Noooo. What time is it? I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. The sound of a hostel full of breakfast-eaters is filling my ears and a hangover is filling my skull. I look around and we’re all in pretty rough shape, so I try to pull my shit together and head downstairs to extend our stay. Nope, room was booked by another group half an hour ago and we have to get out in the next twenty minutes. I’m never drinking again. Again.
We drag our asses down the street to visit Rowner and inquire about the possibility of scoring one of his rooms, but he just booked his last one five minutes previously. We keep walking and a nice older lady comes up and asks us what we’re looking for in Spanish, then beckons for us to follow her down the street back to Casa Kiwi. Sweet, a three-bedder’s available, we just have to wait for it to clear out. We set up shop in the restaurant / common area, grab a few beers and put our feet up. Murphy jumps in the hammock and proceeds to spend more time in it throughout the day than we did in the entire country of Honduras. I reach for the free weed we scored from the French dude yesterday and discover that the baggie had burst open and all of it was now loose in the same pocket as my passport, which absolutely reeks. Colombian police drug dogs – everywhere at the airport – are going to love me. We salvage what we can, maybe half, and I try to shake the rest out of the deep recesses of my cargo shorts.
As we’re chilling we decide to turn the day into a total chill-out day. We all had laundry that needed to get done and we were all pretty burnt out from last night, plus Murphy and I were still decompressing from two weeks of Central American border dashing and car-shipping stress. A total vaca day sounds fantastic. Haven’t had one of those since San Ignacio. We keep the beers flowing and switch to $10 bottles of wine before long, not drinking too hard but just enough to keep a chill wine buzz going all afternoon.
Our room takes longer than expected – check-out time is noon and check-in is 2, but the crew that’s in there doesn’t leave until almost three and it takes longer to clean the room. They remove a backpack, passport and other belongings sans owner. It turns out the guy had gone on a serious drinking excursion on Saturday night and never returned. It’s Tuesday by this point. His roommates had no idea where he was. Holy shit.
We hang out and get to know a handful of the other occupants, like a Swiss-Colombian who lived in Bogota but grew up in Davos and is an avid hockey fan, going to games whenever he gets home. We talked for a while about the progression of Swiss hockey and the relative benefits of European and North American hockey and about how Vancouver sucks. (Go Bruins)
Eventually we needed food so we stepped down into the bar district for a swanky dinner over a couple more bottles of wine at the Basilica (botellas de vino count = 5 for the day by now). While stepping out for a smoke we talk to a couple of guys traveling from Brazil and Chile after I gave the Brazilian props for wearing the same Communist Party shirt I bought in Brighton and wore on the Mongol Rally. They were in search of cocaine and astoundingly managed to come up dry. We’d been offered it countless times, it didn’t make any sense that two South Americans couldn’t find it.
Back at the ranch we’re chillaxing and discussing how it’ll be really nice to get to sleep at a reasonable hour without being totally smashed, high hopes for doing a lot of touristy things tomorrow like the Escobar tour (not the one with hookers), maybe a brewery and a park overlooking the town. As we’re winding down Drisdelle calls it a night while me and Murphy finish off some rum we’ve got sitting around. And then… things took a turn for the stupid.
It was only a little after midnight and even though it was Monday night we figured there had to be a bar still open where we could land a nightcap or two, so we sauntered back down to the strip. Most were closed but we found one playing a hits of the 80’s/90’s playlist and put down a few Heinekens. It was pretty chill with the exception of a couple of seriously drunk chicks a couple tables over, shouting out the lyrics to all of the songs at the top of their lungs.
When the bar staff cut the music and chased us out the door most of the patrons had either already scattered or were in the process of doing so except for the two chicks. We struck up a conversation and they offered us some sips from a Jagerbomb they’d snuck out with them, then pulled a bottle of wine out of their purse and we all started passing it around. It was the b-day of one of the chicks and while both were hammered, she was particularly far gone. They didn’t speak English but we did our best to communicate, mostly by a capella singing hard rock and metal songs into the Medellin night. Some Metallica, a lot of repetitive “Fuck you I won’t do what they tell me!” Zach de la Rocha impressions, a killer rendition of Cannonball and the chorus of Du Hast with Murphy “playing” the guitar riffs. They pull out a blunt and we get that going too. Spending a lot of time on the sidewalk by this point, things kept ramping up in a similar trajectory until we’re almost out of wine. Birthday girl called over a taxi and asked him where we could find booze at 4 am on a Monday night. We got called into the conversation and there was some misinterpretation – the cabbie wanted 20,000 Colombucks (about $10) to get wine so I handed it to him, but then he insisted that either I or Murphy get in the cab with him. That seems unnecessary and a good way to set ourselves up for getting jacked so we decline and B-day girl senses our misgivings so she says she’ll go and pulls me into the taxi. The cabbie hits the gas and I try to give Murphy a look that says “Hope I see you again sometime.”
Me and b-day girl slam back the remaining wine while the cabbie zoops us from block to block, he and b-day girl yelling at innocent bystanders, interrogating them on the location of wine. The sidewalk trajectory continues to go up up up in the back of the taxi and by the time we acknowledge defeat and get the cabbie to drive us back to our sidewalk I’m cooking with gas. With no wine we decide to part ways, super-hammed b-day girl driving her scooter and her friend jumping on the back. Murphy and I walk back to the hostel in preparation for our day of doing touristy stuff, hitting the pillows sometime around 5 am. Sleep does not come easy.