Game Show Chatter

I was watching a game show the other day (don’t ask),
and a contestant was close to winning a prize of several thousand pounds.

What will you spend it on? the host asks, as hosts do.

Well, the contestant replies, My mate is celebrating his thirtieth birthday with a trip to Colombia, and if I win, I reckon I’ll go along.

Colombia!? the host repeats, laughing, before adding, What could possibly go wrong?

I think, maybe…nothing?

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This is now

This is now: Wednesday, 30th March, 2011. There aren’t many fragments left from my previous two years in Colombia, so it’s time to start blogging.

It seems that everything is up in the air: my flights are not yet booked; my financial support has not been fully raised; my visa has not been applied for, never mind granted.

It’s unsettling, but good practice for Colombia’s daily unpredictability.

Check back every Wednesday for a progress report and a new photo of the week.

It’ll take a while to run out of photos to show you.

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Too much

Again the sense that Colombia is too much of a place.

In the last 48 hours I have heard a man being murdered 100 yards from me, experienced an earthquake, and heard the news that Manuel Marulanda was dead.

(Diary, 27th May 2008)

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(Some eucalyptus I found reminded me of picnics when I was a child in Peru.)

I found a spring of eucalyptus on the path.
I picked it up and bruised the leaf,
Released the tang of picnics long ago.
The hard-boiled eggs,
The melamine,
The tartan rugs,
And AA Milne.

That green-eyed child,
Could not know then,
What I know now:
The scent lies in the bruising.

(22nd July 2008)

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There are seven shades of hibiscus on the path,
and one stolid, homely gorse bush.

Picking a flower, I smell the coconutty smell of home.
It crumbles into petals I can carry, and press in my diary.

Scotland is not so easy to be had.

(23rd July 2008)

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Camila Andrea

You have the face of an angel.
You pout your little lips to kiss me goodbye.
You put your little face up to mine, trustingly,
a picture of innocence and love.

You live in a hut the size of my kitchen.
The walls are made from plastic sheeting.
There are little holes in the corrugated iron roof.
The floor is pounded earth.
When it rains, your house floods.

You probably don’t know that your life is wretched.
But you will soon.

(June 2008)

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