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The Hidden Dangers of Bogotá ~ Part Three

Working without a Visa

Go on, roll your eyes at me.... I'll roll them right back.  With a casual wave of the hand I dismissed any fears others had about going to teach in Colombia without a working visa.  'It'll be fine' became the hackneyed phrase, I knew it wouldn't but I'd made up my mind.

'I grant you impunity'

It'll be fine, It'll be fine, download some lovely Juanes and everything will be fine.

Two months later, four of Bogotá's finest immigration officers burst into my classroom, leafed through my passport and found what they were looking for.  The blank page where my working visa should have been.  

My student's protests were in vain, I was bustled out of the class and into the Directors office, I wasn't even allowed to put the lid back on my board marker, as a victim of obsessive compulsive order it was a restriction that didn't sit well.  The 'told you so' merchants were forming a disorderly queue in my mind, I entered into a panic, leapt up onto the boss' desk, pulled down the sword hanging on the wall and disemboweled myself.  Pride becomes before a fall but rather that than fall into the hands of my enemies.  Harakiri latino style.

Of course, none of this happened, I made it up... but it could have. 

Take a board pen!

The reality had far less severe repercussions but uncomfortable ones nonetheless.  I was working for an agency, a man with a phone who sent me to various companies around Bogotá.  He was assisted by Juan Felipe, a former student from the UK who worked tirelessly to make things happen.  He was a good guy, despite forcing me to be a Millonarios FC fan.  Then there was me, a teacher with a board pen and a folder of resources and this was our agency.  A bit like Sterling Cooper Draper Price in its infancy, minus the hotel room and whiskey.

Now, the man with the phone, luckily happened to be a honest man with a phone, I was paid a salary, on time, regardless of how short I fell of previously agreed classroom hours.  I was supposed to teach 20-25 hours a week, I was doing about 10 on average.  Under worked and underwhelmed but not underpaid.

Despite having pesos in pocket, working illegally puts you on shaky ground, it lends an uncertainty to your plans.

'How long are you staying in Colombia for?'
'Erm, not sure'
'Well when does your working visa run out'
'Ehem, technically it doesn't...'

There were talks of making me legal but investigations into how left me bewildered.  We started to glean information from various quarters, in short, it was going to require numerous phone calls, the extraction of certificates and documents from storage, in England, whereupon they would need to be stamped at a notary then sent on... this all before addressing the financial aspect, sums of money I didn't have.  Oh, I'd also have to leave the country.

Searching for suitable accommodation without supporting papers also proved to be a concern.  Having to lower expectations to stay off the radar allowed for some interesting viewings.  I'm sure I saw one the beds used by the Khmer Rouge used to torture perceived dissidents, scorched bed frame, dried blood stains on the mattress, that was slightly better than the apartment I saw, straight out of Trainspotting, the crack den with a maid from the Dominican Republic, for some reason it had egg boxes covering all the windows.  The best piece of advice I could give anyone is that if you ever happen to use compartoapto to seek accommodation in Bogotá then avoid, at all costs, Paula from Chapinero, it took months of counselling and self harm to erase the images of her 'flat'. 

Looks can be deceiving, you haven't seen the toilet...

I settled on a flat (above) 'managed' by a 15 year landlady, dubbed 'the landgirl', sharing with two guys who pissed all over the toilet seat and never flushed... another girl who 'enjoyed' many visitors, in hindsight, possible contributors to the puddles left by seat peeing duo... the bed looked good, but wasn't.

If that wasn't enough, there was the added suicide feature of lighting a micro-tolerant gas cooker with the shortest matches known to mankind.  Colombians, why are your matches so small?  If I start to describe the shower then I'll be angry for the rest of the day.   I could go on but I fear it'd undo many hours of fine counselling.   All that said, I was an illegal immigrant and in the eyes of the law, I had no right to complain.

It would have been possible to survive, a visa could have been achieved eventually but the fact remained I was padding class numbers by using former students previously met in the UK, the rain was torrential (see Part 1), the threat of a good mugging was palpable (see Part 2) and the fact I didn't have the right to remain legally was like diarrhoea icing on a turd cake.

Work dried up in December, it got to the point when some nice students from Avianca offered to pay for further lessons that they didn't really want, in order for me to stay.  I dolefully declined, it would have meant having to approach the charity classes with enthusiasm and verve, of which I had none left.  I left and sought work in Spain, you don't need visas here, God bless the European Union.

The whole experience could have been avoided if I'd found a job in an established school who provided a contract and working visa upfront.

But that would have been boring wouldn't it?

There it is!

The Hidden Dangers of Bogotá ~ Part Two

Scaremongering

What to do?

I'd just received my salary in cash and I was armed with rolls of pesos. Now, how was I to get over to the other side of Bogotá, at night, safely?

Preparing to leave the Avianca building with my class, I presented this question to them.  In the red corner they were shouting, 'take a taxi, take a taxi', 'take a taxi', however, in the blue corner they were screaming 'noooooo, don't take a taxi, they'll kidnap you and drive you to a cash machine and rob you blind then eat you'.  I felt a bit like the mouse from 'The Gruffalo', save for the fact that this mouse had nearly 1000 pesos divided between his two socks, a secret compartment in his bag and, ehem, some notes comfortably nestling beneath the perineum region. 

So, taxis are dangerous, as are the buses, walking for over an hour through shady neighbourhoods in the rain was clearly out of the question, see The Hidden Dangers of Bogotá ~ Part One, and I don't think I'd ever seen a bicycle in use in Colombia's capital.  In the words of Johnny Cash 'what could I do, what COULD I do?'

It was hear I realised I was falling victim to Bogotá's second hidden danger, subscribing to the notion that danger lurked around every corner. Now, suspend your disbelief when I say Bogotá isn't a city of impending doom, unless you're the wicked witch of the west, in which case the rain would have dissolved you way before payday.  With this in mind, I jumped on the bus and made it all the way home without so much as a dirty look being thrown my way.

I'm melting, I'm melting... but rather that than take a taxi!

In a word association game, say Colombia and people will retort 'drugs', 'kidnapping' and 'Carlos Valderrama'.  In the three months I was teaching in Bogotá I wasn't offered drugs, I wasn't kidnapped nor did I see Carlos Valderrama.  I wasn't even mugged, in fact, it got to the point when I asked myself, 'why haven't I been mugged?'. 'what's wrong with me?'

The scaremongering came from all quarters, I usually place unwavering trust in local opinion so the seeds of paranoia were being planted in fertile ground.  Ways to lose your money ranged from an honest mugging to being 'cleaned out' whilst being cleaned up by a group of unsuspecting girls who had tactically spilled a drink over you.

That's not to say petty crime doesn't occur, I met a few travellers who'd been invited to share their cash at knife point, a crime not exclusive to Bogotá, that could just as easily happen in London, Madrid or Rome.  In short, there was nothing to fear except fear itself.  As with all large cities, you just need to apply some common sense.

A local once asked if I ever got tired of everyone staring at me due to the fact I was obviously a foreigner.  That wasn't the case at all, the people of Bogotá, Rollos, as they're more commonly known, are much like Londoners, they work long hours, commute in organised chaos and pretty much keep themselves to themselves, generally polite and helpful without outward displays of friendliness.

The real danger, the everyday tangible threat of Bogotá, was the Transmileno, a network of buses operating in much the same way as a metro system.  Locals amusingly renamed it the 'Transmilleno', lleno meaning 'full'.
The Transmileno should come with a health warning, stay well away if you suffer from panic attacks or if you're claustrophobic or more importantly if you're patience deficient.  The following scene could ensue: -

At the airport, on leaving the country, I was selected by authorities at random, taken to a room and encouraged, to a certain extent, to disrobe. Fear in its purist form, the thought of a surly man in uniform putting something in your bottom... but fear soon turned to embarrassment, I'd remembered to take my money out of my socks but...

Bogotá - A set on Flickr 

The Hidden Dangers of Bogotá ~ Part One

The Rain

'When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life' ~ Samuel Johnson 1777

'When a man is tired of Bogotá, it's because he has no dry clothes to put on' ~ Me 2010

It was around two in the afternoon, early December 2010, I'd been up to the north of Bogotá, Calle 126 or something like that, to revisit a bookshop which was selling off old editions of National Geographic circa 1980 for around a euro each.  I was taking one of the infamous Transmileno buses back south when, without warning, it started to rain, not rain as we know it but rain so hard it penetrated every weakness of the bus to the point where commuters were forced to put up there umbrellas INSIDE the bus.


There were two ways in which to deal with the rain in Bogotá.  Option one was to use two umbrellas, the first to counter the obvious threat from above, the second held at a downwards angle to shield yourself from the rain bullets rebounding off the pavement and soaking you from below, once achieved, dart in and out of shop doorways with your back to the wall, in a manner employed by the police raiding a downtown crack den, until you reach your destination.
Option two was to have an awareness of where you were in relation to home, what commitments you had that day and whether you could factor in the time to get back to HQ and change.  In the event that this was possible then option two could be invoked, surrender to the rain, let it drench you, don't waste time defending yourself.  Change clothes, a quick Hail Mary and get back out there.

An 'Option 2' kind of guy...

Now, applying my formula, I decided to go with option two, I was on my way home, I had a few hours in the bank before I needed to set off for work and I was without umbrella.  I took my soaking like a man knowing the National Geographics were double wrapped in plastic and neatly slotted into a leather satchel.


I got home, I changed, and thought about lunch.


A perk of living where I did, the Chapinero district, was, well, the chances of being mugged were low because most robberies occurred 'away from home' in the tourist area of La Candelaria, the muggers simply returned to Chapinero upon filling their boots.  No, the true benefit was a cheap wholesome lunch in the shape of a 'corrientazo', quite literally a 'running lunch' or 'lunch on the run'.  Soup for starters, a large helping of chicken, rice, potatoes and salad, served with fruit juice and an unidentifiable desert.  All for the price of a greasy McDonald's cheeseburger.

Chapinero ~ 'They don't hurt their own'

It'd stopped raining, I nipped out and was tackling some chicken when it started to rain once again, hard.  I watched in horror from my table, at one point you could see it was raining in the same place from two different directions.  The curbs are built high in Bogotá and a fast flowing river quickly formed.  I'd read a great quotation in one of the National Geographics, it was from a resident of Palermo, Sicily, she simply said 'we get angry when it rains, it's an insult and we take it personally'.  She spoke with winged words.


I went for option 2 again, I was a three minute walk from home, I had time to change, again I'd neglected to take an umbrella, which in all reality would have been like taking a knife to a gun fight anyway.  I didn't walk home, I waded home.


By the time I reached the flat I was as wet as I'd ever been in my life, I climbed the stairs and watched out of the window in disbelief.  I was soaked up to knees and down to the waist.  My American flatmate burst through the door, 'fuck, have you seen it out there, I'm soaked up to my knees and down to the waist, I've never seen anything like it!'... I was angry, it was an insult and I took it personally.


I headed to the bedroom, peeled off the offending clothes and looked around, two piles of sopping clothes and the third set hanging from the curtain rail, they'd been hanging for days and still weren't dry.  Our washing machine was in league with both the devil and the microclimate, it liked things wet and achieved this by refusing to enter the spin-circle, even when beaten with a stick.

Hung out to dry, for days and days...

I had no dry clothes to put on.  I was due to teach at Avianca, the Colombian Airline but swim shorts and flip flops were my only option.  Ironic considering the weather but I wasn't in possession of a rubber ring so I did the only thing left open to me.  I cancelled the lesson.  Don't concern yourself with kidnapping, muggings, FARC, drug dealers and the like, the true unmentioned danger is water, the uncontrollable fall of rain.


I didn't phone in sick, my clothes did.

Bogotá ~ A set on Flickr

Do as I say, definitely not as I do...

The tables were turned... and I'd lost control of the board marker and I didn't like it.

Envious of watching students pack up their books and notes whilst deliberating where to go for lunch together or in which pub to meet later that day I decided to become a language student for two months.  Oh, and to learn something... of course.

Before reading on, there is a disclaimer, I learned a lot, both linguistically and also in terms of picking up new ideas for things that I could do in class, a beneficial experience in many ways and money well spent.

However, in a sense it was akin to having a good look in the mirror and I saw some ugly things.  Over the course of two months I was taught by three different teachers of varying levels of experience, quality and approach.  It was a subtle reminder of things not to repeat in my classes once back on the TEFL horse.

'Don't patronise your students'

Erm, I'm a 47 year old Lawyer

Now, maybe I'm alone here but on answering a question correctly, a nod, a wink, or just a simple 'yes' will suffice.  High tempo clapping served with a beaming smile is over doing it, receiving a sticker with a smiley face is quite frankly superfluous. I think I may have even witnessed the teacher in question raising an invisible trophy aloft in celebration of 'winning' a warmer, bare in mind that the average of the class was in the early 40s.

It's like cracking a risque joke, evaluate your audience first.  None of us were 8 years old.  Also, a dose of sarcasm in the face of a wrong answer will be humoured by a few but discouraging to many.

'Revise those basics'

yawn... do tell us more...

The devil's in the detail.  Throughout the course I was often left wanting to compare my answers with my partner before announcing them in naked form, safety in numbers and all that... a partner can often reel in a schoolboy error before you cast the line of embarrassment.

Time limits, how I missed them... countless times I was left wondering with what kind of depth I should be approaching the task at hand, 'prepare your argument for why the candle was a more important invention than the cinema' is abstract enough without knowing if I'm about to embark on a castaway filler or simply pad out the rest of the lesson. 

Going around the class one by one gave us plenty of time to work out which question was on its way to slap us in the face, peer election however would have eliminated this.  Random selection keeps people on their toes, focuses attention and stops students switching off after 'their turn'.

Oh, teacher talking time, as interested as I was in hearing about the teacher's ex-boyfriend... actually, I wasn't.  There were plenty more examples of how those 'basics' were neglected but with TTT in mind I'll draw a line under it for now.  

'Don't bring school politics into the classroom'

So... Iain, how did you enjoy the lesson with Paula (name changed to protect the identity of victim), 'very good' was my reply anticipating genuine interest from her fellow educator.  'Yeah, well the idea for the lesson was mine, I told her what to do before the class, you know, she
doesn't have as much experience as me so...

Can't have that credit going elsewhere

What 'Paula' lacked in experience she certainly made up for it in personal skills, charisma, natural talent and modesty.

You'll not be surprised to know that some members of staff are unpopular, some are paid more than others, somebody else once interrupted another during the meeting, so and so only arrived two minutes before their class etc etc... Jesus wept, well I wept anyway, the class seriously doesn't need to know about the inner workings of the academy.

'Conceal linguistic knowledge'

Yeah?  Well I want to slap your silly face...

I uttered a phrase during conversation practice when suddenly the thunder clouds of correction gathered... and before I had the chance to take cover, a the lightening bolt of smugness had struck me down.  'That mistake was veeeeeerrrry English' came the correction in an unctuous manner.
Now, being English, by default any error I commit will always be English, I mean, as much as I tried I just wasn't able to make a 'very Japanese' mistake.

As innocent as the comment may have been intended it left me with an urge to kill myself and everyone around me.  What made it worse was that I'm fairly sure I'd been guilty of doing this in class myself.
As a result, I'm going to follow the example of moustachioed chap Earl from the 'My name is Earl' series, I've made a list of all the students that I might have done this to, I will travel the world apologising and won't rest until every last request of forgiveness has been accepted.

I am of course exaggerating for comedy effect...

You've just made a general error no obvious signs of first language interference whatsoever...

Please feel free to leave any comments, a confession of guilt, a similar experience, don't worry, nobody reads this anyway... not even me... and hopefully not any teachers of Spanish to foreigner learners anyway, it could well be that I've made a very English error...

Urban Tripoli - a set on Flickr

April 2009 to March 2010

Urban Tripoli - a set on Flickr

Zintan Mountains - Libya - a set on Flickr

January 2010

Zintan Mountains - Libya - a set on Flickr

The Caves, Poets and Muted Rebels of Zintan

I read with interest recently that Muammar Gaddafi was to evoke the spirit of Omar Mukhtar to crush the rebels in the face of Libya’s uprising. 

Take refuge

I say interested because anyone who knows the story of the tribal leader who led the resistance against the Italian colonization of Libya would probably see Omar Mukhtar as better suited to represent the other side. I refer to the university graduates and the young unemployed fighting for an opportunity against a family who not only cream the top off oil earnings but drink the whole barrel.  In short, Omar Mukhtar, a teacher by profession, was a rebel.


When I was in Benghazi last year I spoke at length with a family who were proud to be considered rebels, talking animatedly about there disdain for how their country was run and with an impressive level of English, explained how rebels were once able to hide successfully in the nearby Green Mountains away from a vengeful Gaddafi back in the day were relations were stretched between the two biggest cities in Libya.


Fast forward to March 2011 and the people of Zintan have recently returned to their small mountainous town after retreating to nearby caves whilst Gaddafi’s men shelled the area.  Zintan sits on a mountain range at about 1200 metres, dry, windy but not unprotected.  The locals are said to have a way with words, quick witted and talented poets but unlike their countrymen 1000 kilometres away in Benghazi they are much tighter lipped when quizzed on leadership opinions.

The Mountainous Dwellings of Zintan

Early last year I was invited to this infamous town, about a two hour drive south of Tripoli.  Libyan’s quite often carry the nickname of the town they're from, in this case the invite was from Mohammed Zintani, a student who lived up to the reputation of providing amusement in quick delivery.  


The drive south to the mountains was an edgy one, our mutual friend and designated driver, Mohammed Zigzag, was not to be denied in the 'living up to ones name' stakes, slaloming between huge rumbling vehicles and using lanes not entirely clear to the untrained eye.  Judging by the catatonic front seat passenger I wasn't alone in thinking we were all going to die... someone then let out a yelp from my left, the disembodied voice was that of Nathan, a teaching college experiencing his first Libyan excursion from behind a pillow.  We at least had an Omar Mukhtar bumper sticker protecting the rear.

Mohammed, Zigzag by name, Zigzag by nature

On arriving we were shown our eating, living and bathing quarters, a drafty room, lined with Arabic sofas and a pile of blankets, for bathing a buried memory.  Life in the mountains of Zintan could fairly be described as rustic.

That said, the hospitality was second to none.

A huge serving of food quickly arrived, as per the local tradition, served by the doleful youngest brother, via the kitchen of the unseen mother.  We sat around a sizable terracotta bowl filled with couscous and lamb, the Mohammeds keen to show off their English skills with a fresh audience.  The crowning glory of the meal wasn't the casual nod and flick of the last piece of lamb over to my side of the bowl from host to guest but it was being asked if the meal had been 'top notch'.  It's a proud moment to have a throw away comment in class scribbled down and used against you at a later date.

Revenge came in the form of Arabic lessons, from all quarters, everyone had their opinion but few had the concept of turn taking.  A guttural volley of slang words left me with at least 10 variants on how to describe a complete mess, whether applied to the cross-pollinated socialist / nationalist political philosophy employed by the leader or a lack of classroom manners by rotund jolly-faced police officers.  When you see the state of the roads you realise you do indeed need all 10 of them.

The Caves of Zintan

We headed out to the caves, the very caves recently occupied by local people in fear of their lives, not in the face of reckless driving but military attacks by their own government.  Many of the caves are set high up beside the winding mountain roads, from here Libyans ambushed passing Italian forces during occupation, it was an Omar Mukhtar inspired move, teacher first, desert warfare strategist second.  The vantage point that was once used for attack temporarily became a place to seek refuge.

My reasons for being there were, thankfully, very different.  The Mohammeds provided entertainment in the form of a Bob Marley duet, 'Buffalo Soldier' as I'd never quite heard it before, a brief lesson in Zintan poetry and an extensive tour of the caves.  

Mohammed and I

Now the situation, much like the traffic between Tripoli and Zintan, seems to be rumbling on, 'Western' interference is some what of an ersatz controversy in the eyes of the rebels, outsiders are more suspicious.

Where is the line between defending innocent people to fully assisting a rebellion?  To offer an opinion either way would be to draw a very long bow.

On the journey home, Mohammed Zigzag treated us to a final finale, accelerating between two cars before slamming on the breaks as the traffic lights turned red.  That was the last time I ever got in a car with him, he was certainly a rebel... but Omar Mukhtar would never have approved.

The multi-purpose terrain of Zintan

Speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi

The omnipresent leader... 

'Bashir, where are you from?'  'Zawiyah teacher… rubbish teacher rubbish' he exclaimed whilst bobbing up and down excitedly.

Bashir Bashir was so good they named him twice, he was one of many students who drove daily into Tripoli from Zawiyah for a three hour English lesson, which was, evidence of progress permitting, paid for by Gaddafi’s government.

When I say government I of course refer to the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, obfuscation in its purist form.

In Bashir’s reference to Zawiyah being rubbish he was in fact alluding to the gigantic scrapyard of Zawiyah which seemed to have adopted, rather aptly, the English word ‘rubbish’.  ‘Can you find anything you want there teacher’ was a hackneyed phrase that took repetitive correction to achieve the grammatically correct question form.

I was teaching Bashir at (the) Al-Amana Institute for government employees, ranging from forensic scientists to out of work pilots.  Sent out on an initial 12 week contract I ended up staying for a year, finishing with the title 'lead co-ordinator', clearly in keeping with the superfluous titles dished out in Africa's 4th largest country.

Now, Zawiyah, the town ironically nicknamed 'rubbish' in class, has been reduced to a town of rubble, a week ago troops from the Khamis Brigade led by one of Gaddafi's sons attacked the town from the west with suspected rebels being rounded up in house to house searches.

It's a year to the day since I left Tripoli and I have to admit, I never saw this coming.

'My name's Mohammed'

There was muted dissent but criticism of Muammar Gaddafi was usually confined to cars with windows tightly wound up, in fact his name was pretty much off limits, we referred to him as 'The Leader'.

I recall asking a small group of trusted students in class what was regarded as a taboo subject in Libya, 'speaking frankly... Colonel Gaddafi' was the first reply offered, the eerie silence while his named echoed around the room has left an indelible mark.

Others were a little less discreet in their disdain for the leader, one fellow in particular telling me how he believed Gaddafi to be crazy, pointing to the fact that the Colonel drank milk directly from the teat of a camel as evidence for the nervously delivered accusation.

It wasn't all one way traffic, I remember one student confessing he felt life was better under the embargo, other students sported Gaddafi wrist-watches, with his hair depicted as a bouncy bouffant covering numbers 10 to 2 rather than the greasy mop he wears in reality.

However, the general feeling was one of opposition.  There was a 'silent divide' but it was tangibly apparent with some students appearing to be rather more affluent than others.  The others being young single men, frustrated by the lack of opportunity, living at home, unmarried and without money.  Whilst the English classes were clearly appreciated there was a palpable fear of what was going to become of them once courses were completed.  A contained fear nonetheless, concerns were aired with wild operatic gestures but the blame was never laid at the doorstep of anyone in particular.  Hope, however, seemed to be preserved for the elite.

Al-Amana Institute

The Libyans were rightly proud of their reputation for friendless and hospitality.  Was it some sort of accolade to befriend the teacher, a possibility to practice their English?  A chance to convert an infidel to Islam?  Shades of truth in the first two perhaps, Islam is pivotal in their lives but they, for the most part, were careful not to impose.  In short they, students and teachers alike were as you found them, decent and genuine.


You know, lifting a quotation from a philosopher or someone of that stature would be the ‘clever’ way to neatly tie this off but it’s a line from Elbow’s ‘Leaders of the Free World’ that springs to mind: -

'The leaders of the free world are just little boys throwing stones
and it’s easy to ignore til’ they’re knocking on the door of your homes'

 I’ve been guilty of flicking through news channels watching disasters and dictators with fleeting interest, so with a fear of hypocrisy in mind I’ll taper outlandish comments… but watching the scenes in Libya unfold in the media, I can’t help thinking of all the fantastic students I taught and my Libyan colleagues who treated me so well… some of them now fighting, some of them quite possibly dead and for that reason alone I’ll celebrate the day when the green flag is replaced with the pre-Gaddafi offering.

On leaving, Mohammed Zintani, dedicated student and one of many willing Arabic teachers, beckoned me to one side and presented me with the trade mark Libyan souvenir, a plate depicting the old town, Medina Khardeema, with ‘don’t forget us brother’ inscribed on the back.  

It's difficult not to be haunted by that...

Little did I know...