A Forgotten 9/11 Victim In Colombia

Ten years on and health problems stemming from the 9/11 attacks in New York are giving cause for serious concern amongst those who were caught up in the terrorist outrage. One survivor who moved to Colombia after the terrorist assault speaks about his own condition.

Al Dominguez foundm himself running for cover as the South Tower of the World Trade Centre collapsed at 9.59AM on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. The 27-year-old New York police officer with Colombian parentage was working the early shift when hijacked American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower and, together with numerous colleagues, he raced to the scene. Vivid memories of that fateful day still haunt him almost ten years on.“Just before 10AM the
NYPD command told us to evacuate from the WTC complex as it was structurally unsound, so we got the hell out of there”, says Dominguez.“We made towards the Millennium Hilton Building nearby but were overcome by a huge cloud of debriscaused by the South Tower collapsing.”

“There was a strong, hot wind,” he recalls, “then everything disappeared in a white cloud and I felt like I was choking. I couldn’t swallow and I couldn’t open my eyes. When it was
over the dust was in my ears, throat, nose, everywhere.” Then, obviously shaken by the memory, he adds, “I actually thought I would die right there.”

But painful memories arenot the only scars that plague the former cop. Eight months after the attack he was diagnosed with Asthma and began experiencing serious breathing difficulties which have worsened over the years. According to Dominguez, he never suffered respiratory problems before the terrorist attack. “Never. I was always fit, worked out three or four times a week, and enjoyed playing sports. If I’d have been asthmatic I wouldn’t have been accepted into the police department,” he says.

According to Dominguez, his respitiratory problems are “absolutely” a result of the incident on September 11. “Almost everyone who went within smelling distance of Ground Zero has ended up with something.”He also suffers from any
other illness. “I now have fibromyalgia, nodules in my lungs, and suffer from sinusitis, headaches and chronic fatigue.” Dominguez’s health problems have turned his world upside down. “I can’t work,” he states bluntly. “I can’t even climb a flight of stairs without coughing myself inside out.”

It has been proven by studies carried out by the University of California Davis that debris from the collapsing buildings contained some 2500 contaminants which cause debilitating illnesses, many of which are carcinogens. Professor Ementus Thomas Cahill, who led the study, has labelled this debris as “wildly toxic.”

After years of legal disputes it would now appear that the plight of those affected by inhaling debris caused by the collapse of the World Trade Center buildings has finally been recognized.

Furthermore, several government officials were criticized for urging workers to return to the area around Ground Zero within days of the attacks without considering the possible effects, including New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani. Even the Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency, (EPA), Christine Todd Whitman, was slammed by a US District Judge for incorrectly stating that the area was environmentally safe. The EPA itself found that this was not the case and that the air quality in Manhattan did not actually return to normal levels until June, 2002.

“The whole area was polluted for months,” says Dominguez, “and New York refused to recognize that or to pay for health care when people began falling sick. Even the mayor turned his back on us.” Indeed, Mayor Giuliani wrote to New York’s Congressional Delegation in November, 2001, urging them to limit the city’s liability regarding health care claims by emergency workers. In July 2007, a spokesperson from the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health estimated that an extra $250 million a year would be needed to treat the 14,000 people suffering from the medical after effects of 9/11. The New York Fire Department Medical Office Study of April, 2010 found that between 30% and 40% of firefighters who had experienced health issues following 9/11 reported little or no improvement to their persistent symptoms. Of the 5,000 workers taking part in the study some 1000 were found to be suffering from permanent respiratory disabilities.

Eventually, after several law suits, the Health and Compensation Act was passed by central government in December, 2010 recognizing the cause of a wide variety of medical conditions resulting from the inhalation of debris from Ground Zero. The Act is also widely known as the James Zadroga Act, after a New York City police officer who died in 2006 from dust inhalation following the World Trade Center collapse. The Act also provided $7.4 billion worth of health care and adequate compensation for the 10,000 claimants. Additionally, the names of those who have died from such illnesses will be included on the 9/11 Memorial.

But just how many of these victims are still dying? “I know of five cops who died from post 9/11 respiratory disorders,” says Dominguez. Official figures provided by the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene put the number of deaths amongst first response emergency workers since 9/11 at 98, the vast majority of which suffered from fatal respiratory diseases.

The former NYPD cop himself fears for his health. “The guys are dropping like flies. I take eight different medicines each day and breathe through an inhaler at night,” he says. “I’m 37 years old and feel more like 77.” As a result of his
condition Dominguez has now relocated to Colombia, which he has always regarded as his home. “The climate down here is much better,” he says, “those Brooklyn winters weren’t doing me any good at all. And at least I now know that my
health care bills get paid and my family will be well catered for when the inevitable happens.”

He stops, in silent thought, then adds, “And at least my name will be on the Memorial for my grandchildren to see.”

Two Maids

Two Maids

A true story that illustrates what a small, dangerous,
world we all live in.

Aged in her 50’s, Maria Paloma was every bit the indigenous Colombian Indian. She was tiny, with dark, straight hair, high, defined cheek-bones and two small beady black eyes. She was also my first ever “maid” in a land where such a thing still exists. Following the murder of her husband she had been displaced from her mountain finca in the department of Cauca. Four strangers had called at her home looking for senor Paloma, produced pistols, and opened fire, killing him and three companions instantly.Always smiling, except when she was laughing, Maria Paloma never ever wore foot wear, was illiterate and, strange as this may sound, was totally unable to grasp the concept of a lock and key. However, she was reliable, efficient, and our dog was unusually fond of her.

The reason for this fondness became startlingly apparent when, one evening, my wife encountered Maria Paloma vigorously masturbating Henry, our Boxer. When asked why on earth she would do such a thing she innocently answered, “Because he likes it, senora.” Whilst it’s hard to argue against such simple logic, we never again felt comfortable whenever we saw Maria washing carrots, and so she had to go and we had to find  ourselves a new maid.

In her mid – 40’s, with an air of vast sexual experience about her, Maria Arbol turned out to be an exceptional maid. Our house had never been cleaner, she cooked fantastic food, and she never went sick. She was as happy to work for us as we were to employ her, and all was well. Maria Arbol was also from a small village in the mountains of Cauca and she told us she had been displaced from her home following the murder of her husband by four gunmen. My wife and I glanced at each other in simultaneous recognition of this story, and I pressed Maria for more details. The resultant answer left us both amazed at the coincidence which unfolded.

Maria Paloma, our first maid, was regarded as the village witch, or bruja,  of the small rural community in the mountains of Cauca where both she and Maria Arbol had lived, providing herbal remedies for the villagers and performing tarot card readings for local women. During the course of these readings Maria was prone to inform the women that their men were being unfaithful, and several relationships had experienced serious problems or had broken down completely as a result. The strangely sensual Maria Arbol was named as the likely culprit on more than one occasion and, despite denying these allegations, was becoming increasingly unpopular amongst her fellow villagers.

Maria Paloma’s husband was employed by the local guerrilla commander to collect FARC-Tax from the local inhabitants. He and three henchmen would regularly visit the surrounding farms to pick up the compulsory payments of cash, alcohol, food and various peace offerings before delivering them to the guerrillas who operated in the area. Maria Arbol’s husband was one such farmer who was obliged to make this regular “donation”, and resented doing so. He began to refuse to pay senor Paloma, which resulted in a heated argument between the two men, which came to blows. Senor Paloma informed the local guerrilla commander about Arbol’s refusal to pay up and his violent outburst. In the meantime, senor Arbol contacted the local paramilitaries and denounced Paloma as a FARC operative. Several days later, just before mid-day, senor Paloma and his three “workers” went to the Arbol’s farm, found senor Arbol amongst his coffee crop, and shot him through the head in front of his wife and their young son.

On that same morning four unknown men attended the Paloma’s farm, asking for senor Paloma, who was not there. The strangers said that they would wait and, just after mid-day, senor Paloma and his companions returned. Upon entering they were hot dead by the four paramilitaries who were waiting for them. Maria Paloma escaped by diving through a window and running as fast as she could. She was found on the Pan-American Highway, twelve miles away, still running, with her bare feet in bloody tatters.

Both women subsequently ended up in Cali, one living with family and the other being re-housed by the authorities. Both blamed the other for their husband’s deaths and neither had heard of the other since the incident, yet they had unknowingly lived within two miles of each other for several years.

We recently heard that the part of Cauca where the two women had previously resided had been designated as a safe zone following military operations against the FARC in 2009 and that both Maria’s had been re-located back to their fincas
in Cauca following a government incentive to restore to their owners the properties of displaced Colombians. I’m genuinely glad for them and sincerely hope that they can both move on. But given the obvious feelings of resentment and pure fucking hatred which persists between them, I can’t help feeling that once they encounter each other the term “safe zone” may be far from the correct one to use.

Troops die in Jamundi FARC Clash

Two soldiers were killed in action against local FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) guerrillas in the Jamundi Municipality of Valle del Cauca during the early hours of Thursday, 11th August.

The two were believed to have been killed by mortar fire which also left three more troops suffering from shrapnel wounds. Colonel Edgar Crefuentes of the 3rd Brigade, based in Cali, confirmed the two deaths yesterday afternoon.

Several later reports stated that the number of deaths had risen to six, although these claims have not yet been established.

This latest military offensive is targetted against the Miller Perdomo Mobile Column of FARC who have reportedly been threatening extortion and kidnappings in the rural regions of the Municipality. Several FARC casualties were also reported in Thursday’s operation.

Jamundi has previously fallen victim to FARC actions, most recently in 2002 when a group of guerrillas momentarily took control of the Alfaguara Shopping Mall, helping themselves to food and other goods from the shops and robbing customers and staff of money and jewellery.

The latest military offensive appears to be continuing, with mortar fire being heard during the early hours of today.

Ian S Chadwick

I’ve Been Driving In My Car …

In pole position on the grid of my personal major dislikes in Colombia is, without hesitation, the driving. The driving in Colombia is something which should be avoided  whenever possible, if your sanity and common decency are to be maintained whilst living here.

“It needs to be bigger than that,” said the wife with a pitiful gaze, and I had to agree. There was no escaping from the fact that it was far too small. “How about if I …”, I ventured. “No,” she replied curtly. “It needs to be much, much bigger.”

And so we bought ourselves one of those huge 4X4 Camionetta things that leave a carbon footprint the size of Gulliver’s hob-nail.  Commonly seen sporting mirrored windows and waiting outside private, bi-lingual schools in the more desirable areas, my new off-road gas-guzzler was, indeed, a stallion in a field of acorns.

On this occasion my wife’s argument that bigger was better stemmed from her theory that other motorists would show more respect for the driver of a large vehicle, and that a small vehicle wouldn’t last five minutes because of the terrible state of the road surfaces. I strongly suspected that something to do with “pose value” was also going on.

Let me tell you that, in this instance at least, size really doesn’t matter. The holes, crevices and craters encountered on the average Colombian road surface still manage to successfully compress your spine, dislodge your coccyx, and dislocate your hips, despite pneumatic suspension and tractor-like tyres.

Cyclists manoeuvring through the streets of Bogota

As for the respect issue; well, there’s always something bigger than you or someone who just really doesn’t give a shit.

Amongst those things which are infinitely bigger are all lorries, most buses, army trucks, and police command vehicles - none of which I’d particularly like to collide with. Amongst the people who just don’t really give a shit are taxi drivers, motorcyclist, cyclists, pedestrians, men pushing wheel-barrows, men driving horse and carts, and 95% of other motorists encountered during the course of an average day.

Then, there’s “the driving” itself. Now, I could really go into detail here, but by only mentioning a few pertinent points I’m sure that you’ll get the picture.

• The Highway Code does not exist.
• There are no pass or fail driving tests.
• My pet Guacamayo parrot, Harry, learnt to say, “Wanker!” after being with me in my car for only 17 minutes.

At the risk of pushing the falic point too much, it would appear that Colombian men genuinely believe that managing to position their vehicle one centimetre in front of yours, means that their penis is one foot longer than yours. I’ve thought long and hard on the matter, and cannot think of any other reason for this insistence.

I was once told that the way in which people drive is a direct reflexion of their society, and I now believe this to be true. In this macho, sex-driven culture, my theory is that every hole, crevice, or gap must be filled at any cost, as soon as possible.

This ethos of gap-filling extends into every facet of everyday life. A gap in a queue at the bank? Someone will step into it. A space in a line of traffic? Someone will drive into it – whether there’s sufficient room for them or not.

In fact, what I should have bought was a 1955 ex-military, armoured Landrover with old scaffold poles tied all around it, fitted with revolving number-plates and liquid nitrogen, for a super-fast, anonymous getaway after ramming yet another brainless idiot into a ditch!

Blue skies, green grass, (breathe deeply) blue skies, green grass …

This weekend I’m driving my wife 50 miles over the Andes to somewhere I’d rather not be. Deep joy.

A Month With DAS

Formed in 1960, DAS deal with public disorder, organised crime and immigration.

Departmento Administrativo de Suguridad – DAS

Let’s start by saying that I think DAS are the good guys. I’ve worked alongside various law-enforcement agencies in the past and I know that, despite all of the subjective slagging-off, political interference, and ever so en vogue criticism, they all try to do a decent job to the best of their abilities. DAS are no exception here. It’s them who clean up the mess after a terrorist car bomb, who keep tabs on narco-trafficking types, and who put their own safety on the line for the likes of us. As always, it´s the hierarchy who are to blame, not the foot-soldiers, so, no DAS bashing. But as for the civilian employees who work in my local DAS  Immigration office … I think they’re fair game. Here’s why.

It all started when I suddenly realized that my Colombian Visa expired two months before I had originally thought, hurtling me into several weeks of fervent activity to avoid being extradited, or fined heavily, or both. This apoplectic panic was compounded by the additional discovery that my Colombian ID Card, known as a cedula, also expired at the same time. The visa renewal is handled by the Ministry of Foreign Relations in Bogota, but  applications for a new cedula are dealt with by DAS, so I dutifully popped along to my local DAS office.

Visit 1: Now, I only want to know what I need in order to obtain a cedula replacement, so I turn up mid-morning to make enquiries. Unusually, there is no queue, and I speak to this nice young chap and explain in fluent Spanglish that I need to renew my visa and … he suddenly raises a hand and cuts me short. “DAS doesn’t deal with Visas”, I think he says. “I know, but I also need a new cedula.” “You need a visa before you can get a cedula”, I think he says. “Oh”, I say. Makes sense, I think, so I leave.

Visit 2: Upon finally finding out what documentation is required in order to renew my visa I am somewhat surprised to learn that I actually need two different forms from DAS  before I can proceed - proof that I do not have a criminal record, known as Antecedentes Judiciales, and proof of movements in and out of the country, known as a Certificado de Tratamientos de Movimientos. Now, Nice Young Chap at DAS must have known this, so I’m not best pleased when I go back to see him a few days later.

“Oh”, he says, “you want your criminal antecedents record and certificate of movements in and out of the country?” He passes me a piece of paper with a list of other documentation which is required before I can apply for the documentation which is required in order to apply for my visa. So I leave. I now think that Nice Young Chap is actually just a useless tosser and that the reason why the Amazon Jungle shrinks so much each year is directly due to the amount of paper used by Colombian bureaucracy.

Visit 3: The next morning I go to the bank  and pay the fee required to obtain the antecedentes judiciales. I take photocopies of the receipt, have two passport sized photos taken (with blue backgrounds – apparently intensely important), and staple everything to my two application forms – copied in triplicate. Fully stocked with everything necessary, I return to DAS.

Useless Tosser recognises me and greets me with a slight raise of the eyebrows … the look that says, ‘Why don’t you take the hint and fuck off!’ I hand him the sizeable pile of forms, which he hurriedly checks through, throwing the odd one back at me. He says, “Take a seat”, so I do.

It’s an hour later, I now need to be somewhere else, and DAS closes for lunch in ten minutes, so I approach the counter and speak with an uninterested and indescribable female. “I’m still waiting”, I say. “For what?”, she asks. “For my antecedentes judiciales and my certificado de tratamientos de movimientos”, I say. “No”, she says. “You have to come back in eight days to collect it”. “Oh”, I say. She then says something else, which I don’t understand at all, hands me a piece of paper, and points somewhere. My perplexed look catches the attention of an American guy who is also waiting. “Hey, buddy.” he says. “She says you have to go round the corner to another office with that.” So I do.

The old git who works in the office in question asks if I want to collect “it” in Bogota or here. Bogota would take three days and here would take 15. This confusing and illogical situation is rather worrying me. I don’t even know what the fuck “it” is, but I have to go to Bogota for my visa, which expires in less than 15 days, so I say, “Bogota please”. He then gives me something to sign, hands me back my original piece of paper, tells me where DAS in Bogota can be found, and ushers me out of his office… totally confused. It has all been somewhat surreal.

Visit 4: It´s eight days later and I return to DAS to collect my antecedents.  Useless Tosser is there again. “Hello”, I say. “I’ve come to collect my antecedentes judiciales.” “No”, he says. “You left without giving us your fingerprints last week. Sit down a moment”. So I do. They hadn’t even asked me for my fucking fingerprints last week. He surely is a Useless Tosser.

A top-heavy Kylie Minogue look-alike presently appears and, smiling alluringly, beckons me over in that Colombian way. “You naughty boy”,  I think she says. “You left without giving me your fingerprints last week and now I’m going to have to spank you.” (Okay, she didn’t say that, but having Kylie rub ink on my palms and breath on my cheek was very erotic.) “Come back in two days”, she purrs.  I drive home feeling aroused and ever-so-slightly guilty.

Visit 5: Two days later I get up early, shit, shave, shower and shampoo for my date with Kylie, and even splash on a bit of Dolce & Gabana to finish off with. Upon my arrival, however, I am dealt with by a fat girl with thick-lensed spectacles and a tooth brace. “Oh”, I say, unable to hide my obvious disappointment, and I glance over her shoulder for a possible peek at my latest ‘pash’, but Kylie is nowhere to be seen. I say, “I’ve come to collect my antecedentes judiciales.” ” No”, she rasps – the girl’s voice feels like cold sweat trickling down the crack of my arse - ”we only do those on Mondays and Wednesdays”.

I journey home through the heat-haze, and hell-hole traffic of the city, feeling slightly pissed-off and wondering if I actually want to renew my fucking visa after all. However, on the plus side of things, I smell lovely.

Visit 6: Upon my arrival I only have to wait 45 minutes (sarcasm) to receive my antecedentes judiciales. It is eventually thrown at me by Brace-Girl, whom I attempt to engage in a little conversation. I think I say, ” All of that for just one piece of paper?” whilst smiling sweetly at her. “Imagine that”, she says, puts her large nose in the air, spins around on her heel, and walks away. I feel stupid for being friendly to one of life’s natural arseholes.

Visit 7: I have succeeded in obtaining a new visa in Bogota (which went surprisingly smoothly), but I still need to renew my cedula, so I go back to the local DAS office. There is a long queue, caused by a Spaniard whose voice and frustration are steadily rising in unison, and an American backpacker girl who has at least 100 questions which she wants answering. Eventually I reach pole position and am scowled at by Brace-Girl.

I say that I’ve come to renew my cedula. She asks me for my visa. “My visa? My visa’s in my passport”, I tell her. Where was my passport then? “My passport’s at home, why?” She says that she needs my visa so that she can make an appointment. I say, “What?” She rolls her eyes to the heavens and says, “No visa, no appointment”, or something like that. “Appointment for what?” I ask her. “For your cedula application.”  I’m sure that she wants to add, “You fucking thick Gringo.” She looks like she really thinks that, and the tone of her voice would lend itself to her saying those things. I leave. I don’t like Brace-Girl much at all.

Visit 8: Armed with my passport and shiny new visa I go back to DAS the next morning. Useless Tosser is there. “Hello”, I say. “Remember me?” He says nothing and looks at me as if I’ve just crawled out from a crack in his U-bend. I say, “I need to renew my cedula.” “You need an appoitment,” he tells me. “I know”, I say. He just looks at me.  After a pregnant, uncomfortable pause of total none-communication between us I ask, “Can I have one then?” He asks, “For when”? I’m slowly losing my patience with this ritualistic difficultness, so I tell him, “ For soon.” “Wednesday at 10 am?” “Thank you. Don’t you need to see my visa?” “No”, he says. “Why would I need to see that?”  I leave … somewhat fucking fuming, and swearing by the bones of Odin that I will somehow cause the untimely death of Brace-Girl, whom is rapidly becoming my latest hatred-fixation.

Visit 9: Armed with my application form, four photos (with that all-important blue background), my passport, my expired cedula, my visa and photocopies thereof, in triplicate, I go back to DAS at 10am on Wednesday for my appointment. Kylie is there, and my heart leaps. Brace-Girl calls me to the counter and my heart drops to the floor. I try to smile, but sneer at her stroppy ugliness. I hand her my paperwork and she hands it straight back without even looking at it. “Take a seat”, she screeches. I flick her the ‘V’ under the counter and sit down.

Then a fat, middle-aged woman, with bad acne, short-back-and-sides, and yellow eyes appears. She hisses like a snake, and I am transfixed by this strange kanga-rilla-pig before me. What the hell is that? Had she been on my side of the counter I’d seriously consider picking up a blunt instrument and standing on my chair. She hisses again and, with one of those sudden pangs of pure terror that render you speechless, I realise that she is hissing at ME. I approach the counter hesitantly and, without saying a word, Snake Woman suddenly snatches the paperwork from my grip and retreats back into the shadows from whence she came. Was I just robbed? “Take a seat again”, screeches Brace-Girl. I give her my “death-glare” and flip her ‘the bird’ under the counter.

After what seems like an age the air is suddenly filled with aromatic loveliness and Kylie appears. Her bright blue come-to-bed-now-and-shag-me-like-a-bitch eyes sparkle like two welcoming, whilrling jaccuzi’s in a Cartagena girly-bar. She beckons me the English way, with a perfectly manicured index finger, and I follow her instructions, entranced. I can´t beieve that I haven´t even shaved today.

She takes my hand and presses my passport into it. “There”, she says. “Hold onto it tightly”. I feel a naughty twitch and a deep yearning. “Unfortunately”, she continues, ”I’m not going to see you for two whole months”. “Two months?”, I querie. “Yes”, she pouts. “How sad. But there’s a backlog and it now takes two months for cedulas to come through”. I snap awake. Two fucking months? Was she being fucking serious? “Let’s get this right”, I think I say. But I AM right. I understand her perfectly. So I leave, feeling slightly miffed at the incredulously shit standard of doing things which I am experiencing first hand.

Later that day I receive a call from the wife. Where was I? Why hadn’t I called? Why had my cell phone been turned off? “I’m on my way home, I had no reason to call, and DAS told me to turn off my cell phone. I’d forgotten to turn it back on again. Why?”

DAS had called. They needed me to go back there because, for the second time in three weeks, they hadn’t taken my fingerprints when they ought to have. My wife had gone into one in no uncertain terms, telling her fellow compatriots what she thought of their service and that they were an embarrassment. It doesn’t happen often, but on this occasion I found myself agreeing with her.

Visit 10: Kylie is there to greet me with a smile and beckons me straight into the office, calling me by my christian name as if we have had intimate, biblical knowledge of each other. I can’t help noticing the jealous glances of several other foreign men who sit waiting, when they hear her familiarity and see her obvious flirtiness.

She gazes up at me and sighs heavily. “I’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t I? I forgot your fingerprints yesterday. And your wife was furious with me on the telephone.” I smile back. “She had good reason to be”, I say. “This is my tenth time here in three weeks”. “Ooh”, purrs Kylie, and giggles deliciously.

“I need someone to teach me English”, she ventures. “You’re a teacher, aren’t you?” Our eyes lock. She smiles and I’m sure she licks her upper lip seductively. It’s now or never. “No”, I say. “In England I worked for the British Government for 24 years”. “Ooh”, she trembles, as if experiencing a slight orgasm. “In what department?” “In various departments of national security”, I exaggerate. She gasps. ”I had a team of 12 guys working for me”, I lie. ”Wow”, she dribbles, and grinds closer as she takes my fingerprints yet again.

“Yes”, I go on. “It was important work, and we all had to be very professional. Very, very professional”. “Ooh. Wow”, whimpers Kylie. “How exciting”. “Which”, I continue, “is obviously the difference between my government and yours”. She looks up suddenly and is now frowning. “What?” I smile. “It’s a joke”, I say, and I nudge her playfully, but firmly. “Oh”, she says, but she knows it isn’t a joke at all. Furthermore, my nudge knocks her off-balance and she has to hold onto a desk to steady herself. Had she been Useless Tosser I’d have done my best to knock him on his arse.

I’m spitting feathers by now and I’m on a roll, so I push the boat out. “You know what?”, I ask her. “I feel like I know you really well.” “Really?”, she says, smiling again. “Why is that ?” “Because I seem to spend more time here than at home.”, I answer. She laughs politely at my open piss-taking but doesn’t like it. “I feel that everyone  here thinks foreigners are idiots” – I should stop now, but I practised my sideways swipes all last night and want to say what needs to be said. “You seem to think that we’re all teachers or tourists, but it’s not always the case, is it? Some foreigners are actually clever, quite important people who have done a lot in life. Not idiots at all”.

For the whole while that I’m at DAS I criticize, ridicule, and attempt to wreak vengeance in the name of the common Gringo to a level previously unseen. Despite that much of what I say is thwarted by my poor Spanglish, Kylie and some DAS bloke wearing a badge both apologise for the problems that I have encountered.  I also take great pleasure in quietly telling the now deflated Kylie that Useless Tosser is a useless tosser and that Brace Girl is a really rude unhelpful bitch – although there is no Spanish word for “tosser” that I am aware of, and “unhelpful bitch” comes out all wrong.

I have to go back to DAS in two months to collect my cedula. That will be my eleventh visit so far… provided it’s actually there … of which I have serious doubts. I also suspect that, by way of revenge, I might have to go through the whole application process again. But at least I had a bit of a dig.

If information was more readily available, if the civilian staff at DAS were more professional, took their heads out of their own arses, and were a little more helpful, I could have obtained everything that I needed in only four visits – which is still too many. One visit is quite enough.

Still, I practised speaking my Spanglish, had someone to think about while working out on my punchbag, and can fantasize about Kylie until we meet again.

Plus, what else would I have done with the seventeen hours and thirty-four minutes of my life, plus travelling, that I spent at DAS this month? Mmmm. Let me think …

If I Should Disappear ….

Okay, my first blog and, par for the course, I’m already in a dilemma.

I decide to do a freelance writing course and duly purchase this years copy of the Writers & Artists Yearbook, as I’m told that’s what proper “Writers” do. The course goes well, and I get some reasonable feedback from some carefully chosen sycophantic acquaintances who, not surprisingly, all tell me what a brilliant writer I am. After paying them the agreed fee I decide to make a serious go at my new-found artistic outlet.

Yearbook, as he is now affectionately known, becomes my new best friend and we go everywhere together. I feel windswept and ever-so-interesting as I sit in the trendy local coffee bars, flicking through the pages and making notes about potential publishers and literary agents, jotting down ideas for magazine features, and smiling at pretty girls with a new-found self-assurance.

It matters not a jot that I am in Colombia and 99.9% of the locals who sit around me cannot speak English, and so have absolutely no idea what on earth this thick red book of truth is, let alone that they are actually brushing shoulders with such a talented, budding maestro of literary works in the making. Hah! Philistines!

Anyway, I digress.

Amongst the pages of my new buddy is much advice for the likes of me. Seemingly good advice like, open a twitter account, get your own website, join a forum and set up your own blog (I do confess that before taking such advice I thought WordPress was a dodgy printing company in the East end of London).

Publicity mediums, corporate image, portfolios, profiles, photos, specialism, blah, blah, blah. Twitter, Linked-In, separate e-mails, blogs, a website under construction – I was suddenly crawling out from under my rock into the full glare of the world. I felt naked, exposed, precarious, insecure – for the first time in my life I had gone public and was now contactable, open, and fair game to any deranged madman who took offence.

Despite not having a clue about how Twitter worked, having no idea about constructing websites, and normally enjoying life under my safe, cool, rock, I had wholeheartedly jumped in with both feet, like my mate Yearbook said I should.

Unfortunately, Yearbook – spawned in London – wasn’t aware how very different it could be for a writer outside of the politically correct and ever-so-safe UK.

My initial plan was to do a weekly blog (don’t want to burn out too quickly do I?) about my life here in Colombia. The trials and tribulations. The every-day occurrences. The funny, the sad, the dangerous … so many stories and strange tales were constantly leaping around in my mind that I was finding it hard to sleep and subsequently developed constipation. I was, literally as well as literarily, full of shit.

Then, yesterday, I read a news article regarding a blogger who ran a website for expats here. He had recently been dragged before the DAS ( Departmento Administrativo de Seguridad) on more than one occasion in order to explain himself because, apparently, some of the blogs and invited stories from other expats that featured on his website were ”unacceptable”.  DAS, by way of slapping his wrist, threatened not to re-new the blogger’s visa and he was forced to lower the tone of his site.

I, having the timing of a one-handed watch made in Delhi, had just sent an article to the website in question to see if they’d like to publish it. My article could be construed by good old DAS as being, perhaps, a bit inflammatory as it included a bit of real life murder and mayhem that I stumbled across a while ago.

I just thought that it would be a good story to share and that I’d try it out on the site before beefing it up a bit and perhaps taking it a bit further - not thinking for one moment that a government department would actually take offence at a “warts & all” website ran by a wayward gringo purely for entertainment purposes.

DAS (I now tremble at the very name and hesitate to write ”DAS” here should they have some super-duper technology which pinpoints blogs that mention DAS) are the Colombian homeland security department who deal with, amongst other things, immigration matters and political crime. Of late, some of their tactics -  ranking amongst those utilised by the Stazi, the Ton-Ton Makut, and even the News of the World -  have been called into question.

My next blog was to be all about my local DAS office, where I have visited 10 times in the past three weeks in search of a piece of paper that says I have no criminal convictions in Colombia, and in a vain attempt to re-new my ID Card. It would all make for a reasonable blog, as well as hopefully giving folks a laugh.

So here’s the rub. Whilst being somewhat reticent about ruffling the feathers of foreign government departments, the Englishman inside me is shouting, “BOLLOCKS!” in a very loud voice.

I mean, I actually quite like it here in Colombia, and don’t really want to be extradited, or thrown into some hell-hole South American prison with Big Emilio as a cell mate. BUT freedom of speech is an inherent part of my British being, and flicking the ‘V’ at authority deeply rooted in my working class psyche.

And so I’m now thinking, “Oh … what the fuck! I’m gonna do it anyway”.  Be a martyr to the cause. Now attest that those whom I call fathers did beget me, and gentlemen in England now a-bed will  think themselves accursed they were not here and hold their manhoods cheap – that sort of thing.

So, if I should disappear … think only this of me. There is a corner of some foreign prison that sits, and waits, and plots its revenge against Yearbook.

Coming soon ….. “A Month With DAS”