessible by a little motor boat. It was a beautiful clear night, with no moon, and the sky was an absolute blanket of stars. I cosied on my back in the front of the boat and lay looking up.  Felt genuinely at peace, which is one of the many benefits of looking at a night sky. Whether I'm at the end of the road in the Culswick valley or in the middle of nowhere in Colombia, a massive expanse full of gently peeping stars, always has the effect of making me feel curiously safe, and at home.

We got to the house after about half an hour, and as I have come to expect, it was a swatch. An open-plan, hammock filled and airy house, with lots of beds and breezy mosquito nets. We all launched into some fresh papaya and then went to bed, I fell asleep to the sound of crickets and the water gently lapping the shore.

I woke in the morning to lashing rain, which continued most of the morning. Proper rain though, the noisy, can't hear yourself think, jungle type, which abruptly stopped at about eleven, to be replaced by a roasting hot sun, the screech of parrots and the sound of all the motor boats, as people began to emerge. 

We went for a run in the boat, and I got to see where we were. I may not have mentioned it enough in my litany of navel gazing/whining, but this country is staggeringly beautiful.  The lake is surrounded by blue hills and dramatic sheer cliff rocks. The view is occasionally hindered by the odd ghastly (presumably nouveau riche!!) hacienda, but generally even the poshers seem to blend in tastefully with the palm trees.  There were scores of enormous butterflies skimming the water, and whilst everyone was smimming around the boat, a wierd creepy dog turned up and started scratching everyone. I was in the boat sweltering in tracksuit bottoms, and refusing to swim, so I kind of enjoyed that part.

 

After an hour or so, I was turning an alarming shade of puce, so we started back to the house. I spent the afternoon painting and reading, and generally feeling glad to be me, which was nice.  Oh how the feeling stopped come nightfall, when the beasties emerged from their foul secret day time hideaways and began to gnaw me to pieces.  Every time I would almost fall asleep, something small would land on my face and I'd have a mad screechy slap about, which I KNEW would be audible to the whole household. They already think I am a neurotic mental, so the midnight screaming doesn't help. At one point I went to the toilet and saw a furry spider the size of my fist (substantial), which almost made me greet. I normally like spiders, but not ones like this. There were also things banging about on the roof. In all likelihood birds or bats rather than indigenous demons, but I couldn't be sure. I got about twenty minutes sleep, but as the next day was spent reclining in a hammock with a bowl of mango, it was ok.  

We didn't really do much else. Peerie Wan spent most of the weekend in a pink tutu which was extremely cute, and we watched Harry Potter more than was healthy.  I saw a lot of excellent bugs and birds, and had a good afternoon cleaning to appalling hip hop (maybe the "cleaning" was actually inventing dance routines using a broom in place of a partner, but I can't really remember). 

We came back to Bogota after a few days, and since then I have been pottering about girding my loins for Medellin, which I leave for in a day or two (a mere fortnight after I planned...)

Is there a job you can do that just involves making substandard crafts? Because I want that one if there is. I have been going wild with the glitter and PVA since arriving here. Ostensibly to bond with PW but in really, only for myself. 

I've been apportioning the days into blocks of time- units if you will- and craft seems to fill up lots of units. For example reading endless entries from Life and Style, on the Guardian website, may take up about 4 units a day. Facebook; 3.  Eating pulses and nutmeg; 17. That kind of thing. Well, I've found that not only do the units accumulate most during crafts, but occasionally they cease to exist at all, and I begin to think in GMT like a functioning member of society. Anyway. PW is really at the blop and smear stage, (unless food is involved, in which case she is extremely clinical to avoid wastage) so my anatomically correct clay figurines have been met with a hurtful lack of enthusiasm. As were the Aztec death masks (culture innit), replica bow and arrows made of sticks and feathers, and sand men with real carved sand faces (stood on DELIBERATELY no less). My most recent attempt however has proved even less successful. I decided to make an Afro-Caribbean woman piñata, which has managed to be simultaneously a bit racist and maybe sexist too. This is like using pure good (craft, featuring paper mâché and balloons) for evil, and doesn't sit well with me. However, my desire to execute the project to completion, or finalise my VISION if you will, outweighs my discomfort with the reality who is lolling on the table as we speak, looking like something Bernard Manning would have peen proud to have made in craft and design. I wanted to make a joyful replica of the glorious, coasteñas; chunky Afro Caribbean women we saw in Cartagena, with big bowls of fruit on their heads. Not this. And, as a project of engagement it's just made PW go radge because I used up her balloons. It's also gone a bit mouldy in the damp laundry room. I wonder if the spores are healthy for children? They are only going to smash it up anyway I suppose, but maybe that will only enliven the spores and make them find a host faster? I should probably throw it away but I feel like it could turn a corner at any point and be like a bonding thing, you know? I have a feeling- just a hunch really- that PW might be quite into the whole smashing up the piñata thing.. If not her, maybe the next Aupair? Who can say.

I have also been meeting people off couchsurfing. Couchsurfing is a website where people offer their couch to travellers for free; usually in exchange for language lessons or just cos they're nice and want to meet different people. It's a really wonderful concept but I have to say I have found the reality somewhat less noble. Despite contacting what feels like lots of women, not a single Latino lady has responded, but I've been inundated with young men wanting to improve their English, and "get to know me good".  This would perhaps be flattering if this wasn't South America (where you could have a face like a wet ham sandwich and a personality to match, and STILL get loads of men chasing you, just because you have blue eyes) or great even, if I was looking for romance in my final two weeks, but I am not. I want to learn some Spanish, and am being too much of a stingebag to fork out for lessons. 

 

Anyway, I have met a couple of them and they have been vastly different and quite wonderful in completely opposite ways. The first one, lets call him Thomas (because it is his name) was a pocket sized lothario, who was actually quite funny, sometimes intentionally, mainly not. He was relaxingly confident and chatty, and apart from a really weird moment when I lost it and muttered "it's so nice to talk to someone my age" in an intense voice, whilst clutching his arm, the afternoon was really nice.

 

He spoke Spanish a lot, so i could practice but his English was perfect, which helped when I struggled. We had lunch next to a very glamorous lady who had gone to town on the silicone, and he barely listened to a word I said throughout the first ten minutes of sitting down, so distracted was he by her pneumonic breasts. It was bloody hilarious watching him try to remember what I said whilst he'd been ogling. I can't say we had much in common, but he was sort of nice and very generous with his time.

The second guy I met, Eduardo, couldn't have been more different. Really gentle and polite, and very focused on showing me Bogota and making sure I had a lovely time. He helped a lot with my Spanish and took note of my interests to ensure I was getting the most out of Bogota. He made me speak a lot and I was really encouraged by how much more Spanish I knew than I thought I did. I did get ahead of myself by trying to quote Michael Burke from a book on Africa, which is pretty unwise for someone who has mastered 6 verbs, and only in the present tense, but he was nice about it. I sadly talked about myself far too much which, whilst normal for me, is a bit of a shame in a language exchange. I'm not sure how much he got out of it, as his English was pretty perfect, but I taught him the word "gist" which seemed to chuff him.

I also went on a language exchange with an old man I met in the old folks home, where I pilfer wifi. He just came and sat down and then kind of forced me to go for coffee with him and then his wife. They were adorable. 

Meeting all these folk, I realised how long it is since I tried to be charming or try to make someone like me. I've been in a bit of a flump here (not that I've complained about it or anything) and I think I might have been a bit of a negative arse for everyone in my vicinity.  A change of scene, and new people, made me pull up my socks a little bit. You know;  smiling, asking questions, not looking suicidal. General stuff which yielded miraculous results to my own mental health if nothing else. 

Eduardo took me on a 8 hour stomp of Bogota yesterday. It's such a cool city. I've never been to Berlin, but from photos and rhapsodising friends I think it's possibly kind of similar. It's edgy and a bit grim in places (the tolerance zone for example, where prostitution is illegal, and apparently sweeping the street is not) but really cool, and full of students and arty sorts.  The historic centre or Candeleria, is beautiful. A riot of coloured colonial buildings with flags and hanging baskets nodding cheerily from the windows. All the street signs are written in a swishy calligraphy and there is fantastic graffiti on all the ugly walls. Its really hilly, with loads of hidden lanes and narrow alleys that lead to great little shops, or dodgy doorways reeking of pee. There are loads of street performers, market stalls selling tat and serious down and outs, swigging cheecha. This means if you sit on a bench you feel as if you're in some kind of gritty, Danny Boyle directed version of Alice in Wonderland, where a woman painted entirely gold is juggling with her feet, next to a man selling dolls heads and teddy bears, and all the while a grown up Mowgli from the amazon is rolling about the floor with his spindly bottom falling out the seat of his thousand year old breeks.  It has to be a top ten people watching city of all time, and it's definitely uncomfortable viewing at times, but a lot more exciting than Chia.  

We went to loads of places including a fantastic book shop in the Candeleria, which was enormous and dusty and full of treasures. Sadly most of it being in Spanish, the treasure was less glorious upon inspection, but it was wonderful nonetheless. They did have an English language classics section, so I've stocked up on lengthy tomes for the journey. I chose books I feel I should have read, but can never be arsed; Steinbeck, Kafka and a simpering isobelle Allende which I've read already and know is ok. I can turn to her if the Grapes of Czech Existentialism proves too much. In fact, it's partly her I have to blame for my vision of Latin America. She is the main reason why I thought by this point I would be living in a white-washed apartment, overlooking a parroty plaza, dressed in a floating cotton kimono with tuber roses in my hair. My handsome companion Juan-Andreas would be strumming on his guitar, whilst I painted, and idly munched mangos from the garden. Dinner would be cooking on the aga, for our intellectual and left leaning friends, and I would be fluent in Spanish and been transformed into a romantic and passionate femme fatale, who did not gag at the thought of poetry in my honour, or have a suspicion that its almost impossible to love the same person for ever. Thanks Isobelle.

Anyway, yes, the bookshop is great and not too expensive, which is usually a sad fact of travelling here. There are NO cheap bookshops, and the best you can hope for is an exchange in a hostel, or this place, where most of the books were about $7-14.  I would say it didn't really have much to write home about though (pun?) unless you read

Spanish. How selfish of them.  If one was coming here for a long time, I would advise them to bring a kindle.

After that we went up to a famous part of the city, called La Macarena. It was full of beautiful gay men and incredible flats, so I'm assuming it was the trendy bit. Lots of foreign restaurants, one of which is called La Jugueteria (the toyshop) which is one of the most famous restaurants in Bogota. I also happen to know it, because Claudia's brother owns it! It's kitsch, with hundreds of vintage toys everywhere and pretty waitresses dressed like nutcrackers (this may not be officially what they are dressed like, but its what they look like.) It's really whimsical and a bit creepy, but definitely unique. Some of the toys are amazing; those old metal ones that perform mechanical feats when you turn the key, and wonderful old puppets. Too many plastic babies dangling from the roof for my liking, and lots of horrid moth eaten monkeys too but definitely worth a peek, and there are lots of other amazing looking restaurants nearby too.  We went to some little private boutiques, because I had said to him I liked charity shops. They were the very antitheses of charity shops but beautiful nonetheless and very sweet of him to try.  I think the concept of second hand clothes is not popular here, though I have seen a few in chia actually.

The end of the afternoon found us in Usaquon, having icecream in Crepes and Waffles. Crepes and waffles is totally ubiquitous here and in Central America. It's a bit like Starbucks but does really nice icecreams and.... Crepes and waffles. It was started by this woman who gave all the waitressing jobs to single mothers and now it's a massive empire. She still only employs single mums, so its kind of an interesting social venture.  Politics aside, the coffee is really nice and the icecream fab too. Usaquon is in the words of Eduardo, a separate town that was eaten up by Bogota.  It's got a very distinct feel about it and a church square that everyone hangs about in. It's quite swish, and again, full of funky restaurants and nice little bars and cafes.  It's nice to wander about in, and apparently has an excellent artisan market on a Sunday.  

After we had stuffed our faces it was starting to get dark so we meandered back to Portal Norte station and I got my bus home. I had a really lovely day, and again marvelled at how much my mood lifts when I actually get out of my moany funk and do something. Ok, there are the terror stricken moments when a stranger babels to me in Spanish, or when I spend five minutes asking to buy a "letter" rather than a "travel card" from a hapless youth, but generally it's so much better to be brave and leave the compound. Could it be I have discovered this a little slowly? There is still two weeks here, and four months in Mexico, it might not be too late to Isabelle it up. More people like the nice old man, and Eduardo and it might be easier than I thought.

Lingering on...and on...and on...

This has not been a dazzling week in my personal history. As alluded to previously, the progeny of my employees is less enamoured with me than is usual in the under fives. So much so, that I've sort of been sacked. And when I say sort of, I mean my services- such as they were- are no longer required, and I am not getting paid. So, quite a classic sacking if you will.

 This scenario would be ok-for various reasons, I can't say it was a job I have really enjoyed (my fault not theirs)- but its all gone a bit unorthodox as I find myself lingering on, a week later.

They very kindly said I could stay on, until I fly to Mexico in June, I just have to keep cooking and helping out with peerie wan when she wants me to (snort). I've spent over $1000 tooing and froing, and because of their 3 week holiday I've only actually worked 5, so my savings have taken a bit of a battering. It's definitely financially prudent to stay until I leave for Mexico, but there is something pretty tragic about wafting about like a wet cabbage, in the home of the people who have just sacked you for being crap. I previously saw myself as a kind of Mary Poppins/Hagrid figure to children, but this has really made me reevaluate things. Also aren't bairns like animals? Don't they sense a bad egg? Animals frequently despise me, are children to join the ranks too? Will I soon be one of those people who makes kids cry on the tube when I try and smile at them through my broken teeth? 

I'm being slightly disingenuous as I'm pretty sure the problem in our relationship came down to an awkward start, and then too much pressure. I am rubbish under expectations, and got clammy handed and fake of smile, which she sussed out straight away. It's actually improved a bit since the sacking.  I think we are both relieved to have the necessity of us getting on lifted, and to be able let things happen naturally. Two rooms apart. 

In general the whole aupair experience has been pretty bonkers. Let me start with the disclaimer that they, as a family have been unfailingly kind and lovely. This makes the fact I'm writing about them on a blog really mean and sneaky, but I've got nothing else to write about due to currently leading a very insular life. And I am 99%sure they wont read it. If they do, I hope they take it in the spirit intended. Curiosity and gentle scepticism, with a hefty slug of admiration for their bold disregard for convention. 

First up, they and their pals are followers of some very alternative, alternative beliefs, including Ramtha which is an obscure and largely criticised (by Wikepedia at least) faith movement from America. I am sketchy on detail (god knows how), but basically a woman who has had an alarming amount of plastic surgery, channels an Indian man who tells everyone that if you wish hard enough, you can get whatever you want. They (the family) seem to take bits and bobs from lots of movements and faiths though, and are very keen to share those beliefs with those who are open to listening. I am one such open person, or at least my general expression seems to project an aura of bovine acceptance. 

I know people; I have christian pals and Muslim pals, catholic pals and a friend who's a vegan. I once worked at a British Fairy convention, where I watched fully grown, adult men practice a special dance with which to encourage sprites and elves. I have a relation, who "hoovers pain" using her hands when I have a headache, and I have a good pal who saw a unicorn. 

I am therefor not naive about the variety of beliefs and practices out there, but I must say, some of the ideas I've been subjected to since arriving have tested my British pretendnothinguntowardishappening face. For example; 

1.Nothing on this good earth, will ruin your life as much as caffeine, red meat or MILK. (Additive filled yoghurts, alcohol and E-numbers, or any other foods which by coincidence you might particularly enjoy, are fine.) Incidentally, being told about the dangers of caffeine whilst drinking a cup of itat six am, will incite mild but repressed hysteria, and impede your enjoyment of this terrible bean. 

2. The planet we live on, is run by giant lizard beings. They initially came to earth to find gold, with which to repair a hole in their ozone layer. They found us pliable and dim, so had us do loads of menial, unworthy stuff, using a micro chip in our spines. The overlords of the galaxy thought this was a bit rubbish, and made them stop enslaving us, but we still have the chips in our backs, which can be reactivated at any time. The lizards are still here too, and their numbers include the Queen, Tom Cruise, Rod Stewart and Hiliary Clinton (not Bill). They are in disguise. 

3. If you wrongly assume (as I did) that you are gluten intolerant, just have a shamen lady shake her arms over you whilst you lie on the ground. Using crystals and tea tree oil, she will find out that actually, you have a nasty green spirit in your colon and womb, which you got in Africa (curse). With the help of your mega-babe spiritual ancestors (her words, not mine) she will banish this beastie, mainly using the colour purple.

4. Children should be allowed more freedom to do what they instinctively want.  Behavioural practices, instead of being grindingly enforced during consciousness, should be alluded to when the child is asleep, whispered into their subconscious. Whilst whispering, you should encourage bambino to "bring their knowledge", more specifically, knowledge from their previous lives. 

If I sound mocking or superior, I don't really mean to. For a start, I spent more than one evening unable to sleep worrying about my green companion (what havoc is it wreaking in my womb?), and I'm sure they're right about the coffee. 

I like the way they don't have militant rules for their bairn, and I read an interesting article in the guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/may/04/leave-them-kids-alone-griffiths )which explored what happens when you loosen the boundaries placed on kids in western society (spoiler alert; mainly good stuff). 

Despite all that, I won't say it's not been an effort to dispel the look of incredulity that creeps over my face at times, and it is really, really to hard to look after a child who is clever and independent, when the infinitely preferable parents are around all the time.  I never thought I would be a militant parent, but it looks so much easier to have mindless drones who do what they're told like small, scheduled weevils.

 I am also self aware enough to know that every single current parent who reads this, will be excited at the prospect of seeing me produce my own, and make 927382638 mistakes a day like everyone else.

As I said, they have very kindly  invited me to stay on, but I am trying to think of alternatives (especially if I am going to publish this...) Cheap and interesting, but not TOO interesting. No land mines for example- the neurosis du jour at he moment.

 The problem with jaunting off is I hate hostels. I can happily hold court (whether invited to or not) at a party full of strangers on my own turf, but seem to become a quivering wreck in foreign lands. I'm not sure why, but I don't think I have ever managed to strike up a good conversation when abroad and by myself.  I usually scuttle off to my room at the first opportunity, and build a tent/shroud out of cheap scarves so people can't peep at me whilst I sleep. I feel it's one of those things I should really push myself to do though, and there are loads of places in Colombia I want to see before I go. I also think at the age of 27, I should be less scared of things like this, no? 

The most recommended place to visit is Cartagena, but me and Angela already went there when we came here in January. It's reputation is completely justified; a truly beautiful town. It's a real mishmash of cultures, with a lot of Afro Caribbeans, young rich Colombians on holiday and western ex-pats and tourists. The black neighbourhoods are visibly poor and scruffy but really pretty. They look a lot more fun too. Funny little wiggly houses, painted in pastel colours with bright pink and yellow begonias tumbling down the walls. There seemed to always be screeds of bairns playing football in the street, and old men drinking beer, and having games of chess on the pavements. 

The "old town" of Cartagena is classic colonial, really beautiful sun bleached buildings, fat Botero statues everywhere, and columned walkways where all the teenagers park their mopeds and eat gelato. The city is surrounded by a massive defensive sea wall, lined with palm trees and full of holidaymakers, buskers, street performers and boys selling beers from coolers.

 There were loads of cobbled plazas filled with old fashioned sweetie stalls, and juice stands, and every corner had beautiful, fat, Caribbean women wearing every colour imaginable, bowls of pineapples perched on their heads. 

One night me and Angela bought a bottle of wine ($4!!!) and took it to a little pier, where we watched a peerie old man fishing with a bit of string.  We got mildly squiffy as the sun set over the water, illuminating all the elegant yachts gliding past. We strolled (rolled) back to the hostel, through plazas where there were families sitting out watching their kids play, and lots of handsome boys selling rosemary and basil "organic" empanadas. The whole thing was pretty Kodac momenty. Until we got offered crack by a 9 year old that is. Prior to that though, it was like Love in the Time of Cholera. 

  

Anyway, the point is, I've already been to Cartagena, so need to think of somewhere else to go. I've been reading lots about the El Ciudad Perdida or The Lost City, and it sounds incredible. A site which was only discovered in the 1979s, and which they think is over a thousand years old, you can only get there on foot. It's supposedly a spectacular view en route, maybe even more worthwhile than the final destination. However, it's a 6 day difficult trek, infested with mosquitoes and comparatively " high risk"... For what I'm not sure. (Land mines?) Mam suggested I buy a paper body suit (?!?) to avoid beasties, though what purpose this would serve in a humid jungle with frequent river crossings I'm not sure. I said it would be roasting hot, and she replied that I could just not wear anything underneath. I'm aware of my own propensity for bad luck well enough to know that would be asking for a FARC nabbing. I'd be plastered all over the national news, with a clammy sunburnt face, no makeup and wearing a weird see through, paper onesie. No thanks. So, that's one option I've talked myself out of. The other one is to just go and see what happens. Maybe to Medellin, city of Pablo Escobar fame, which now has a reputation as one of Colombian most modern, vibrant places. It just won a prize (I forget from whom but read it on the BBC website, so must be true) for the worlds most innovative city. It's also the place to go for night life and bars etc. Normally I would be all for that, but the nae pals thing sort of makes you lose interest. 

Perhaps the most chilling indication that its time to go, came just now, when I spent several minutes looking for "the mug I like" for my tea. I have also become aware that more people than my mum are reading this, which is nice in one way, but in another way merely brings home the reality of my non adventure, and makes me feel a little bit pressured into doing something exciting. I'm vaguely embarrassed to imagine non-family members reading about my jam making, or bus tantrums.  It's all a bit tragic isn't it, and not necessarily how I would want to present myself to a stranger.

There was this stupid story that I used to tell, about how I was out one night in Glasgow, and this Czech boy, who didn't speak much English was trying to winch me. He was going on incoherently about my "strong face" and how everything was "big in these face" 

"The eyeses, the nosey the eyebrowzers.... Prettys yes, but....is something strange" 

He broke off, frowning, before exclaiming cheerfully

"I know! You is being like the man! the mans when he is so sad as the man so he want to bes the woman! Oh, the ah, the ah....I forgetting...." 

"Do you mean a transsexual?" I shrilled (growled)

"Yes!" He high fived, "this is the word for which I search! Thanks you!" 

No. Thanks YOU. Anyway, the point is, racist impressions aside, I used to tell this story because I thought it was funny and my pals would be amused. However, once I was telling it in front of a new boyfriend. I saw him chortle along with everyone else, but THEN I saw him glance sidelong at me and I knew he was thinking, "her jaw is quite strong now you mention it". It was an error of self PR. This blog is the same kind of thing. I'm not presenting my best side, more the side you show to people who already know you're an unfortunate.  But I can change. No more jam making, or wailing on the phone to people back home.  No more Greys Anatomy (in English) or more paying $25 for a copy of Bleak House, so you can lose yourself in lovely, familiar, Dickensian Britain. No. Onward. Onward to thrilling jungle adventures, with new found Spanish speaking friends, attractive (and uncharacteristically tall) nomads called Miguel, and exciting and perilous escapades involving wild human pyramids, shamans, tequila and panther sanctuaries. Yes. 

Next week. For sure. This week, I still have some ginger marmalade to attend to, paper mâché piñatas and glittery Aztec masks to make, and Game of Thrones; Season 1. Goodbye.