Ever look back on something and say ‘Oh shit, that was a crazy time’? Well, I remember the time I got pulled over by Colombian police twice in one day, and thought I was going to have to bribe my way out of the situation both times.
So, moving right along… This day started off just like every other Colombian morning thus far. Early (again, noon-ish) and slightly hungover. We were getting out of the city for a few days, and heading to someone’s cottage. Whose cottage? I have no idea yet, but we’re going. I told everyone back home I was going to a jungle. I better not be a liar. We had to swing a rental car for this one, the Twingo was needed here for a couple days. However, we needed a ride to one of the shadier areas of Bogota to get that rental, so we called in a parental favour. I’ve developed this habit over the past few years of calling everyone’s parents ‘Papa’ or ‘Mama’ It’s fun. I’m pretty sure Papa and Mama Correal were the first ones I did this with. Luckily, Papa Correal was around and picked us up in what I’m pretty sure was a 1996 Renault Le Car.
The 1996 Renault Le Car is a solid, appealing and affordable classic ride for anyone looking to get where they’re going – in le style.
I was in the back seat for this trek across Bogota. First thing I noticed? No rear seat belts. Way to be on the cutting edge of safety in 1996 Renault. Second, it’s an incredibly rough ride…significantly more rough than usual. The reason? Apparently shock absorbers were an option on the 1996 LeCar. Papa Correal declined this option. What the actual fuck Renault. It wasn’t the sweetest of rides, but it will get us where we need to be. We ended up in what had to be the second sketchiest area of the city (second after the barrio’s we drove through the previous day) We rented a sweet 4-door grey Chevy Aveo complete with a racing number, the 1/4 mile time of the car on the windshield in shoe polish, and an illegal limo-grade tinted WINDSHIELD. If I’m gonna die in Colombia, today is likely the day that happens, and in this car is probably how it’s gonna happen. But whatever, we were off…maybe.
Blocks away from the ‘car rental place’ we were pulled over by La Policia. Seriously? I mean, I know it’s illegal, but the limo tint on the windshield really isn’t that bad….I mean, really, it just makes it look like it’s cloudy outside. And it’s always kinda cloudy in Bogota. No big deal. Spanish is exchanged between my Translator and La Policia…
Bribing police for minor infractions is a common thing here. La Policia make the equivalent of $50/day or something, so why wouldn’t you accept a bribe from someone who just didn’t happen to have papers confirming their car passed an emissions test? I certainly would, and I’m an upstanding citizen 😉 Our hands are slowly moving towards our wallets…we’ve got the pesos if necessary. There’s more quick Spanish between our Translator and La Policia. ‘Is there anything we can do officer?’ he says…apparently…I have no idea. That’s how you let La Policia know you’re ready to bribe if you have to. Our hands are fully on our wallets now. More quick Spanish. Turns out, this sweet 4-door Chevy Aveo has a lien against it. Apparently…again, I have no idea what they’re saying. There is no bribing our way out of this one.
We haven’t even made it out of the city, and we’re already getting escorted back through it, but on main streets this time, via a police motorcycle, THROUGH FUCKING BOGOTA TRAFFIC! I saw a skate park…it sucked. Our sweet Chevy Aveo was impounded…our pesos were returned.
Whomp whomp whoooomp…
While the Aveo was being impounded and our translator was negotiating with the ‘car rental guy’ for the return of our peso’s, Papa Correal took us for lunch. He insisted on paying, but fuck that. I devoured the best tamale I have ever had (better than the tamale lady in SF) We had an amazing chat with Papa Correal in broken English about the problems that plague the country, amongst other things (he once punched el Presidente in the face whilst in the army, FYI) The waitress loved us, but didn’t love us enough to give us a free empanada after we finished the tamales. If I could write ten posts about how good this tamale was, I would…but no one would read that. Not that anyone is reading this anyway. FOCUS! We needed a ride out of the city, and they’re not easy to come by when everyone is broke as hell. We solved our ride situation with some quick winks and smiles. We were able to scam the Twingo from Mama Correal and Mariana. Score. We bid a quick farewell to Papa Correal and headed out of Bogota…AGAIN.
We sat in more Bogota traffic. I saw that shitty skatepark, again…still sucked. This time though, we made it out of the city. We stopped at a gas station, got some pig on a bun, some roadies, and some Colombian Red Bull (Spoiler: It tastes like Red Bull)
Then the ride through the Andes began…I think it’s Andes
The city never really ends…
There’s non-stop cottages, shacks and tiendas along the road side. Non-stop signs for Aguia and Poker to make me thirsty.
There are stray dogs, stray donkeys and stray children everywhere.
There are also non-stop police check points. 3/4 of the way through yet another Comeback Kid sing along, we got pulled over. AGAIN. Holy shit, story of this trip. Our hands were moving toward our wallets. Again. At this point, I feel it’s important to mention that our Translator still only has his Ontario G1 drivers license. He only got this Ontario G1, two months before leaving Canada. He only got that, because I continually made fun of him for his expired, out-of-state American drivers license that looked like it was made in a high school visual arts class. More quick Spanish from our Translator…again. He was asked to get out of the car. Hands are on our wallets now…AGAIN. He’s not drinking, but we smell like 87 cent cervezas. How good is Wake the Dead by Comeback Kid though? Flawless album. My Translator blew/spit on the cops hand. Not drinking, no problems. We’re good. Still have all our pesos. Back on the road…
After a quick piss…
…and a quick stop to pick up the necessary supplies
Three Hours, seven tolls (I learned ‘toll’ in Spanish…peaje…go me) two more police checkpoints and surprisingly, only a quarter tank of gas later, we arrived at the ‘cottage‘ near Giradot. Oh yeah. When you’re ‘going to a cottage‘ in Colombia, you’re not ‘going to a cottage‘ Going to a cottage in Colombia means, you go to a beautiful, gated community where you can walk around safely at night. Basically, a Hamptons or Santa Barbara summer house. I’m 100% OK with that. There’s more security getting into Condominio Campestre El Peñon, than there was at the airport getting into the country in the first place. My mugshot was taken. My finger prints were saved. A bad English-to-Spanish translation of my mother’s maiden name, the high school my father attended, and the name of my first pet were entered on their computer system.
We made it.
Living like middle class drug lords.
Bury Me In Vans 
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