Greetings from Bogotá.
I came down here last weekend to attend to some matters and have been enjoying the ‘sun in the morning / torrential rain in the afternoon’ weather pattern that is so characteristic of Bogotá at certain times of the year. The secret is to carry an umbrella at all times and do your shopping etc before 2.00 pm unless you want to see Calle 92 (the street on which we live) transform from pleasant urban thoroughfare into raging torrent, and end up wet to the waist as rain bounces off the pavement and the cascading runoff inundates your shoes.
As Fran used to say of the lushly verdant countryside around Carcassonne in the south of France (as compared to their much drier, yellow and brown surroundings in Provence), “It’s green for a reason, darling”.
Fortunately it also rained in our bit of the Bush, bringing welcome relief after more than a month without so much as a drop. It made for a slightly damp journey in the jeep with Jhon Fredy to Pereira airport, but that was a very small price to pay for the much-needed moisture.
The rain clouds were often floating below the level of the road as we descended, which gave the valley a very somber aspect, but this was much enlivened by a forest of pink blossoms on trees that lined both sides of the road. They extended all the way down from Mykanos, and at the bottom continued across the cane fields of the Valle de Risaralda.
Normally such an avenue of seasonal delight would be the result of a Department of Main Roads landscaping scheme,l or the work of the local “Let’s Beautify the Borough” committee, but in this case it is just a particularly nice fence.
As I have mentioned in a previous letter, fences here are made from tree branches, usually from the same trees, that are trimmed, thrust into the ground, and strung together with wire. This being volcanically fertile and well-watered Colombia, they immediately take root and flourish, growing rapidly into trees.
I am not sure how many times a year these trees blossom, but it is a magnificent sight, and if it hadn’t been raining I would have taken a photograph for you.
What I think is very Colombian is the local name for these very pretty trees … Mata Ratón (Mouse Killer).
Mata Ratón’s scientific name is Gliricidia sepium, and it turns out to be very popular and used in many tropical and sub-tropical countries for various purposes … “such as live fencing, fodder, coffee shade, firewood, green manure and rat poison. Live fences can be grown from 1.5 m to 2.0 m stakes of Gliricidia sepium in just a month. Gliricidia can be intercropped with maize. Its effect is that of a potent fertilizer.” (Thank you Wikipedia)
So there you go. Who said these letters aren’t informative?
Another phenomenon that is affecting me on a day-to-day basis here in Bogotá is waking up every morning around 3.00am. I expect this when I have just arrived from Europe or Indonesia, and the body clock is set on parts distant, but it is only a 30-minute flight from Pereira and there is certainly no need to adjust your watch. I found this most perplexing until I realized what is to blame.
For the past six weeks or so we have been sleeping at Mykanos, with Torsalino a permanent fixture on our bed … permanent that is until about 3.00am when he bites my toes or knocks my watch or glasses off the bedside table to let me know that it is time for him to go and do whatever he likes to do at that time. I let him out and go back to bed, letting him back in again when he meows around 6.00.
It is not something I mind in the least, but it seems that I have been programmed sufficiently to react to prompts that aren’t there.
In short, I seem to be suffering from petlag.
Curiously, since I have been here in Bogotá, Torsalino has been sleeping all the way through, on my side of the bed, sparing Adriano the duties of ‘portero’, a word that doubles up in meaning here, being used both for doorman and goalkeeper. So I think Torsalino is either taking the piss (or postponing it), or is just keeping a close eye on Adriano in case he disappears like I did.
Anyway, before I provoke the ire of Mike, Chris or Jones with superfluous cat stories, I should mention the festive season.
Originally, due to some bad behaviour, we were not going to have a Christmas party for the workers but Adriano decided that it was unfair for the many to suffer from the actions of a few so we put on lunch for 100, the Saturday following Christmas Day. It was more relaxed … we made roast pork and chicken sandwiches for 120, with our version of Ian McCulloch’s Torta de Verona (or ‘Gloop’ as it was called informally in the kitchen at Taylor’s Restaurant) for dessert … and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. There was much more dancing and mixing this year; formerly they tended to stay in their home teams i.e. Mykanos, Rancho Grande, La Fe, Jardines, guarañeros etc.
Sandwiches in the bar.
We had ‘door prizes’ for the men, women and children and for the first time, a dance competition, which I suppose we could have called Strictly Come Salsa but thankfully did not. I was one of the panel of four judges, which also included Adriano’s brother Nelson and his wife Bibiana who were visiting from London.
The standard of dancing was quite high (we are talking Colombians here) but what really separated the Principals from the Corps de Ballet was the changing tempo. David, Horacio’s son, was in charge of the music and each three-minute segment featured at least four different tempi. Everyone was fine with salsa and cumbia but when faced with a puya or bambuco or joropo many couples wallowed about in frustration or just quit the floor. The winning couple took everything in their stride. The girl was about a foot and a half shorter than the boy and it looked as though the toes of their shoes were super glued together, as, it seemed, were their hips. They took the prize money.
Dancing at the Christmas party.
After New Year we made an excursion to the biennial Carnaval del Diablo in nearby Riosucio. I have written about it before so won’t bore you with details now, save pointing out that the first time the figure of the Devil featured was in 1915 making this a bit of a centenary. The whole thing was originally the idea of two opposing priests who wanted to unify the two competitive, and sometimes warring, communities that predate the town of Riosucio.
It is now one of Colombia’s best-known festivals and attracts visitors from all over the world. We used to like it a lot, but with each new manifestation it is more commercial. Can’t blame Riosucio for making the most of the commercial opportunities I suppose, and we can never keep things the way we remember them, and that isn’t always a true reflection of how they were anyway. Maybe I am just getting old. We had a young friend, Diego, visiting us from Bogotá and in accord with his wishes, we left him at the Festival when we headed home at dusk. He turned up at Mykanos at 7.00am next morning, exhausted and cold and with sore feet, having danced until dawn. Ah youth! So glad I am over it.
Needless to say we had innumerable dinners for Christmas and the New Year and for friends and family, and during each one Torsalino waited patiently, just out of sight, until the guests left when he would reappear and come upstairs to sleep with us … well, at least until it was time to wake me up at 3.00.
Oh well, it could be worse. At least we don’t have to pay for school fees.
Love from him and me,
Barry
The girls’ raffle.
