Tag Archives for #Bogota

gringaColombiana gets a job

“What do you do?” They ask.

“Well, I draw, and write, and well, erm, gallivant around Colombia.”

Well, not anymore.

Now I can add “making Colombia look great” to my list.

Yes, I just got a job.

I start tomorrow.

At 8.30am.

I am petrified.

I haven’t worked in a while. But, I wrote my life plan a few months ago, and luckily I have everything I wished for on time and schedule.

So I start work tomorrow. In August. As hoped.

My job is in advertising. At the same company I was at in London. Working as an account handler. And the best part is, that my client is Proexport. How cool is that? The other great thing is that the office is FOUR BLOCKS from my house. Fantastico!

So as I’ve laid out my new school clothes and packed my bag which includes a new notepad, I just hope that the other kids are nice to me…

Chau for now

For the first time in my life, I am going to be travelling alone. Hmmmmm, yes I am 30 years old but have never done the gap year before…I have a very protective mum.

So where am I going? I’m going to the coffee country, Medellin and Santa Marta.

For two weeks.

I can’t wait.

I’ve heard that the coffee country is beautiful. I’ve got family in Medellin who I’m staying with and will be relaxing at my aunt’s apartment in Santa Marta, literally doing nothing, but sleeping, eating, swimming and tanning.

Thanks to odd dates and the arrival of cheap airline Viva Colombia, I managed to get very cheap tickets with Avianca.

I will be back in two weeks. I am excited and scared at the same time.

Wish me luck and I’ll catch up with you soon!

x

Independence Day

Friday was (another) bank holiday weekend in Colombia. Yes, there are a lot of bank holidays…17 in fact. There are Bank Holidays to celebrate Saint Joseph’s Day, Labour Day, Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the Assumption of Mary…etc. etc. The UK had 10 in 2012… This bodes well for when I start working.

Friday, it was Independence Day. This one I’m on board with. The man above is called Simon Bolivar and he liberated Colombia from the Spaniards… According to Wikipedia, he “was a Venezuelan military and political leader. Together with José de San Martín, he played a key role in Hispanic-Spanish America’s successful struggle for independence from the Spanish Empire, and is today considered one of the most influential politicians in American history.” and “Bolívar remains regarded in Hispanic-America as a hero, visionary, revolutionary, and liberator. During his lifetime, he led Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, and Bolivia to independence, and helped lay the foundations for democratic ideology in much of Latin America.”

So a pretty awesome guy.

He is hailed in South America…There’s money named after him, ships, his statue is in most cities and towns in Colombia and Venezuela. In fact…every city or town has a main square known as Plaza Bolívar.

So, how did I celebrate the Independence Day? By going to a finca in Carmen de Apicala in ‘terra caliente’. AKA ‘hot country’. Yes, it’s cold in Bogota, but to get some heat, all you have to do is descend the mountain to get a warmer climate.

Beats taking a Ryan Air flight.

I was invited to a finca with a pool and 15 other new friends. Hard to resist. It is a custom that many other Colombians enjoy up and down the estratos.

Here are the photos.

Let me know what you got up to.

x

Girl with parrot pet

On the way back to Bogota, we stopped off for lunch at an arepa house

I had arepa with cheese and chorizo with picante sauce. It was DELICIOUS and only 4,000 COP

How they made the arepas with cheese…They reminded me of Mexican quesadillas and were just as tasty

A friend had arepa with pork crackling (front) and black sausage (back)

The other friend had Bandeja Paisa…A kind of Colombian version of the British breakfast fry-up

The Boy

I live in the Boy. No, not with the Boy, in the Boy.

Or in other words, I live in El Chico. ‘Chico’ means boy. Well, there are no boys in my life, so my love affair so far has only been with this chico. I love where I live. I thought I’d show you my neighbourhood.

My family have lived here for years. And blimey, has the boy changed. He is now all grown up and sophisticated. Like a child’s pop-up book; new offices, apartments, bars and restaurants appear before your eyes like magic.

Chico is separated into Chico Norte (North) and Chico Reservado. I live in the ‘Reservado’ part. But there’s little reservation going on as the Brits know it. Where old houses stood one day, are knocked down for swanky apartments the next. Everything is new here. And there are some very amazing, very exclusive apartments that would make a Londoner’s eye bleed at the price and Blair Waldolf kick off her Louboutins in comfort.

I don’t live in one of these buildings. My family’s building is 40 years old. By Bogota’s standard, that’s ancient. It’s the opposite of the UK. We love old buildings and prefer them to new builds. But where we’re rich with architectural heritage, Bogota is having a boom and making their own history now.

I love the new style of buildings. The red bricks blend into the mountains as the sun sets. It’s magical.

I take a LOT of walks as I while away the days without a job. So I took some photos. I thought I’d bring you along on one of wonders around the block.

Here you go:

Is it a museum? A spaceship? No, it’s a swanky apartment.

New York style loft apartments.

Aquatic entrance.

Another water entrance.

I see a lot of these plants (front right). Not sure what they are other than popular.

A driveway that could be mistaken for a hotel.

A penthouse sits on top. It looks big.

Yesterday, a house was here. Today, it’s a building site.

Pretty, tree lined streets.

The red brick is beautiful against the mountainous background.

Houses

Yes! There are houses too…Very unique ones…

A 70′s house.

A mock-Tudor British house.

A French Chateau…

60′s house (right) with American style mansion in background (think it’s an Ambassador’s house).

And modern ‘houses’! Not sure if these are houses or apartments, but they look awesome (from afar, across a busy street).

Lazy Sunday

There’s nothing I enjoy more than Usaquen on a Sunday. Especially a sunny Sunday. Today was such a day.

Every Sunday, the old colonial ‘village’ in the North of the city, opens up with the flea market. Think a Colombian version of Spitalfields market, where you can find lots of vendors selling arts and crafts…some traditional, some quite bizarre.

To make the most of the quiet city, me and my companion walked along the ciclovia on the septima (a main road, usually jammed with traffic and honking horns). This is quite possibly the best time to enjoy a usually bustling city. It’s similar to The City of London or Canary Wharf at the weekend i.e. emptied of the usual office workers and the stress they bring. Until 2pm, all classes of Bogotanos make the most of the liberty by cycling, running, skating or walking along the massive stretch of road.

After a delicious lunch in Amarti, we strolled the markets and finished with a cup of the best Colombian coffee in Juan Valdez. I definitely recommend spending the day here as it suits all budgets. A previous time, I simply ate empanadas sold in someone’s house for $2mil pesos each, and ate them in the sunshine whilst watching the people go by.

For me, a Sunday in Usaquen is simply perfection; food, sun, shopping, culture and beauty.

Colombia, te quiero.

Ciclovia along the septima. A hub of activity for the Bogotanos.

Beautiful Usaquen square with the standard statue of Simon Bolivar.

The beautiful colonial buildings of Usaquen can be seen in background. Now are trendy (and delicious) restaurants.

Enjoying lunch at Amarti. Part of the restaurant is in a old colonial house, with a surprisingly large and airy end, with open air and a green wall. Kind of like eating in a museum. A place to see and be seen.

Enjoying coffee in Juan Valdez, Santa Barbara.

Locals open up their houses on a Sunday and sell homemade empanadas and arepas. The cheaper and equally delicious way to enjoy lunch. Arepa con huevo (arepa with egg) is seen here.

Vendors selling arts and crafts line the streets of Usaquen.

I die in Dominó

Hanging out with a Colombian who’s a chief has massive advantages. Mainly that they know about food. I am obsessed by food. This is a good combination.

The other day, I was starving. After lots of sun and a few beers, I was gasping for an empanada. I am obsessed by empanadas and they are the perfect complement to beer, sun, walking. Heck, anything really.

But never before have I eaten empanadas like these. These were out of this world amazing. Usually I stay clear of flour empanadas, as corn are fair away my favourite. Well, ‘shoot me now’ because I am wrong and am so happy I could die.

So where was this piece of heaven? Dominó. It doesn’t look like much from the outside. But it’s a little 1970’s gem. The décor is orange and black with a dominoes theme running throughout. In fact, if it weren’t for the trendy lights, it most likely hasn’t changed in the slightest since it opened.

Inside heaven.

Inside the Dominó

But, it has the most amazing, and freshest ingredients I’ve tasted.

OK, so in case you didn’t know, empanadas are a national favourite dish. They are a bit like Cornish pasties or samosas, as they are pasties filled with filling, which varies usually between chicken and beef. Here, you can have chicken, beef, shrimp, cheese and mushroom. You then tip your empanada into aji which is an onion and coriander dip. DELICIOUS. I opted for the chicken and mushroom. For the first time, I actually saw the ingredients and recognised the mushrooms…This was washed down by a fresh mango juice. Oh my god, my mouth is watering.

Serving the aji.

Empanadas with salsa and juice. Bliss.

I also tried the cheese and mushroom ones. They too were delicious. As my chief friend said, it’s amazing that a tasty restaurant exists with just a deep fat fryer.

As we were paying up to leave, the ladies were unloading a crate of fresh coriander. Seriously. My eyes boggled.

If you would like to go, Dominó is located by Las Aguas in downtown Bogota on Carrera 4 18-55. Of course there’s no website as these didn’t exist in the 70’s, but neither did processed ingredients and believe me, I haven’t eaten a fresher empanada in my life. Definitely recommend.

Life must go on

Today a bomb exploded near my house, killing five and injuring 25. It was against the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) between the US and Colombia, which comes into effect today.

I’m not going to dwell too much on this, as I don’t feel it right to bring more negativity to the situation. It was a stark reminder though that Colombia is a rising star at the moment, but there is still a simmering internal tension, which bubbles to the surface by surprise.

For this reason, I want to shout good, positive things about Colombia so please read and enjoy my latest blog on La Xarcuteria.

Besitos
gringaColombiana

PS. If you want to read more on the story, you can do so here.

La Xarcuteria.

Meet Mike. I did. He was lovely. He sells sausages. A lot of them. (OK, if you’ve read my post about Frankfrt airport, you may think that I am obsessed with sausages….I am not. I think).

Mike is from California and about three months ago he opened up La Xarcuteria (charcuterie – branch of cooking devoted to prepared meat products, primarily pork).

It might sound strange, maybe even slightly gross, but believe me, it’s amazing. It’s part of a new wave of restaurants from other cultures making Bogota more cosmopolitan. You see, Mike’s half Colombian and moved to Colombia to live when his Colombian father retired here. His shop oozes the Californian laid-back chilled vibe on the hectic, crammed busy streets of Carrera 15 (pronounced ‘quinze’). This is a street previously known for its low-end cheap eats, and I’m not sure I want to tell you the story Mike told me about what he found in the shop when he took it over from a deep fried chicken restaurant….Whatever it was, it took him three lorry loads to clear away *insert imagination here*.

Needless to say, the restaurant is now completely gutted out and revamped, and is something you’d expect to find in Soho (London or New York). The benches are raw wood and cool, the walls have that exposed brick look and he casually has three types of wine he’s happy to sell you. Everything is kind of, you know, just cool. And believe me, when you open the glass door, it’s surprising when once again the Carrera quinze smacks you in the face with its old world ways.

I find this story a really interesting one, not only because he’s one of many ‘returning Colombians’ I’ve stumbled across, but he’s also done really well so far without mega bucks marketing and has been written up has the ‘best’ hamburger in town. (Yes he does venture away from pork…). This is shocking for me because El Corrall holds my heart as the best, and believe me, meat here in Colombia is amazing and second to none compared to the UK. It’s just a shame my companion is a vegetarian.

Menu side 1

Menu side 2

You can see more here on his Facebook page.

If you’re in the area, do pop in. He’s also just opened for Sunday brunch. He’s promised me he’ll start selling French press coffee too.

So that’s my Sunday sausage and coffee hangover fuel sorted then; Colombian style.

The Massa-curist

Yesterday afternoon it was Saturday and I wasn’t feeling well. To cheer myself up, I decided to treat myself to a pedicure. (If you read my post “You are what you wear…” you would know that I D.I.E. for beauty treatments).

It started off well as I found a great, local peluqueria where it costs about £3 for a pedicure. I slipped off my flip flops, and got comfy on the white plastic chair, safe in the knowledge that my feet are in pretty good shape having only set foot in the same place two weeks prior. But, bam! I was mistaken. The lady took one look at my feet and screamed out loud. Literally. She laughed so hard that people turned to stare. I had a cold. I had been in bed all afternoon. My nose was sore, and I just wanted a bit of pampering. No worries, we moved on, past the laughter and stares to selecting a colour. She ripped out her top drawer of goodies and thrusted the box on my lap. It was a Pandora’s box of nail varnishes. I decided at this point that she was slightly mental, and this was not normal behaviour…

The massacurist

I stare into the abyss in search of a colour

As I reached in, she caught sight of my hands. I had been doing my art all morning and had most of my drawing festering underneath my nails. I mean they weren’t that bad…they just weren’t ‘Saturday night’ good. But I had no plans other than my bed, and was here to get pampered. By this point, between her regional accent spoken at speed and my Spanish, I agreed to a manicure too. No worries, I love manicures and had lots of time. This would be great. I will leave to go back to bed with great looking feet and hands.

However, she’s not satisfied as she’s now got my face gripped in her hands. I apparently have a moustache. Right, OK. I mean, no one has told me this before, and I was pretty sure I would have noticed. I am shouted ‘bigote’ on numerous occasions, and feel that this is not the most complimentary word to be shouted at in a room of groomed Colombians. I surrender. I am slightly afraid. I am suddenly covered in chocolate and my bigote leaves my face with what I would have previously mistaken for as desert. But I have not yet passed her quality control. Apparently my eyebrows are something unheard of too, although I have no idea exactly what, as they too leave my face in a wipe of chocolate wax.

By now, I’m buffed, polished and waxed within an inch of life, the manicurist massacurist applies top polish to my toenails and grabs my leg, feeling me up. She’s hunting for her next victim. Apparently, my one-day old shaved legs pass the test. I am howled a story about her friend, her legs and I’m sure the word ‘knife’ was used when describing her friend’s woeful tale of hair removal. I thank God I shaved yesterday.

I am saved. I have passed Colombian quality control. I pay up.

Only here would the entire experience cost me £8. I pay her a tip. After all, she’s kind of done me a favour. I head back to bed tarted up, Colombian style.

Bureaucracy kills.

Disclosure: The below is narrative of my story spanning five / six weeks. Hopefully it’s a unique case and is not the general norm.

Do you recognise this building? No? Lucky you. I’ve just returned from my fifth visit to the Registraduria Nacional del Estado Civil. A.K.A. The place where order dies and bureaucracy is alive and well.

I’ve paid the $10mil taxi fare so often that I might has well have unpacked my bags right here on the plastic floor and made myself at home on the red cushion plastic chairs, that are neatly lined up in rows of four like a patient army.

Why do I do this to myself? I am cursing the fact that I am over 18yrs old. Other than for obvious reasons, all this would be non-existent if I was a child. I am Colombian. I have my passport which says so. I have a Colombian birth certificate. Yet, nothing works in Colombia unless you have the cedula (national I.D. card). I will have my cedula. But as I’m over 18, it will take a year to arrive. Yes, that’s right; ONE YEAR.

Why? Where is this time spent? Who has heard such a thing? I don’t know.

So, I have been back and forth to this lovely place on the autopista with nowhere to sort out my papers. Here are the steps I’ve gone through….I must warn you; this is an unusual case so don’t be alarmed. But if you are an adult, receiving a cedula takes 12 months and it will be easier to rob the bank than open an account without one…

VISIT 1:
Go to the registraduria as my contrasena the Colombian Embassy gave me in London has worn out, so my I.D. number is illegible.

I am given a ‘transmite’ paper which means that I am entitled to the cedula, but it is going through the bureaucratic process so this green piece of paper will do instead.

We leave the registraduria happy.

Then…

VISIT 2:
We get a phone call. I have been registered twice as Colombian; once in the 90’s and now in 2011. Why they didn’t tell me in 2011 when I was at the same place? I have no idea. We need to go back and delete the first I.D. number. I have spent a lot of money on my Colombian passport with my new I.D. number that I am not surrendering the most recent one.

We go back. We are shown on a computer screen the original birth registration. The man proudly points out my mum’s signature on it as proof he’s not mad… we are. I haven’t seen it before. I was 14yrs old. I don’t even remember what boy I was into at that age. Can we get a copy of that paper he asks? Hell no. It’s in London. My mum won’t have it. Heck, if she had, she would’ve told me in the first place.

OK, no worries. We can go to a certain bank and deposit $5 mil pesos (£2 / approx.) to get them to retrieve a copy of the paper.

We leave with the bank details.

VISIT 3:
We come back with the receipt. The same guy accepts the payment and tells us it’ll take 3-5 days for the original form to arrive.

We leave.

VISIT 4:
Now the people know us. And we know them. Hi Nora if you’re reading.

We duly take our ticket and sit waiting on the red cushion chairs on plastic legs neatly lined up in rows of four. Eventually our name is called and we are served at the same counter by a different guy. This time, he is much friendlier, but perhaps we have been beaten down by the process and are so submissive, that if asked, my aunt and I would roll over on our stomach for a pat.

Waiting for the master to call our number.

We are given the long-lost form. We now need to explain everything to someone somewhere else and request that they erase the original I.D. number. We are not coming back again, so my aunt writes the letter by hand there and then and we beg people to photocopy bits for us.

Aunt writes letter

We hand in the paper to another desk in another part of the building and are told that we won’t hear back for another two months. We sigh, happy in the knowledge that this is the last time we need to be here.

VISIT 5:
We’re back. This time, to get my little green piece of paper authorised by an official. Apparently my worn out contrasena, transmite paper, Colombian passport or Colombian birth certificate isn’t enough to grant me a bank account. The bank wants my transmit paper ‘authorised’. Fine, we’ll do that…

…The registraduria no longer authorise the transmite paper as the law has changed. And no, I can’t get my cedula earlier than October…yes, it does take a year to arrive.

We head back and visit other banks. Without my plastic cedula, I am looked at with bemusement.

Right, so I’ll stick to keeping my cash in my sock then.

Who said globalisation had taken over the world?

UPDATE

Visit 6:
I am minding my own business when I receive a letter. It is from the Registraduria. They want me back in and I have four days to do so.

We return and are ushered into a separate part of the building on the second floor. My letter is reviewed, processed, stamped and I am given another piece of paper and we’re directed back to Norma.

Norma flicks through my case, and scurries off to do things. We are told that my first (original) registration will be deleted and we will be able to keep my latest number. We leave again.

Visit 7:
We’re back to see Norma.

Ok, at this point, I give up and have no interest in trying to find out what / why they need to see us again. By this point, we know everyone and they know us. I study the ‘#8 ventilita’ handmade sign, wonkily sellotaped onto the glass. I know that around 3pm, it’s a quiet time for the staff and an opportunity for them to chat amongst themselves, show off their new jean purchases and gossip over gum and tinto.

TWO HOURS later, and Norma has done some more paperwork and I am told that now my first registration has been erased and I will now receive my cedula in one month. It will also come to Bogota, and not to London. Great, I think. But, we need to come back in order to get a new ‘tramite’ card as my current one is now outdated. Right, okay….Is there a nearer one we can go to? Yes! We’re told, and turns out there’s a little one quite near the house. By this point, it’s 4pm and they’re closing up.

We decide to wait until the next day before gracing the new Registraduria’s door.

Visit 8:
Next day and we’re back, but this time in Usaquen.

It’s a small, little house in the back streets. We enter and are told to queue up. Great. No seats this time. I stand whilst my aunt reads her book. I am told that no, I cannot sit down, and yes I do need to stand to the right of the 50cm space. I contemplate complaining of a fake preganancy or playing up my cold which is ravishing my body. But decide to play good and stand. And stand. And stand.

Finally, the guy asks to see my papers. “Oh no” he says, “your case is very complicated”. I need to wait while he deals with the easier cases. I sit and wait. And wait. Finally, he has mentally prepared himself to look at my documents. “Oh no” he says, “your photos aren’t acceptable”. I need to get some new ones done, which have the appropriate amount of space around my face. Fine. No problem. We cross the street and get some new ones done.

We return, and they’re shutting. But luckily we’re seen again by the man. I have all my fingerprints taken, just stopping short of my toes. I have my photo applied to the piece of paper, and I sign three times. Finally I am given the document. It’s a contrasena. It’s EXACTLY the same as what I started with. So I’ve basically gone through all of this to get a new contrasena. They’ve taken away my tramite I.D. and now I’m told my cedula will take two months to arrive. We also need to go to the government website to make sure we re-direct to Bogota not London.

So after all of this, I have been a Registraduria eight times; erased my first registration, was given a tramite, surrendered my tramite and was given a contrasena which is EXACTLY THE SAME as the original. This time, it’s not faded though. My aunt buys me a case for it. I will now protect it like gold.

My journey as been extraordinary, fantastical and basically bizarre. I question what they are actually doing and why this all can’t be done electronically like in Britain. It seems to be a lot of people employed to run around and do pretend jobs. Only in Colombia. I haven’t (cue sharp intake of breathe) read Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but his ‘magic realism’ is very much alive and well in the Registraduria.