Seis Horas en Colombia

And now, straight from my notebook to the web, the most boring blog post ever written...also known as:

Seis Horas en Colombia

Bogotá's security is fierce yet oddly permissive. I went through a routine checkpoint only to be patted down twice - once with the metal-detecting wand, and once by a female 'agente'. Sometimes, playing along has its disadvantages. I assumed that the lounging, green-clad official I was told to approach would search my bags. Instead she motioned my hands up and abruptly pressed my breastbone and swiftly felt for hidden weapons up and down both calves. Then, satisfied, she waved me away, returning to her pressing task of leaning against a small counter, chatting up her male counterparts. It is here, in Colombia's capital, that I am made aware of the truly strange evolutionary products of airport culture.

But it's not only the strangers who sit next to you, strike up conversations, or share your magazines, matches, food, and space that make airports unique. Something about the equalization of peoples - though not truly equal, at least on the surface - makes it acceptable for spent-my-last-pesos to walk with five-star-all-the-ways. And, above them all, the airport staff holds sway. The appropriately dark-blue or black suiT, a badge, or even better, a walkie-talkie, commands instant authority.

Almost as much as the forest green, militaristic uniforms of the officials do. Not enough - or would it be? - for me to submit to pushes and pokes through my deliberately cheap clothes that are sudden, too fast and impersonal to insult, yet still slightly alarming. Enough, however, for me to surrender (in the past at any rate) my bag and unload my carefully-packed belongings.

Out would go the camera, the four rolls of film, the battered brush, the hastily shoved-in lint roller, the Lonely Planet guide to Brazil, this very notebook. The yellow notepad, the business cards, the gum, CD player, headphones (useless, since they sport a chilean-style plug), music, granola bar, wallet, assorted papers, mini pads (how embarassing), pens, pencils, and passport, complete with one visa for Brazil, with boarding pass in tow. Or would it be a cursory shift & move inspection, politely done and almost allowing an apologetic glance to show through the mask of boredom customs and airport officials always wear.

Thankfully, it is neither, and I pass one more checkpoint, looking impatient for no other reason than habit. Ready to wait some six-and-a-half hours in a sterile hallway, facing strangers backlit by airport windows (you know the type), obsessively and accidentally reading the cheesy glowing signs that are scattered along my new home.

What would happen if I never left? How long would it take for the forest-greens, or the navy suits, or even the reflective jackets to notice me? What would happen when I didn't produce a valid ticket? A polite session of ignoring, followed by suspicion, ending in jail or a mental hospital? Perhaps. Today is not my day to find out.

Here, surrounded by 'interesting' backgrounds (planes, TVs, a befogged Bogotá), it is hard to tell who is staring at what. Accidental eye contact is rampant, with amusing results. Walking down the center aisle makes anyone an object of intense, often unintentional scrutiny. Some that run this guantlet can find solace in a companion; others choose a variety of distractions. Some stare straight ahead, as if at some point always far on the horizon. Other study the goround. Some dare to gaze around, haphazardly meeting and dodging eye contact. Still others whistle, make odd noises, and play with whatever is handy as they pace up and down the Great Hall; the same tactics used by those who try to convince themselves that this room is not haunted, that eerie howl was not a creature of the night's war cry.