THE LOCALS ARE PAINTING MY NAME ON THE ROADS

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A whirlwind tour of Colombian vice, thanks to new friends. An evening express fueled by $6 Red Bulls and the national beverage. Stops at the local house of ill-repute, an after-hours dance club drunkenly swaggering to the driving beat of the national bump & grind, a poorly-stocked after-after-hours speakeasy staffed by a man who sleeps in his shed-housed establishment, La Policia Nacional shuffling our ragtag band of aguardiente-wielding miscreants down the avenue like curling players sweeping the ice with assault rifles, sidewalk liberation of a compatriot bereft of his cell-phone by an enterprising candyman, with the line’s terminus at its origin, vistas of the rising sun shared with the fellow detritus of the evening.  

Four hours of slumber, and cobbled together is a short cockpit ditty, inspired by a day half-consumed by the brutality of an evening prior. 

Posted at 3:54pm and tagged with: aguardiente, caldas, caspian, colombia, cycling, manizales, reggaeton, video,.

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