Somewhere in the north of Bogota. Again - Sunday, January 12th

Woke up with a liddle sludge in my tank as can be expected. Breakfast was, surprisingly, corn based. Tamal, wrapped in banana leaves, to be precise. Once you ate though the gooey thick outer wall you were treated to a hunk of Chicken. Why this meat hasn’t been incorporated into the full English is still a wonder to me.

Once I’d eaten my 2 kilo chicken and corn loaf, the next course arrived. Under the steely charms of Chicha last night I had also (I imagine cheerfully) consented to Capesino, Hollandaise and Chiocolato or ‘Cheese in Chocolate’ to the rest of us. Having already consumed what I consider to be a full dinner I was not quite chomping at the bit. But the Hernandez household had been so incredibly welcoming and kind that there was no way appetite was getting in the way of politeneess. In went the two kinds of cheese to my hot chocolate and down it all went.

It tasted quite good, if not a little rubbery. The only real issue was the coagulation of the cheese once ingested which made me swell to the size of my beloved neighbours on my flight to Miami. Once that was done I was delighted to learn of more foods I had consented to under Chicha’s ebullient grip. Mercifully it was a fruit called a granadija. Essentially passion fruit’s less exciting cousin and went down so delicately it barely made a dent on the chicken, cheese, corn and chocolate fortress.

Mdme Hernandez, myself and her daughter laura went to meet Daniel. While walking I discussed manners in Colombia. I had noticed men giving each other single kisses on the cheek and had heartily embraced this form of greeting when meeting Laura’s boyfriend, Juan last night. 
“That is usually for family members and partners.”
She said dryly. I quietly blamed the Chicha.

We swiftly moved on to her childhood past as a competitive Rollerblader (yep) and how the Colombian equivalent of the congestion charge was to fine $15000 to any car with an even number at the end of their license plate if they were on the road in rush hour. Sounded like a brilliant plan. Bogota also closes down half its centre to cars to create a cycling utopia every Sunday. Again, Boris should take note.

Once I’d been to delivered to Daniel we trundled off to the gold museum. The undisputed highlight of Bogotá. I was particularly interested in the way the ancients viewed their elders. Apparently a child could be sacrificed for even mocking an older member of a family. While the idea was a tad extreme I think there are definitely merits to the approach. Family in Colombia is an essential structure that binds everyone together and provides a great deal of security here. When a child takes its first steps, every single blood and non blood relative will turn up just to see it happen. I thought Daniel was exaggerating but not one hour later we saw a child being swarmed by a gaggle of adoring adults treating it like a pint sized deity.

Malcolm Gladwell wrote a chapter about an American town called Roseta that had a much higher life expectancy than any other in America. They discovered the only factor that was causing this was the closeness of family connectivity. The strength of the familial bond was strong enough to have tangible physical benefit. Colombia feels like that on a larger scale. Life expectancy and happiness are both high given GDP per capita. Daniel and Kat both wholeheartedly believed this. I can only agree.

In the evening we met up with the rest of the Hernandez family and drove up one of the many hillsides surrounding Bogota. As you get to the top there is an informal dining area on the edge of a sheer cliff. Like many things in Colombia, a string of pop-up grills had sprung up to cater for couples wanting to take in the nighttime veiew of Bogota. The lights stretched as far as the eye could see. The place was truly enormous. 
“This is about half of the city.” Quipped Daniel. I could believe it. 8 million people living in a city with only a handful of high rises meant they had to go somewhere.

We dined on Mazores at one of the cafés, accompanied by a sweet alcohol with honey. You’ll be shocked to hear that both were derived from corn. Mazores being itself a large grilled corn on the cob with butter and salt. It tasted good, if not a little bland. Of course outwardly it looked like I was experiencing the sensation of eating food for the first time and was doing my best to show it.