The city streets are littered with amputees, their feet and arms gone along with the old infrastructure of Medillin. The movement of the Zona Rosa leaving them even further displaced. Lying on their backs and huffing glue, hobbling along the sidelines of my peripheral vision, best kept in the graces of god than the pennies of men. I guess. One of them wildly whips a cane at me from the ground and howls. We are all missing something here. Theirs is just more visible than mine. In a country where landmines still kill 3 people a day and take the limbs of many more we seem to glide by them like hovercrafts ripped out of the back pages of a boy-scout magazine.
Our two legs propel us to the dolce donut shop with ease. I know immediately when Ben leaves me to check on the train that something is gonna go wrong. I sense small danger and sugar-glazed goodness. When he doesn’t return for almost 25 minutes I start to go thru all the scenarios of what I should do (sell his stuff/claim his identity/hack his facebook account/eat donuts forever/go for help.) Finally he returns, he had gotten a good old-fashioned shake down by the cops for walking too fast. He had his multi-tool knife with him and they took him down a long hallway to meet “the captain” who snarled and dismissed him with the wave of a hand. I believe the policia who nabbed him were disappointed with their lack of bounty for he had already entered into bargain mode.
Prostitution is legal down here and the old gringos make me sick with it. Women and the talk of them are in the air everywhere. It’s hard to find a place to escape, and even harder not to loose my tongue or worse my fists. Luckily we have the most beautiful hostel room overlooking the city. We will hold up here for a whole week.
In Colombia it’s hard to decipher exactly what a shop sells or does. I walk by one where an 80 year-old lady sits behind a desk with an alarm-clock on it and a pig shaped stuffed animal. Nothing else in the room, and I have to decide if I should ask her to make me breakfast. Today I don’t. Tomorrow I will. In a land of no menus, chances are for 5000 Colombian Pesos ($2.50) she will whip me up something with potatoes in it, as long as I have exact change. It’s expected.
I have decided to only learn my Spanish from the South American politicians I watch on TV. I have decided to free the prostitutes into a hot air balloon. I have decided that the best way to work out is with the concrete buckets of cement on the corner with the locals. That’s where Ben is now. I have decided to make a music video in Colombia. I have decided to turn the landmines into Mexican jumping beans.
What I haven’t decided though is what I want out of all this and how I should feel about drinking milk out of a bag. Everything comes in bags down here.
When I left out on the big adventure I thought it was a means to an end. A goal in and of itself. Now that I am on it though I realize that even the big adventure needs a purpose too. So from the city of 5 names before this one and the master plan. Medillin dubbed the most violent city in the world up until 2003. What better place to let these ideas miss limbs, clash, and war until one prevails with all the beauty of this city. All the heart of this country. I haven’t had much to eat yet today and therefore no descriptions to give you as we head north and then eventually south to put our feet on the end of the world. Let me just say it’s well worth the price of it. Even in a dark night of the soul. My campaneros. I miss you.
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