Teaching English in Bogotá
I’d been in Bogotá for almost three months by the time the CELTA course ended and I was still no closer to finding a job. The course, however, was run by two ageing Englishmen - Thomas and Henry - who were as helpful as they were camp. Bogotá’s gay scene, it seemed, was thriving. At least within the walls of the British Council anyway, where conflicts of interest were disregarded to the extent that Thomas’s partner, a gaunt rolo [1] called Estéban, whose craggy features mirrored the exposed rock face of the Monserrate mountain that loomed over us in the east, seemed permanently enrolled in a beginners English course. When Thomas wasn’t too busy arguing with Estéban, he and Henry gave us would-be teachers plenty of tips on how to secure work in Colombia. The tips, to be fair, consisted mainly of a spreadsheet of language institutes and many names who may, or may not, be worthwhile contacting.
In the little I’d read on the topic, my preference was to find work in a bilingual high school, mostly because I’d heard the money was better. On the other hand, working in an institute was clearly more sociable. In the five weeks of teaching lessons at the British Council I made friends with many of the students, and my fellow teachers who were mostly Colombians. It was normal, at the end of each day, to head to one of the bars in Parque 93 in El Chicó - Bogotá’s restaurant and bar hub in the north of the city - and drink from a giraffe de cerveza with teachers and students alike. It really wasn’t a problem to whisper salacious nothings into the ear of an attractive student by night, and then teach her the meaning of salacious the next morning in class.[2]
I also envisioned a scenario where one of my students - an olive-skinned beautiful older woman called Nhora - a Colombian Monica Bellucci - took me in as toyboy. Nhora’s slightly indigenous features and wide-set almond eyes had withstood the test of time and, I can only assume, poverty. I foresaw life with her thus: I’d basically idle around her pad, hang on her arm at social occasions and be her sexual plaything. As the only Englishman studying the CELTA course, I knew I enjoyed the advantage of being the ‘exotic foreigner’ - a magical status, divining upon the holder quadruple their attractiveness towards the opposite sex, irrespective of how they are perceived in their home country. The spell of the exotic foreigner also makes the holder impervious to social discriminations based on class and wealth. Essentially, I would never have it so good and it was surely only a matter of time before Nhora was buying me Rolex watches by day, and sexually enslaving me by night.
In between giving Nhora special treatment in my classes in a bid to win her over, the British Council seemed it may serve its purpose in a more traditional way. One evening, as I was leaving the office I was tapped on the shoulder by a woman seeking an English tutor for her son. Almost penniless, I seized on the opportunity and I agreed to go over to her house the next evening, following the directions she scribbled down on a crumpled piece of paper. From memory, her house was on a backstreet of Santa Barbara, where all the houses had security bars extending out from the building to the pavement, like giant chicken hutches. This was a reasonably affluent area, though not behind a gated community.
I found the woman’s house and tapped lightly on the iron bars. I was part nervous and part excited: the thought had crossed my mind that I was entering a strangers house in a city stereotyped for its violence. Who knew what danger lurked within. Yet it so transpired my only concern need be a collection of excuses for when, prior to dinner, the lady and her husband began talking about god and asked me to lead the pre-meal prayers. I let them down gently and insisted the father do it. I couldn’t avoid holding their hands though, as they thanked the lord for bringing me into their lives.
The tutorials didn’t last long, so maybe the Almighty made a mistake and deemed I shouldn’t be in their lives after all.[3] I turned up another night the following week, but the 15 thousand pesos I earned for the hour wasn’t going to keep me going. There also was only so long I could rely on the hospitality of my racist hosts Gilberto and Ana Lucia: (1) because one month was probably enough already, and (2) sooner or later Gilberto would catch me with his buxom daughter.
Alas, the exotic foreigner spell never quite took hold of Nhora. Perhaps it’s because she wasn’t technically a divorcee; rather, her husband was just away a lot and she had two teenage children whom she seemed to love very much. Or maybe her cataracts impaired her judgement as much as her vision. Essentially, she spurned my advances. One evening, after the classes had finished and teachers and students alike piled happily out of the British Council and to a bar in Parque 93, I leaned close to Nhora and whispered aguardiente-fuelled smut into her ear. Her reaction sobered me right up.
Nhora laughed for longer than was necessary and, when she finished, simply said “No Carlitos.” Amusement or pity in her large almond eyes.
It was a reproach that hurt my ego for some weeks. Still, you live and learn and I am proud to say II was ethical about it all and didn’t treat Nhora any differently in my English classes at the British Council for having spurned me. I maintain she would have failed the course under a different teacher anyway.
And it also meant I would have to earn keep in Colombia by other means and I would have to do it without Thomas, who disappeared in the final two weeks of the course without saying a word.
A year later I bumped in to him in Cartagena. His pink skin was blistered at being exposed to the tropical heat and his sweaty face, slathered with sunscreen, was blotchy and irritable. It turned out both he and Henry had moved on from the British Council, though he was suspiciously cagey about why. If I’m honest, it had the whiff of the Catholic Church about it, as though he’d been stationed elsewhere to save the reputation of the BC.
[1] A rolo or rola is what you call a person from Bogotá
[2] This was 2006, don’t forget - an altogether simpler, better time.
[3] Though the mother couldn’t hold a candle to the lovely Nhora. Less Monica Belucci, more James Belushi. So, really, no risk of anything sexual starting there. The Lord must have had other concerns.