Chapter SIx: The Botero Yogurt

She had a body like a bag of yogurt that in two days time I would learn resembled a Botero painting of the Mona Lisa almost precisely. Young, fat, and white European. Just because I explain the skin don’t think I got in it. I did not, but she was with us when we entered the bar after it was closed. The soon to be fired bartender insisted that we help ourselves and so we did. Sometimes crime can hold you like a familiar hug in times of loneliness, so the four of us drank and swapped stories until the sun came up. I know a man named Kevin suffered from elephantitus of the ball-sack in Panama. He in turn knows I’ve been shit on. I slept in my clothes next to Ben and woke up in Colombia laughing.

Colombia seems to have four kinds of enforcers, the military, the rebels, the policia, and the street security. Police impersonation is a common thing but I can always smell a cop. They always have a tell. It’s a little threatening to see 17-year-old kids walking around with machine guns but so far they seem to only stare at my tattoos with vague interest. We will see how they become at the roadblocks when I obtain my motorcycle.

Bogotá is a giant colonial city of skinny streets and long winded turns. The buses barely slow down to pick you up and the music never sleeps. The song only changes slightly as you move from bar to room to bus to street. 2640 meters above sea level on the Eastern side of the Andes Mountain Range. A giant church and statue of the Virgin Mary tower above it to the north of the city. Illuminated they guide the way back to the hostel at night where the bathroom is so small that both your head and knees press against the wall while you sit against the toilet. The beds are clean, the bar is cheap, the hammocks swing, and the internet works. Shots of the local aguardiente cost about a buck and its a strong anise liquor. Today we head a few miles up the crease of the Andes Mountains to a local church where they make the stuff out back infused with coca leaves and cinnamon.               

Breakfast here seems to consist of eggs, two different breads, and hot chocolate for you to dip your cheese in. Up here by a village in the mountains we eat blood sausage and potatoes and you can see out over the entire city from here. The ghetto sprawls and spills from the west down into the south. Bandits patrol the roads on the mountain next to us so we don’t hike that way. A train can be seen that goes straight thru a tunnel in the range. A little girl of only about 7 breaks my heart with a smile. We stop to drink tea here.

 Me and Ben decide we need to add a butcher knife to our family. Shopping lists are made as we prepare for our 7-hour bus ride into San Gil where we will repel 60 Meters down a waterfall and sleep in the shade of it. But tonight we will drink this bottle we bought on the mountain and sing songs to the moon in the streets. Down here amongst the beggars, glue junkies, and women we howl.  Up on the right stuff. Gone with the first glimpe. Like Boteros artwork both boisterous and unaffected. Both inspired and unsuspecting. I guess kinda like that young girl. We move fluid like a bag of yogurt.

From the longest mountain range in the world. From the birthplace of coffee and cocaine. From the fingertips of the big adventure. 6 bowls of carne asada soup and a couple bottles of Club Colombia beers later. From the thick my campaneros. I see you and raise you one.