I remember smashing whisky cokes
at the bar in Houston airport so that I would be drunk enough to sleep on the plane down to South America. When I arrived in Bogata, I booked a hostel on my phone because I had an eighteen-hour layover before my next flight to Pasto. Somewhere around 1 a.m., a taxi driver took me down a handful of desolate alleyways between graffiti-painted brick walls before we arrived at the place.
The place was a bleak little shit hole
It more so resembled a gas station in the ghetto rather than a hostel. There were metal barred doors at the front where I had to wait as the owner struggled to unlock a series of locks before even getting the bastard open. Well Shit, I thought to myself knowing I was probably going to be murdered while I slept inside this caged-off, brick-laid box that was eerily being passed off as a safe sleeping zone.
The older man took me to a room on the backside of the little building. It had a window facing out to yet another desolate looking alleyway. All across it was littered with tags and stains over the faded brick walls. I locked the door behind him and passed out from exhaustion. Those god damn airports hit you like a sleep-deprived nightmare.
I woke up to a heavy crash
somewhere around 6 a.m. I couldn’t initially remember where I was when I first opened my eyes. However, the quick, explosive thud against my hostel window jerked me back to the grim reality of the shitty hostel I was in. I opened the window to see a man’s face smashed against it. Two other men had him pinned there by the back of the neck.
It took me a second before I realized the man was butt-naked. His face was hysterical but at the same time, it almost looked as if he was enjoying it. There was a creepy little grin that was slithering out from the corner of his mouth.
The lucky bastard scrambled out of their grip and shot off back up the road with his dick swingin’. I could see a barrage of people coming from the left. All of them running like maniacs as they chased the squirmy little roadrunner off into the distance. Some were holding long sticks and metal frying pans. Some were screaming and flailing around. But most were just simply running as if not totally aware as to what they were running after.
I walked outside and got a coffee from a little man with a food cart on the side of the road and called a cab to get the fuck out of there.
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Colombia travel story