Two Thumbs Down

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Here it was. The picture was complete. Someone being honest about his motives. Finally.

Like so many before, I had figured him out from his accent. T., my fellow countryman. World traveler and Samaritan. When the Russians had stopped giving aid to Cuba he was there to exchange soap for services. Five hundred clean, sweet smelling ladies. When an influx of other male 'tourists' meant that soap was no longer enough, he started bringing joy to Brazilian and Colombian admirers. Ebony fever at its peak, he approached each and every possible target. A quick exchange and he comes back with a sullen expression on his face.

That one was really thick, he says.
Yeah, but eager, I add.

Colombia's reputation for drug cartel violence and guerrilla warfare was no longer justified. The Escobars of Medellin and Ochoa brothers of Cali were either dead or in prison. FARC and other groups were isolated in their jungle enclaves and the country was in the midst of an identity crisis. The cities and tourist sights had become a playground for LBHs (Losers Back Home). American? European? The street dealers and women, be they professional or amateur were more than happy to receive you creating animosity in some local males. Fucking gringo! Fucking American! That was it, I clubbed the guy. T. watched in amazement, swearing he'd never seen anything like it.

Back at the hostel the LA republican was giving a never-ending speech on how great the U.S. is and calling anyone who didn't agree, including a fellow American, a communist. Just another chap who was in denial about his reasons for spending five months in Colombia. Marching powder at the tip of his nose and a different girl under his arm each night, he clearly wasn't here to spread democracy.

It's you, right? he asked.
Yeah, it's me.

Simple answers to simple questions. Shaun and I had met three stunning looking girls in Cali a couple of weeks earlier. Arabic roots were evident but IQ = EQ = 0. Listening to Melissa go on and on about her skin tone and specific eye colour was like watching paint dry, boring as hell. I learned the hard way how obsessed Colombian women were with their own looks. A mentality that clearly goes out the window once they hit twenty-five and turn into the female equivalent of Marlon Brando in his later years.

It was just too much for me. I'm getting less tolerant as the years go by and now expect some intellect in exchange for my time. I clearly wasn't getting it. Twenty-three-year-old Shaun fared much better and ended up in a filthy, cramped apartment in an out-of-the-way part of town for a week. As I stood on the street, valiantly trying to flag down a taxi at an un-godly hour, a whore passed me, crack pipe in one hand, exposed boob in the other. Could it be? I wondered. Perhaps Colombia had found a new identity after all and this was it...

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Photos

Tough Foot
Carried this guy with me from Peru. It was time for him to leave. One knife and he was gone

Warrior
Cartagena

Fancy a beer?
Santa Marta

Well, well, the truth comes out...
Botero Museum, Bogota

Coca in the Wild
PN Tayrona