BOGOTA. 9AM (PEAK HR) Up close. Armpit close. In latin america it’s not uncommon for the men to wear as much, or sometimes more perfume than the women. It’s nice, they smell good and thankfully too, as there are certain times of day you will find yourself pressed firmly against a chest, arm or other body part when trying to get around the capital city of Colombia. Continue reading
Sometimes I just dont tell peole what is going on in our country, on the streets we grew up on and to the people we know,” she says, eyes forward, no hint of pain in her voice.
“We have already cried so much and experienced such devestation and fear, but as the government controlls most of the news, we feel as if most of the world just doesn’t know the full story.”
I had asked her of her family living in Venezuela, where civil unrest has seen citizens shot at point blank while they protest for change.
“I can’t tell you of the violence, because I can’t bear to watch the videos sent to me by my friends and family still there, but I can tell you of the terror.”
“Sometimes I just don’t tell people what is going on in our country, on the streets we grew up on and to the people we know,” she says, eyes forward with no hint of pain in her voice. “We have already cried so much and experienced such devastation and fear, but as the government controls most of the news, we feel as if most of the world just doesn’t know the full story.” Ok then, let’s hear it. Continue reading
We have twelve minutes to get off the road. Twelve minutes to get from the city centre to our home in the north, before the car is seized. …so we had better drive fast.
The traffic in Colombia’s capital thickens to a slow ooze, our ducking and weaving dragging to a mournful halt as we and other drivers attempt to make a dash for parking before our curfew.
“It’s the government’s way of regulating traffic,” my friend tells me, running panicked fingers through her dark hair as we watch the minutes ticking by a little too fast. Continue reading