Showdown at the Colombian Corral

April 30th, 2009: A few night nights ago I was not being very smart - yes, not very smart. If you had to grade my smartness, I would say I earned a, D (which would be a 1.0). Went out with about 12 individuals to a bar about 8 blocks away from the hostel. Four of us left around 1am and began walking back from the bar - breaking Bogota's golden rule of intelligence which is to take a cab after 11pm.

On our journey back to the hostel, we witnessed - front row - an all out bum fight going on amongst themselves. We had to take a detour to avoid the clubbing that was going on amongst the dozen or so dirty individuals. The street we turned on was much narrower than our intended course. The size of the dimly lit street was just large enough to fit a full sized American car with some over sized 22's. Buildings lined the street making our coarse seem as a if we were in a gigantic narrow rat maze. Since it was an unplanned route, we went a longer way due to being a bit...disorientated. Drugged out bums, who were feasting off the garbage, littered the street.

One of the filthy men, who looked as if he just finished robbing Santa in a chimney came running at us. My friend started screaming. He had one hand out and one had in his pocket. He kept coming forward - the distance between us was uncomfortably becoming smaller. I had my two inch trusty pocket knife that was cupped in my hand from as soon as we left the bar. In some way I was expecting a confrontation. I yelled, "NO - NO - NO." I am glad "no" means "no" in Spanish and in English (don't know much Spanish at the moment - especially with the brain is in hyper drive). It slowed down the bums run to an Olympic speed walker's pace. I lifted the knife into the air and continued to shout as he kept moving forward. He was about 12 feet - no...maybe 11 feet away and was quickly approaching one of the girls. I cut him off from my group, pointing the knife at him and continued to repeat the lovely word men love to hear..."NO". His coarse finally...changed.

An event that took perhaps only 10 seconds seemed to last for eternity. You have to love how the brain can slow down events to a manageable speed when it is needed.

Bogota, Colombia

April 28th, 2009: Been in Bogota for 4 whopping days and it is…amazing. This place has been ideal due to the few tourists not wanting to capitalize on Colombia’s reputation. I am currently residing a hostel named the Playtapus. For $7.76 a night, I shouldn’t complain about anything. There was only one cockroach and it was soooooooo petite, it must have been a runt of the litter. I didn’t have the heart to murder it – so I did the right thing, fed it some crackers and gave him/her a cupful of fresh water.

The altitude and hills here in Bogota are much higher than what I am accustomed to in San Francisco. So whenever I am walking up a big hill or even on a level surface and it feels as if I am going to pass out from the lack of oxygen, I don’t blame it on me from being out of shape, the blame shifts to Bogota. Bogota lies at an altitude of about 2600 meters while San Francisco is at about…zero.

I have been unfortunately rooming with two women at the moment. Shirley is an extremely nice ole crusty lady that must have been a member of the AARP when I was still in grade school - I had to throw in the word “crusty” due to her giving Nina (a German roommate of mine that’s now gone) and myself (an extremely bright American man) a major beat down at Scrabble.

My new roommate that arrived yesterday, Gwendolyn, is a woman from England that seems to be fixated on picking up on me. Was it the comment about my dimples, how I look like Beckem (the soccer player) or perhaps the comment that she might have to craw into my bed tonight due to her bed being so small – doesn’t she know that a great grandmother is in a bed only a few feet away from me? I really do think that the most original comment was that she might need some help washing her back tonight. I feel…I feel…I feel like such an object. Mental note: if I sustain difficulties finding myself a non-purchased wife, move to England.

Shirley, the 67 year old, has been extremely inspirational for me. She has been traveling throughout Mexico, Central America and South America for the past three years living off her Social Security check which is at about $25 a day. Either she doesn’t know that she is at the apex in her BINGO career or she is just a strong women that is not going to let age get in her way of traveling. I told her that she needs to do some lectures of some sort telling the older generation to stand together and overthrow AAA and start a movement to stop the brutal raping of Senior Citizens of their money at these travel agencies. Susan gives me hope for when I get old…er. If she wasn’t older than my Mom, I would say she would be an ideal mate.

The backpackers I do meet at the hostel are filled with stories of what they had stolen on buses, nightclubs, on the street during the day, on the street during the night and even while sitting on the toilet – okay…perhaps not the toilet, but it is the same…crap. My one newly found friend Chris, from Switzerland was robbed outside the hostel yesterday morning by a man who grabbed him with two hands – yes, two hands. Hmm, I think that would have been a good opportunity to give him the Klingon death grip, but what do I know…I am not skilled at the art of Trekkie warfare.

To add to this, the other night, my roommate Susan and 6 other hostel residents decided to head out to the local market at...12:35am. Being the genius that I am - or perhaps...a gut feeling - I thought it was just a tad too late to go out. Well...it only took them 4 minutes before they came back sounding as if they all ran the Boston Marathon . One of the guys was grabbed from behind and had a broken bottle placed on his neck. Some pockets were emptied and the guy took off running. I think this would have been a good opportunity to…discard the thought of using Klingon death grip.

My point? There has to be a change to my South American Plans. I was originally planning on getting robbed twice. With my extensive expertise in statistics, I would like to push up my original number to 3.34 times – no...make it 3.54 times - a rounding error.

There seems to be a strong resemblance in the costumes - I mean uniforms of the Colombian Swat and the Shadow Stormtroopers from the movie Star Wars. They flock the streets throughout Colombia in large groups. The first time I saw them, I thought something was about to happen so I quickly...pulled out my camera and moved at a quick pace toward the flashing lights, but...sadly…nothing transpired. After putting to use some of my observation skills, they seemed to do a lot of loitering. This is nothing new to law enforcement, but the most astonishing thing is that they don't even seem interested in Dunkin Donuts (reminder: Starbucks has yet been able to make a home here).

Yesterday, I meet Cata, Nayra and Laura, some locals from a University in Bogota. They skipped classes and gave Chris and myself a personalized tour. They seemed to enjoy me butchering their language but more so, the words I used. My Latin American Spanish phrasebook is great assisting me in speaking to someone who is older, but for younger people those words are not commonly used. To put it in a better perspective, it is probably like me using the term groovy or dreamy to a person in their early twenty's.

They were able to answer many of my questions and clear up so misconceptions of Bogota. One of these would be that they all eat hearts, brains, intestines and animal heads. They were shocked and thought I was just joking around. When I told them that I saw this at a local open market when I was up on the hills exploring the slums, they gasped and told me that they don’t go over there because it is too dangerous. After explaining to them what I did to minimize the possibility of me having to pulling a Fu Man Chew, they clearly understood why nobody harassed me. It is quite simple… I would stand a bit taller (which adds at least 3 to 4 inches - now putting me at least one foot taller than most Colombians) and pretend I am a mutated pasty Colombian knows exactly where his is going. It easy for me to do this because all men are born with this ability - we are never lost, just at times, disorientated.