Clueless in Bogotá

The middle of the world is near Quito, or at least that is what Ecuadorians say. They say it because the ecuator passes through a site about 45 minutes north of the capital. There you can find a small museum were the line is drawn on the floor with yellow paint.

A woman showed me water moving down a plughole in different directions in two identical sinks a few metres apart. She explained how the indigenous inhabitants of the site discovered it was right in the middle of both hemispheres, which is impressive given that they only used sticks and stones and stuff. They also buried women alive and cut off the faces of enemies to keep as souvenir.

After photocopying all the books I needed from my language school I left Quito and flew to Bogotá. The flying bit was the result of a carefully negotiated set of conditions under which my parents would be happy for me to be in Colombia.

Arriving at the airport I felt a little strange. This was, after all,a country where large amounts of land are out of the hands the state. To my relief there were a lot of police; I reckoned I could be pretty sure Bogotá, or at least the airport, were under government control.

I spend the morning wandering round the old town - life seemed pretty normal, but I was on my guard for guerilla fighters all the same.

Colombia´s best artist is Fernando Botero. His trademark is paintings and sculptures of fat people. Some art is undoubtedly bollocks, but I really enjoyed the work of Botero. I also enjoyed the hot chocolate and cheese followed by mango with salt and lime which I ate in the cafe opposite.

The museum of police is an interesting attraction given that the police are pretty busy most of the time. A few years ago the Medellin Cartel was offering about 10,000 dolars to anyone who could prove they had killed a policemen. As I waited for the obligatory officer to show me around I noticed the list of members of the Bogotá police killed whilst on duty. There were 36 names. All from 2007.

One of Bogotá´s richest men is a taylor who makes bulletproof clothing for other rich people. Security is the largest industry in the country - if you don´t count drugs.

The Colombian accent, at least around Bogotá, sounds just like a welsh accent. Assuming (I know) he were capable of learning it, Craig Bellamy speaking Spanish would sound like a Bogotano. That doesn´t apply on the coast - here they talk without opening their mouth. Which is a good thing, because orthodontic braces are a cool accessory amongst wealthier locals, even well into their thirties.

I wanted to avoid gringos so I phoned a friend of a friend of a friend of Bristow and a few minutes later a brand new Peugeot 306 pulled up at my hostel. Over the next two days, Adriana, a former student much like myself, drove me to malls, cinemas and restaurants in the wealthy parts of the city. If it wasn´t for the heavily armed police on most intersections and drug addicts approaching the car at traffic lights it could have been Alicia Silverstone driving me round Beverly Hills.

It was good to see another side of a city that clearly has many sides, but I couldn´t really afford the lifestyle and, in the end, was forced to escape to the coast. Parking her car for a few hours, in a heavily guarded garage, cost as much as a few days´ travel in Bolivia.

Each bus company has to display its ´road accident statistics´ on a large sign by the office in the bus station. We chose Expresso Brasilia, which boasted 3 deaths and 6 injuries in the last month. ´I can assure you that is the best record you´ll find´ asserted the women behing the counter. ´The roads here are very windy´.

She wasn´t wrong. Surprisingly though, given my concerns about hijacking or falling off a mountain or both, I slept pretty well, until we stopped a few hours short of our destination for breakfast.

In what seemed a strange selection given the 40 degree heat and high humidity, the locals on the bus all ordered deep fried meat with rice and chili. Sadly that´s also the typical lunch and dinner on the coast, give or take a few grilled bananas. It seems that, while doling out the food to Latin America, God gave anything worth eating to Argentina and Mexico.

I was excited about being by the sea and somewhere hot, and wasted no time in signing up for what claimed to be the cheapest scuba diving course in the world. It was sponsored by an organisation called PADI, which I thought, given the name, might be Irish, but is in fact American.

We spent four days sitting on the sea bed taking our flippers off and swimming without air before they gave us some paper announcing that we were qualified divers. Then we explored the nearby reefs which are home to a large amount of coloured fish and coral.

A man used to walk along the beach with a large sign that said Cocaine on one side and Hash on the other. There were police about, but they had no idea; the sign was in Hebrew. ´I got an Israeli guy to write the words and a friend painted the sign. The Jews find it hilarious to see the sign, and I sell much more than the other guys. How much did you say you wanted?´

From Santa Marta it´s a short trip to Parque National Tayrona, home to, according to the Guardian Travel Website, one of the world´s top ten beaches. We walked for two hours through thick jungle past spiders and crabs to the waterfront. Here we slept in hammocs on a windy headland from where you could see the mountains and jungle behind the palm trees at the back of beaches. The rough seas added to the wild, untamed atmosphere. It seemed a rugged, menacing sort of paradise.

As slept on the beach I was woken by a large thud. A coconut had fallen a few metres from my foot. That was lucky; if one fell on your head it would fucking hurt.

Futher up the coast is Cartagena de los Indias, reputedly the most beautiful town in Latin America, although a bit touristy by Colombian standards and home to a good amount of prostitution. The old walled city on the waterfront was certainly a stunningly colourful mix of different Spanish architecture, a bit like a Carribean Dubrovnik.

Sadly, I couldn´t afford to stay anywhere near the old town, so shacked up with other backpackers in a barrio with a slightly more, err, real feel. The pavements were home to drunks and crack addicts, although were full of other people going about their daily business and were apparently quite safe, at least in the day. A toddler in a nappy ambled past the vagrants carrying a bag of shopping towards her mum, who was sitting on the curb breastfeeding. ´I hope you got milk´ she shouted over the noise of the traffic screeching down the same road.

In what must have been a small dose of relief in a pretty awful existence, some of the street-dwellers liked to amuse themselves by jumping up at tourists and frightening them, before laughing loudly and offering their hand to apologise. When I mentioned that I was from England one got all excited and shouted ´Leicester? Birmingham? Grimsby? Luton?´.

In my hostel I met a woman who has traveled overland from the US with two large Kenyan dogs working as a writer. The van she uses is white except for a large cartoon mutt and the words On a mission from Dog. ´I guess people just think its vet supplies delivery or something' she explained.

To avoid problems at border crossings she lets the dogs off their lead and ushers them into the street while sorting out her passport. When she gets past the controls she whistles and they traipse across like strays until she ties them up out of sight of the police.

She had to put the vehicle on a cargo ship because you can´t drive from Panama to Colombia, and took the dogs on a sailing boat. She plans to write an article for a pet magazine about taking the dogs across and an article for a car magazine about taking the van.