There are 6 people living here including myself. First, there"s Norbey Pineda, well he actually goes by Santiago. The dude is 23 and a vetran of the Colombian Army. He"s tall and lanky like me and has always got a smile spread across his long face. The man works the graveyard shift at an orphanage, and usually sleeps during the day. This man is my main couchsurfing host. Then, there is Monica. She"s a short, black-haired, restaraunt worker who likes to take 30 minute showers when there are 6 people living in the house. Then, there is Laura and Alejandra. I say Laura and Alejandra because if you see one you see the other. If one laughs, then the other laughs. They are insperable, laughable, energy-maniacs, who share a small bedroom together. The bedroom is the size of a closet and has just enough room for a bed. They also happen to share this bed, by the way its a twin. Yeah, so its damn small. Lastly, there is Julian. Julian shares a bed with Santiago. Julian is intelligent (yes he wears glasses), loves to blast salsa music from his old, high-pitched speakers, with way too much treble.

When you are living in a small apartment with 5 other people there are many limitations. I dont go to sleep until the last person has gone to sleep. I also dont go to sleep until the last person has finished playing their last bayonato or salsa song. In addition, there is only one bathroom for 6 people. Amazingly, the bathroom has no door on it, but shutters that belong on a window. The only problem with these shutters are that there is a 2 inch gap between every cross-board. The kitchen happens to also be literally 6 feet from the toilet. So, whoever happens to be making rice and beans can not only smell their food but have their noes haris singed with another unpleasant smell. On top of this whoever is in the kitchen (there is usually always someone) can hear every single noise going on in the bathroom. With a house of mostly girls, and my stomcah full of greasy Colombian food, most of the time I just walk down to a local market and order a water. At least then I will have a bit of privacy. I am sure that all of these experiences, good or bad, are chisleing my mind and body into a bodafide experience machine. Soon, there will be nothing I have not seen, other than possibly 8 PEOPLE in a little apartment sharing one bathroom. Well, I"ll leave roon for that in the next destination...........

written by  kipmaddog on August 4, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Getting off of the Metro, I pushed my way through the crowd of Colombians who"s laid=back life=style reflected the way that they walked. WAit I thought, am I just some panic=sticken American, in a rush for no major reason. After all, since I had been in Colombia, I hadnt seen any road rage. Or are do these COlombians need a swift kick of humanitarian love to speed up their pace.
I went to this place called The EXito. Its a giant yellow building that more=so looks like a giant cab, rather than an actual building. They have the basics: rice, potatoes, meat, fruit, and vegetables. An aisle with chips and snacks exist, but the is only one aisle and its about 25 feet long. This is contrasted with say, 2 aisles at your local Vons, with assorted snacks on both. Both aisles are also about 50 feet long. And Medellin there are 2.5 million people......
I left the Exito and made it home with two avocadoes, both looking like they were both injected with steroids. Along with these bad boys, I had 3 tomatoes, 1 onion, some garlic, garlic flavored salsa, and two limes to give it some zest. I also, got 3 lemons for the girls. I rushed home through the evening dusk and made it home 20 minutes before they all had to leave again. I boiled som ewater, added some huney which they already had, dropped on etea bag, and steamed it all off with the boiling water...... I gave the tea to the girls, they looked amazed, like to witch docter had brewed these. With in a couple mintutes of having finished my tea concontion their coughs were silenced. YES....
I then dug the green, rich goop out of the avacados, which yeiled about 14 ounces of love. I then cup up the onions, tomatoes, skiped the garlic becasue one of the girls wasnt a fan. The girls fryed up some of what they called platanos verdes. I hated bannanas though, yet they claimed these were similar to bannanas, but they were vegetables. They were kind of like the banannas cousin, only less mushy and pastey. They would sllice up the platano verde into disks. they then would flatted the disks to the size of a thin pancake. they would slap these on the frying pan and within minutes you had fryed platanos verdes with a chunkified aromatic spread of Guacamole. It wasthe perfect harmony of cross=culturalizing tastey foods. They absolutely loved the guacamole. A simple snack was turned into dinner. The girls coughs were gone, everyone was content, and they had tasted some San Diego love.

written by  kipmaddog on August 5, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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I meandered my way through exhaust filled streets, greasey arrepa stands, children in tattered clothing asking for 100 pesos, and old men sitting on plastic buckets chain smoking their ciggss as they tapped their foot to the same salsa record they have probably been listening to for the past 50 years. Soon I made my way to the Museaum of Modern Art. It was a small building next to a ,ibrary. I walked to the second floor and asked the women if I needed to pay. She claimed it was free and boy was that saucey for me. I had a day of cost=less fun ahead of me. There were photographs of close=ups of old men cracking a smile through their dry lips and coffee stained teeth poked through. There were pictures of women standing in open fields with nothing but open blue Argentinian sky behind them. There were also many Cubist=style paintings of naked women, old men with Irish looking hats, and children rosey=cheeked and grinning. I only saw 2 other people in the museum the entire time. boy, I must have caught this thing at the right time. Since it was morning, I suppose the Colombians were still resting their heads from all of the liquor and dancing the night before.

I then headed to the library, which was practically connected to the Museum. I sat down in an fluffy, orange chair, and peeled open an Edgar Allen Poe Collection of short stories. The only catch was that these stories were written in Spanish. Rackin gmy brain for a good hour to get through maybe 3 pages, I was fed up. Not angry, ready to storm out of the library because I had no patience with my flimsey Spanish skills, but moreso a gratification. I had put my time an effort into this language and maybe 30 percent of the text made sense. Then again, it was Edgar Allen Poe. The dude can be difficult to read in English sometimes.

Later that day I met up with a girl named Deisey. She was a friend of an old friend of mine who I knew from high school. She was a local with a great smile. I approached her with one of Santiago"s roomates, Julian. We all made our introductions and soon we were off to two more museums. On the way to the first we appsed through a pigeon filled square known as the BOtero Plaza. Botero was a famous COlombian artist. He was overweight and he loved to paint his subjects like he viewed himself I suppose: overweight. The statues were large and black. The reminded me of human blimps made of stone. There were masses of pigeons everywehere. ALong with the pigeons there was a lot of do=doo. The do=doo happen to be everywhere expect the statues. Hmm.. I suppose they had a professional pigoen=crap cleaner who shined and buffed the overweight statues each morning before crowds of people came to view them.

We entered to museum and I had to use the bathroom. Being in a public place in COlombia and needing to use the bathroom does not mix. I asked a woman where it was, she blabbered something in Spanish, which I understood as, "down below". I got to the door and it was locked. I would have to be a big boy and hold it. Arrgggg...cant these Colombians at least have a bathroom that functions...

There was mostley Picasso and Rembrant in these museums, with a tid bit of Botero. We all stood gawk=eyed slack=gawed at all the great art. Deisey and her friend took lots of pictures. We all had some great laughs. And Im out......

written by  kipmaddog on August 6, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Presently, the parade lasts 9 days. Befote I left for my trip I had no idea I would be in Medellín, during the time of the second largest festival in all of Colombia. On Friday, I headed out to the festival with my fellow comrades. This day happen to be the largest day of the festival. There was a giant parade to be planned in the afternoon. Affter slamming some chicken, arrepas, and potatoes, we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for the festivities to pick off. Oh yeah, today also happened to be Colombias Independence Day. So, in addition to all of the crowds of people that were going to the festival, most of the people in Medellín didnt have work or school. We got off the bus, where the main part of the parade was to take place. Boy, were there herds of people. I happened to be a bit taller than the average Colombian. Therefore, I was able to scout the premises in every location of the parade. I had a birds eye view of the whole damn thing, and the crowds of excited Colombians didnt seem to have an effect on my enjoyment of the parade. We had about 8 people in our group. We found some shade and posted up, waiting for the parade to go by. I thought it over a moment and predicted that this parade would last about 20 minutes.. there would be flotas and maybe some music and that would be that. I was quite wrong. There were people lined on both sides of the streets…thousands….The sound of music began to get closer. People began to chant louder and louder. All of a suden an explosion of Colombian culture came marching down the street. There were old, indigineous men with hand-made wooden crates on their back. These giagantic crates were filled with flowers. It was like they were carrying a small garden on their backs! These giant gardnes must have weighed about 50-80 pounds. SOme of the men must have been at least 75 years old. They were al decaed out in tradicional COlombian apperal. Cowboy looking boots, a weathered cowboy looking hat and a sash thrown over their shoulders. They were struggling along like snails, but they their consistent pace never seemed to come to a halt. Then their were old women warrying gardnes on their back. Hunched over like turtles, the women struggled along, as crowds of people threw flowers into the air and fans ran out from the side-lines to help the old women that were struggling with these giant wooden cates full of flowers. Then there were music parades, with a jazz band first. Then there were herís of beutiful women comino by dressed in bright, sparkly outfits dancing to tradicional salsa music. There were old Colombian cars being driven by, but only on the back 2 wheels. The front 2 wheels happened to be lifted about 5 feet off of the ground so the car was being driven at about a 25 degree angle.. Quite interesting..I guess it was the Colombian system of hydrolics I was whitnessing. Then there were little kids dressed in tradicional COlombian dress. The young girls stuck out the most, wearing cut little red bandannas, a large white dress with flowers stitched down the sides. Then there was a parade of diablos, or devils. Herds of people were dressed in devil-masks, with pointing horns, and a KISS-style tounge coming about 4 inches out of the mask. For the next 3 hours, there was a non-stop parade.

The flower gardens held every color of the rainbow, every shape of plant, and enough nutrients, that they seemed burn your eyes when you looked at them it was like a moment when the sun hits a mirror or a pane of glass and it blinds your eyes…quite the same effect.

The old men and women werent getting paid for their ultra-marathon walk through the streets. Through squinted eyes, the old men and women trecked along, carrying tradition on their backs for all of the young to see. One day it would be the next generations turn. It was like they were carrying an olympic tourch for the next crowd, or the next generation of people to embrace.

First of all COlombians dont relieve in drinking water. I swear, their bodies are built like camels. Every COLombian I happen to be with never drank any water. I would always sem. To get really thirsty during the day, especially during the parade. As I looked around though none of the people were drinking water. When I hapen to order a water from a local vendor an offer it to one of my friends they would always refuse. So, I was the only one drinking water at all times. This meant that I was the only one who needed to go to the bathroom. Since Colombians never drink water, they never need to go to the bathroom. Therefore, there was nly one damn bathroom for the entire parade.

The bathroom story:
2 hours had gone by. I had had to use the bathroom for the past tour, but I didnt want to first of all loose the boys and second of all I didnt want to ditch out to find a bathroom during one of the most important events of the year. 15 more minutes go by and now there are pinds stabbing by bladder. I dont have to sort of go. I need to go right no won this tree or I am going to explode. Thats it I ve had it…I turn to Santiago and say hey man I really got to g oto the bathroom. The whole group of people I am with eras me. They all turn and look at me like I”m an infant crying because I need my pasafier or I need to take a nap because I am cranky. Gosh, I think, to the average COlobian using the bathroom was something you did onec a day, that was it. Santiago seemed a bit irritaed. He didnt want to leave the parade, but he agreed to take me to the bathroom. We got to the bathroom alter a good 25 minute walk. The bathroom was a small gray builing, in the middle of this old, closed parking lot. We got there and got in line venid about 65 people. This bathroom was coed and there were about 4 stalls in this bad boy. That was it. Now, its about 5 oclock. About 50 minutes go by and Santiago and I are towards the front of the line. This bathroom was reeeeeking when we got to the front. We were about 5 people back and I could see into this bathroom now. In the center was like an corporate office style desk with a man sitting venid it. We made small talk with him and he claimed to be the owner of the bathroom. Yet, on the outside of the bathroom it said banos publicos, or public bathrooms. What kina of man wons a damn bathroom I think. I look back and see about 65 more people venid us in line. Santiago makes it in the the bathroom. It is a small building about 15 feet by 20 feet, with 4 stalls. There were two doors to get it in. They looked like 2 garage doors. There was one to enter and one to exit.There were no Windows of any kind. So, if anyone closed the sliding garage-like doors they place would be closed. Just as I am looking at these garage-like doors, the owner gets up from his desk in a hurry an trys to close these doors. He didnt sem. To care that people had been waiting in line for a good tour to use his bathroom, which did i mention, you had to pay him to use it. All of a suden it was like a riot went off. About 40 people venid me rush from venid me like a giant herd of elephants. The owner continues to try to close the door. People push over the owner and evrone trys to crowd into this small building. I mean hey, they didnt want to go poopey on the sidewalk. They were human beings and they needed to use the bathroom. Then it gets aggressive. The owner gets pushed over…people begain to thrown their fists in the air, cursing at this guy. I am the only gringo in here. Shit, I think its over, I am about to be part of a Colombian bathroom riot…its over, the police are comino and im getting jumped. The owner gets trampled by the people. I am uncontrollably pushed into the bathroom. Santiago escapes. One of the doors of the bathroom is violently closed on one side. Then I hear the snap of a lock. I panic. More people push againts me. I cant breath. 50 people are in theis 15 feet by 20 feets room, along with the accumulation of human feces from the day. The owner gets up, old ladies begin cursing at him. Old men make attempts to give the bastard a right hook to the FACE. All of a suden I hear a clic of a lock. One of the doors is locked. Me and 3 guys try to open it..its locked from the outside. Great, now I am guilty by association…get me the heck out of here..im going t odie in here i know it……All of a suden I see 10 police officers through the other door. They rush the door. The owner escapes and all of a suden the other door closes. I hear the snap of a lock. Ooooooooooooooo my gooooooood!!! I am locked in here with 50 violent Colombians. What the heck is this crap??!!! We all start screaming and yelling, pounding on the doors. 10 people on each side make an attempt to open the doors. The cops locked them from the outside though. I panic again. Its been 15 minutes in here. There is seriously enough oxygen in here to las tus maybe another 40 minutes tops. The cops had locked us in here like a bunch of cages animals. Nobody was listening to out cries. Nobody responded to our blood-curdling screams. AN old lady began to cry next to me. 5 more minutes go by. There are so many people in this room I could barely turn my head. 10 more minutes go by and all of a suden somehow someone had busted open one of the doors. I see Light. People begin trampling each other to get out. At this moment I dodnt care what happens. I will trample anything and everything to get out of here. I jump over people..crawl to the floor and like a running back running through defensive line-men I make a break for it. I make it under the 3 foot opening. On the outside their are police officers and Santiago…violently shouting at one to tell them his American friend was locked in there and you guys better open that damn door…or esle!!!!! I see Santiago..i am seriously happy to be alive and we run out of there like a bat out of hell. If I ever saw that bathroom owner again..I wasnt going to go in his stall..I would go right on his FACE…I thought it over and realizad this a-hole was to cause of all the problems. He wanted to close a public bathroom when about 100 people were standing in line to use it. He didnt politely ask peeople to move when he began closing the doors…he just did it and didnt care if one of the doors happen to close on some small child or old lady….comedy……

written by  kipmaddog on August 9, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Anyway, during the first play, the narrator read the story while the other 2 characters acted. The entire play there seemed to be a constant struggle between a woman wanting to avoid this frog and the frog wanting to be with the women. I didnt understand a lot of the Spanish, but it appeared to ¨me as though a prince had been truned into a frog and he was trying to get back with his long lost lover. The only problem was that the woman didnt recognize the frog as her prince charming. The entire play this grown man hopped around, in a ctachers position, saying "ribot". I could just imagine someone at an outing asking this gentleman what he does for a living. Yeah, I"m, a professional frog actor he says....

The next act was a a band playing music behind a woman, who looked like Shakira. The music started cranking and she threw her head back to give the audience her best concept of what goo music should sound like. She put in a good effort, but the music was crap. It reminded me of an 8th grade talent show. After every song the band would dissapear behind the curtain and she would sit in this spakly red, corvette-diner-style chair and tell the audience her best rendition of a humerous cuneto. I figured that this was the wrong place for a wannabe Shakira to be craving attention. She was a good looking girl, but there was nothing that appeared original or well developed. Like i said she had looks, but looks were something people were born with; they weren"t chiseled and dreamnt over like a fine act in a play.

The next act was a Spanish Comedian, performing here in Medellin. He wore dark, loose clothing and appeared to have drank a couple gallons of coffee before he got on stage. As his act prgressed his wirey, Albert-Einstien hair, continued to frizzle out. He was Robin Williams long lost Spanish brother. Within minutes he had the entire audience laughing, excpet me. Well, I wasnt laughing at his language, but his mannerisms. My Spanish has vastly improved in the past month,but when a comedian is vomiting words out of his mouth at the speed of light and an umff of strong Colombian coffee, the jokes slide right by you. What I could laugh at though were his mannerisms. The guy paralleled Charlie Chaplin, but only to me. Charlie didnt need words for people to get his act and this guy was dido. His body was so consumed in mannerisms, that even if I didnt understand a word of his speech, his Charlie Chaplin gestures were able to convey his message.

The next evening I met a friend of mine, Deisey at a seceret documentary premier. We took a cab to a part of town, which I knew I wasnt made for extranjeros, especially someone like me from the United States. I swallowed my fear and pressed on, partly because I knew the parts of town that werent recommended in the tourist books had an untouched aspect of culture that hadnt yet been documeneted in a Loneley Planet or via internet. And also partly because Deisey assured me that she had my back. She was 5 foot one and weighed a hundred and ten pounds though? We got dropped of in front of an faded white building. We were 20 minutes late she told me. Some of the windows were barred up, some with cardboard and some with wood. We entered. Inside, there were about 25 people,including about 5 girls. Everyone was wearing some sort of camoflouge, and they all appeared to be REVOLUTIONARIES from the time of Che Guevera. I walked in and felt like a naked man running through the middle of a pre-school. I was at least 6 inches taller than everyone and my old-faded jeans and white t-shirt appeared to be way too fansy for these people.
Light shot out of projector, onto a wall in a small room. Deisey and I pushed our way to the front, did a quick army crawl, and lay on our backs, ducking so everyone could see over us. We watched the flick from here. The film was done by an indigenious Colombian man who sat 3 people to the right of me. As 25 of us watched his documentary, he filmed our faces,our reactions. His camera continued to pan the audience. Shit, I thought. He would catch my face on tape, show it to his revolutionary boss and I would have a possey of 100 pissed off COlombian rebels with AK-47´s on my ass because I was from the corporate, head hauncho of the world.
Overall, the documentary was quite interesting and contained a lot of rare footage that seemed like quite a task to cover. All in all the film was about the new Colombian president trying to oust and annhilate indigenious culture of COlombia. However, the indegenious were the ones who under SImon BOlivar took their land back from Spain. NOw the new president was trying to not incorporate indegenious farming, crafts, textiles, and general cultural passions into the economy of present day Colombia. On top of this,the indegenious lands were being taking over by corporations wanting rainforest land, and vital natural resources that were on the indegenious land. The main message was, hey COlombia is what is is today because of our fight against Spain and now we are loosing it again to our own people of the higher classes. There were a lot of riots, AK-47"s in the film and justificatory speeches by the current president on how it would be beneficial for the indiegenious to adjust to a new time, a new world order. When I left the showing I felt like I had been to a Seceret Poet´s society meeting that was only advertised by word of mouth. I made it out untouched and definitely acquired a novel experience. Afterall, experience is life´s best teacher. Isn"t this wisdom?

written by  kipmaddog on August 11, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Today, I was at an internet cafe. A gentlmen sits down next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him staring at me, about 3 feet away. I think, "do I have a red dot in the middle of my forehead..." I look away and continue typing. 2 minutes go by and I glance back in his direction. Believe it or not the bugger still isnt satisfied, but he is curiously looking at me like I were from Mars. I look back at him, lock eyes and give him a friendly smile, all the while thinking, "listen dude, what in farfed-nooggens name do you want, huh...." He continued to stare at me like I slept with his wife and he was here to punish me by staring. I continued to type, ignoring this mad-dogger.....

The day began with a BANG: a cup of black coffee, tinto style, and a glass of Maranquilla Juice. After an icy cold shower in the ole apartment, I walked briskly to my usual spot to order some steaming brew. "Uno Cafe", I murmur groggily to the man cressed in all white behind the counter. He fires back, "pequeno or largo". I tell him largo. The large coffes here are twice the size of a minature dixie cup..in other words fricken small man. On top of this they are in a plastic cup. By the time the steaming coffee cools sown to sip, you dont need sugar or cream to give it flavor. Instead you get a taste of platic because the cups they use are for cold water and I dont think they have realized this. Plastic flavored coffee must be the norm. I post up on an old wooden stool at the greasey cafe and wake-up to the flow of mornign pedestrains walking the streets, mostly buisnessmen and college kids. I then get the urge for a Vitamin C boost to start the day off right. I order some Maranquilla Juice. Maranquilla is a fruit and it home to Colombia. It"s round and yellow, like a lemon. Only, this fruit is not pourous, but smooth like supple skin. On top of this, the fruit is light as heck, so upon first lif, it appears as though you were ripped off. the fruit seems hollow. NO, in fact this is just an illusion. You werent ripped off, the fruit is just light. Yu slice it open and inside are about 200 large looking tomatoes seeds. The man behind the counter scoops these seends out and slaphes them into a blender full of ice, a spponful of sugar and about 4 ounces of milk. He hits, blend, 60 seconds go by and the then poors the mixture through a strainer to get the seeds out. SHABAM, you get Morning Glory in a glass. Nothing like an extra step in you stride, hey. The final product is a mixture of flavors between mango and orange, with an ectra ounch of tangy citrus to top it off.

After fueling up, I was off on a solo mission through the city for the day. i didnt have to teach English today, I was well rested, and on top of all this there were a whole lot of bored Colombian street vedores waiting for my foreign presence. I was off to first find this independent theater that played a bunch of rare, international flicks in Spanish. This would give me an opportunity to view an artsy, tru-cinematic masterpiece, and a chance to sprinkle a bit more Spanish into my memory.

After getting hit by a taxi, getting lost, and sweating through my shoes, I made it to the theater. Back-tracking, the taxi hit and run wasnt so bad. I was walking on the edge of the sidewalk, on a narrow street and BAM, I feel ike someone hit me with a hammer in the hip. A yellow side mirror explodes into a mist of plastic and metal. The frantic bastard keeps driving his one-mirrored taxi. The pain wasnt so bad, nothing a couple beers couldnt fix. It was moreso the suprise factor and the fact that the damn guy didnt have the courtesey to stop. It was as though it was part of his regular routine: hitting pedestrains and speeding away. I bet he had about 50 replacement mirrors under his cheap, fake leather seats. He"d loose another mirror tomorrow, speed off and pull out a replacement as though nothing really ever happened.

When I got to the theater I tried to walk in and a man stopped me, askin gme what the heck I was doing in English. I"m going to see a flick, I tell him. He then goes into this question-filled tirade about waht movie I wanted to see, what time, why, and what was I doin gin this part of town? I assume he didnt encounter too many Gringos. I was going to see Che Argentinio at 4 pm. It was now 2 pm, so I had about 2 hours to kill. I did some writing in a cafe and then strolled the streets passing: six foot three prostitutes hissing at me like snakes ( which you couldnt tell if they were male or female), old men wavin sheap electronics in my face, leathered faces crawling the sidewalks for losse change and bread crumbs, other old men gathered on street corners sipping strong brew....

I made it back to the theater at 4. The only other person in the theater was an old women. This was the solace I needed: fresh air-conditioned, breathable air and a place to rest my tired bones. The flick was inspiring and at times almost tear-jerking. Men will fight through hell based on a principle some will never come to except. All-in-all, there was quite a bit of goofey looking facial hair, silver-stared Marxist caps, and beautiful jungle terrain.

Later that night I met a friend for some arepas, a sweet-corn, pancake-like bread with thick gooey cheese spread over the top. Its was high in calories and just what I needed. Before we ate I sat at Parque Barrio station to wait for my felow compardreia. I"m sitting there 25 steps up from this large public square. Ten minutes go by. There are about 100 people down there: ventrlioquists, magicians, bums, cops, 14 year old girls half-naked in skimpy tube-tops, and me. the steps I was sitting on only had about 5 other people spread out across them. About 50 yards away I see this kid, he had to have been maybe 17 years old. I looked over in this guys direction because I had an inkling he was a bit of a mad-dogger. I was quite right. He was parting the crowd with his stare, which was directly on me. The kid happened to be decked out in all camaflouge, high, shiny black boots, and an AK47 strapped over his shoulder. He looked like he was part of the Colombian National Guard. He continues to stare at me like I am Pablo Escobar"s son (Pablo Escobar was the head hauncho of of the largest cocaine production organization in the entire world. At the time Pablo was in power in the drug world, Colombia was responsible for 85 percent of the worlds cocaine. He is now dead. Medellin is the city in which he was found and shot to death). Anyway, this kid is about five foot five with a chip on his shoulder. I coninue to stare back at him. If this kid has a problem he can come and talk to me about it. I was simply sitting innocently on public steps waiting for a friend at 8 oclock at night. He makes his way through the crowd and walks towards me, maddogging me the whole way. When hes 10 feet away 10 stairs down, I look away like I just happened to be panning the crowd with my stare. Side-tracking, some of my friends here call me the Pakistani or the Isreali. Apparently to these Colombians, I look like I"m from the Middle East. Wow, thats great...racial profiling in action. Maybe he thinks Im a terrorist I think..ha! He walks up to me and is standing directly over me. He asks me how old I am. I tell him 23 and my b-day is in 2 weeks. Maybe he wants to celebrate. He then grabs my small bag I have with me, he searches it for about 5 minutes, shaking my writing pens and flipping through the pages of my spanish-english translator. He finished tells me to stand up and asks me where Im from and what Im doing here. I was pissed off at this point beacause I happen to be the only one he was harrassing from what I could see. I throw out my smart-ass comment and tell him the most obvious answer "estoy sentado" (or sitting down...what does it look like im doing dude?). He then searches me, from my shoulders to my ankels, including the comforting twig and berries pat pat! He finishes and asks me for my documents. I had him a wadded up ball that was the copy of my passport, which I had stuffed in my pocket. He looked a little frustrated that he had to unravel the paper. He looks at it, gives a little yelp, smirks, and hands it back to me. He then says absolutley nothing and walks away slowly, searching nobody else as he walked away. I figuered he was on a total power trip trying to excercise his "power" on someone who happened to be curiously looking in his direction. He seemed bummed he couldnt pin anything on me. Ha, tough pickens youngster....

written by  kipmaddog on August 13, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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