Snowstorms in a Hot Climate Read Free Page A

Cartagena Airport. So, when it actually happened, when I got back to my room after the shower and found the door prized open and my money belt with passport, traveler’s checks, and tickets gone, I think I was almost relieved that I didn’t have to worry about the possibility anymore. Except, of course, I knew then that I would have to go to Bogotá. The armpit of the world—that’s what people called it, although those who had been to Panama City would spend hours arguing the respective horrors of the two capitals. I had vowed never to go near it. Instead I’d done this amazing trip, skidding along the western edge of the country, through crumpled mountain ranges, lost valleys, and small, friendly cities. I had even got to feel quite safe by Colombian standards. Confident even. You know what they say about pride … well, the place I fell to was Bogotá.
    Of course, there wasn’t any point wingeing. I had no option. I couldn’t cross borders without a passport; I couldn’t eat without money; and Bogotá was the only place with a consulate and an American Express office. So I started the grinding journey back up onto the central plain—four days of mountain climbing in the back of diesel buses belching smoke and fumes. When I wasn’t on the road I was sleeping. I think I sent you the postcard from Popayán. I can’t remember anymore. Just like in the movies, all the towns were beginning to look the same by then.
    I finally reached Bogotá late one night, after a stomach-churning eleven-hour bus ride that the ticket seller had sworn would take only eight. Even so I remember that when we actually arrived I didn’t want to get out of the bus. Now I come to think about it, I can’t imagine what I was frightened of. I had nothing left to lose. But that long climb down from the hills toward the carpet of lights on the valley floor had given me enough time to start worrying, regardless of reason.
    When I did finally screw up my courage, haul out my rucksack, and step into the mudscape, a dozen taxi drivers instantly assaulted me. I picked the least murderous looking and gave him the name of a cheap hotel someone had recommended from the
South American Handbook
.
    The city seemed to go on forever. Miles and miles of slum suburbia. Houses made up of corrugated iron and cardboard. Maybe it was simply the scale that made it so devastating. Godknows, I’d seen enough poverty before, just never in such massive doses. The hotel was on the outskirts of the inner city, houses shuttered up and no streetlights. When I got there it turned out they had only a double room. I took it anyway. It was cold, and I had to go to bed with my clothes on and the blankets wrapped around me. I was too tired even to be anxious.
    Next day I started reconstructing my life. The consulate was sympathetic but philosophical. It can’t have been the most glamorous job in the world, making endless records of hard-luck tales. There were five other people waiting the morning I went. The rip-off stories were more or less clever, more or less painful. Some people had lost everything but the clothes they stood up in. One guy had lost even that, trusting his bag to a Colombian “friend” while he went swimming. I felt sorry for him really, but he was such a wimp. He was flying home as soon as he could arrange passage and passport.
    As for me? Well, the normal wait was two, maybe three weeks. Cables had to be sent, facts checked—the usual bureaucracy. The money was easy. Just like the adverts; American Express refunded within two days, although, of course, having no passport to back up the checks caused its own hassles. Still, Bogotá coped. It was a city that had grown used to that particular problem.
    Passport, money, and airline ticket inquiries took most of the first week. When I was not in smart downtown offices waiting to see someone or other, I was in the hotel. With the exception of a quick gawp at the Gold Museum, I did no joyriding. I had no