Bogotá: The Most Criminal City in the World? A poem.

On reading that post by ole Richard McColl
(An article that found itself rightly appalled
By that excuse for news, the thing that quite filled
Page upon page of that German rag, Bild),

I didn’t know whether to laugh, or to cry,
At this perfect-pitched piece by our erudite guy,
But the source for its rage – that thing in the Bild –
Says that if you live here, you’ll risk being killed.

Indeed this is a subject quite touchy for us,
As, though we may rue each unholy trip by bus,
Us living in Bogotá have come to love and to trust,
This great – if frustrating – place in which we were thrust.

So it’s with both “dis”ses: ‘appointment, and ‘may,
That Bogotanos read (again!) what some outsiders say,
Something so badly researched, and blatantly ignorant,
Something that rightfully makes our Richie indignant.

Something so crazily out of touch with reality:
That, at worst it is slander; at best, irrationality.
Something that, even with the little German we know,
We could’ve written when we were just “fünfzehn” years old.

Something that was cynically thought up to rile,
To bring comments and trolls; traffic and bile.
Something to boost the ratings of this “author’s” page,
But fill those living this fine city with rage.

So just what was it that this “journalist” wrote?
Well, let’s sum up all the ignorance in one simple quote,
Take this fine line that Richard unfurled:
“Bogota: the most criminal city in the world!”

Slack-jawed and aghast, no way to respond,
Unable to process how’d one man go so wrong,
How one “journo” could make this declaration,
Having spent just two nights in the heart of our nation.

Poor old Joachim was only kept safe and alright,
With hundreds of soldiers there by his side.
Even then our reporter still sounds quite afraid –
Afraid they were there for a formal parade.

In the pictures, his Prez looks quite stressed and upset:
“Should I have one more coffee, or go straight to bed?”
And brave Ralfy himself, from over the seas,
Scared of us locals: “Was? Chocolate und cheese?”

“The Old Town a fortress!” he proclaims in awed tones.
A fortress of what? Colonial homes?
“Beware, oh foreigners! You’ll be lost here for good!”
He’s right there, I guess: I’m not leaving – who would?

Then, in the same rag, we read with great pity,
It’s not seen in their list of most dangerous cities.
Not even a mention, and, you know, what is more,
It’s safer than N’Orleans, hell! and old Baltimore.

We know, expats and Colombians get over-defensive,
And at times our anger may seem over-sensitive,
But when you’re taking these huge, proud strides forward,
And see what such “experts” have blithely “reported”,

We just have to cop it, and then proudly proclaim
“So brutal ist Bogotá,” and shout without shame.
“Brutal?” “Y Chevere!” “Que bueno,” “Muy bien.”
As we drink up this city, and wonder just when

We’ll stop reading lazy “journos” like these,
We’ll stop seeing this excuse for “expertise”,
We’ll stop hearing these rumours, this danger disease.
And as we sip our hot chocolates – that’s right, Ralf – with cheese,

We’ll finally get what we all want to hear:
“Come here to the Bog, come all without fear!
We’re waiting for you, yeah, we’re nursing your beer!”
So let’s all give the world one great big Bogota cheer:

“Tan Brutal es Bogota! Why aren’t you here?”

 

By Paul Fowler and Paul Giles