Pain

Well, here’s the inevitable follow-up to that picture I done posted down there. I had an ouchy. A fairly large ouchy, involving my entire big toenail bending back on itself before being ripped off by a doctor. The doctor was smiling at the time, so at least there was a pleasant atmosphere around the whole thing.

Unfortunately the details do not revolve around any derring-do or inappropriately dangerous activities involving wild animals or sheer drops. They do revolve around lavender scented towels and blissfully clean socks. Yes, I was collecting laundry when my little mishap occurred, collecting laundry along a very uneven path wearing nout but flip-flops. Nout else on my feet. I was not naked.

I stumbled, felt the familiar stubbed toe throb and lowered my gaze to asses the damage. Upon noticing just how considerable the damage was I elected to shout a nasty word into the face of the poor old laundry lady who’d emerged to see exactly what this lanky gringo was doing to her beloved path. Kicking the shit out of it and swearing, that’s what. She was nice though, fetching me a chair as I continued my un-gentlemanly rant and providing the glass of water that stopped me passing out. For reals; I nearly blacked out. I’m basically Andy McNabb at this point.

First my hearing softened, the rapid nattering of the clustered crowd (which was not inconsiderable at this point) fading to a bassy rumble. Next to go was my vision, the meatily be-veined legs of the ever suffering laundry lady disappearing behind a veil of purple dots and scratches. I managed to mumble a pathetically weak request for water (in Spanish, mind) as my head lolled like one of those dogs Dog People stick on their dashboards. As soon as I dribbled as much agua as I could into my mouth the feeling passed and the rather annoying realisation that my toenail had come off returned.

Anyway, that’s all sorted now. I limped like a horror-film Igor for about a week and the damn thing ruined my salsa routines, but it seems to be on the mend.

Medellin then. Colombia’s second city, famed for its nightlife, women and drug trade, only two of which still remain. The first was most certainly present. Deary me. I started the week adamant I would resist the glamourously debauched pull of the party scene for fear of heavy, be-heeled feet crushing sharply down upon my freshly exposed nail-bed. It was the sensible thing to do, and two beers later it was disregarded like a ginger step-child. I valiantly stepped out into the salsa clubs of what was once the murder capitol of the world and danced the night away with the most beautiful party crowd I have ever gawked at. So yes, the women are still here too. It actually made me angry, or at least slightly annoyed, how beautiful these people were. Every single person in the place was straight from a Davidoff advert, and even the stragglers wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Frosties bit. This made me extremely aware of two relevant shortcomings I possess: a lack of Spanish beyond “What’s you name?” and “Where’s the bus?” and a lack of dancing skill beyond The Robot and Macarena. Despite my handicaps, an amazing few nights were had and promptly forgotten the next morning, the memories replaced by vague feeling of shame and the realisation that yes, I did try to teach that particularly stunning woman the Fresh Prince handshake.

The rest of the week continued along the same lines, with the occasional jaunt up a hill or ride on a monorail. We finally left the big city this morning feeling a bit like salted earthworms and I now find myself lounging on the balcony of my new home here in Guatape. It’s a tiny little town with the aesthetics of a children’s theme park and the atmosphere of an after-hours party. It’s really rather lovely.

Until next time chicas. Donde esta el autobus?

New feature: Currently listening to. It’s like a concurrent soundtrack to this whole endeavour, a chilling insight into my current mental state during each update. Unfortunately, the one below is almost completely irrelevant as it’s down here at the bottom meaning you’ve probably read the blog already. If you haven’t and have skipped directly to the video; shame on you. Shame.

Yes it’s a song about suicide, quite fitting for the subject of this entry. It’s also my favourite song in the whole world, which is as good a starting point as any.

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