Bogota, Round Two

A tiny corner of the dance floor at Andres Carne de Res

On Molly and Doyle's last night in Colombia, we went to Andres Carne de Res, a club in a suburb of Bogota advertised as Colombia's best.  It's about an hour's drive from the city center, which we did in a 'party bus' - really, a reappropriated school van pumping a bizarre mix of dance tunes and Hoobastank, filled about 10 people past capacity with travelers living up to their respective cultural stereotypes. (Boisterously drunk Irish, belligerently drunk Australians, sloppily drunk Americans.)

Half steakhouse, half dance club, Andres Carne de Res is in a sprawling building packed with crazy floor-to-ceiling decorations out of one of Dali's gnarlier acid trips. Headless mannequins covered in mosaics of mirrored tiles, a life-sized stuffed tiger jumping through a lighted hoop, signs that say things like Ojos Asi en los Ray Ban ("Keep your eyes on my Ray Bans") and Aqui Rumbean los Astronautas ("This is where the astronauts party").  It basically looks like the house of the hoarder with some artist friends and a great sense of humor.

A random photo of the decor

We made friends on the sardine-tin crowded central dance floor with a guy named Alfred, whose assurances that he wasn't drunk became less convincing every time he repeated them.  He was there that night to celebrate his younger sister's 23rd birthday, and carried a bottle of tequila with him that he passed around freely.  We each took a shot, chased with slices of orange and lime that were provided in little coconut-shell bowls lying around the bar, presumably for that purpose, and danced for hours to an eclectic mix of salsa, reggaeton, and the unescapable Black Eyed Peas.  At one point, we took a break out back, sitting for a minute on the curb of a blocked-off street that was filled for the evening with makeshift drink booths and carts selling choripan.  As we watched drunk girls stumble outside for some fresh air, a brass band appeared out of nowhere, complete with dancers costumed as various vaguely religious figures tossing confetti into the crowd.

It's easy to forget amidst so much joyful debauchery that Colombia's civil war isn't over, but rather just pushed to the remotest fringes of the countryside. But a couple of days after Molly and Doyle left, I was wandering around the city with a friend I made at the hostel, and we stumbled into "Las Colores de la Montana," a movie centered around a little boy named Manuel, who watches as his friends' families and then his own are accused of being guerrillas and then killed or made to flee the town where they all live.  It was sweet and sad and chilling, as I really hadn't thought before seeing it about the cost of the relative peace that's made Colombia into a trendy tourist destination.  

That said, I really loved Colombia.  I'm starting to realize how little time I have to travel - I'm barely getting to scratch the surface of the countries I'm visiting.  I'm already planning my trip back.