Save all your pennies in a grey ceramic pig. Sell all your shit to get on a plane, so you can fly away. Pretend to be gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and married (not that there’s anything wrong with that either) so you can get free international health coverage on a your friend’s Visa Infinite credit card. You’ll do some wild things for/with your best friends. Things like strapping yourself into a metal tube 30 000 feet in the air and flying 5000 miles to a third world country. A third world country that used to have a serious drug habit. A third world country that’s basically been in a civil war for 60 years. A third world country that people are fleeing to come to Canada for. A third world country with 1st world problems. A third world country with very real third world problems.
It’s 5:00 AM at YYZ. My travel companion, who from here on in will be referred to as my Accountant, connects to the free Wi-Fi, and immediately goes to Tinder…just in case, you know. He makes the location radius as low as possible…likely within a couple gates of our current location. He needs the maximum amount of hook up potential…because, it’s gonna be a five hour flight and the mile high club won’t join itself. There is a match almost instantly. It may or may not be the girl passed out next to us at this airport bar. Or the even cuter girl behind us ordering a coffee. She’s asking for extra cream, but just a single serving. A single serving cream, for a single serving girlfriend? This is what my Accountant does with his downtime, and I couldn’t be more excited to fly halfway around the globe at 30 000 feet in that metal tube with a liquor license to a third world country with him. He shares a Coca-Cola with Amir. Somewhere in the world, there’s a kid named Amir who’s pissed someone is drinking a shitty bottle of Coca-Cola with his name on it and not taking a picture of it.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t be more excited to read this Rolling Stone with Katy Perry on the cover.
Our flight was five hours, give or take. Our in-flight breakfast consisted of microwaved Air Canada pancakes and free Air Canada beers. I’ve never been a fan of drinking heavily on a plane, cause I’m terrified of hitting turbulence whilst taking one of what surely would be many a drunk piss in an airplane lavatory, but what the hell, I’M ON VACATION!!. I promised myself another couple for the flight home. We landed, almost flawlessly. BOG is surrounded by farmers’ fields. Thus far, our views from the plane certainly don’t match up with the buildings, barrios and bridges this 8 Million plus population city allegedly has. On the ground, my customs lady didn’t speak a word of English. I could have had pounds of contraband maple syrup, fruits and vegetables in my ass, and she would have had no idea. Who am I kidding? I don’t even look remotely tough enough to smuggle anything. The real point here is, Mr. & Mr.Salt were finally on the ground in Bogota, Colombia.
My Translator, who from here on in will be referred to as my Translator picked us up in a cherry 2006 Renault Twingo.
I am in no way complaining about this car. The city is your playground in the 2006 Renault Twingo. A small car with bags of personality and innovative technology to match. Come see what makes the Twingo the high-performance automobile you’ve been dreaming of at your local Renault dealer today.
We’re out of the airport, and into the streets of Bogota. There’s traffic, and there’s a fuck ton of it. My Translator tells me to get used to it…it’s going to be a serious part of our lives while we’re here.
3 of the 5 vehicles in this photo are touching, cause they’re all so god-damned impatient.
There’s a lot of smoke coming from the mountains. It looks like they’re on fire. It’s a thing that happens here, and apparently it happens quite often. The whole city smells like a campfire as a result. But not a good campfire smell. The kind of campfire where you’ve been burning your garbage all day. Our first stop was the much anticipated, often duplicated, rarely imitated Burger King Lounge. It wasn’t as good as I expected, but I really don’t know what I was expecting.
The Salsa de Tomate or ‘Ketchup‘ as the proles would call it, is awful here. This could prove to be a problem for the next 10 days. This Burger King is also our first introduction to what a terrible service system South America has. Place your order, get a receipt with a number (that means absolutely nothing) Then, wait around near the food counter (but not in an actual queue of course) and hope someone else doesn’t snake your order.
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We hit the tourist district the first night in Bogota, because that’s what you do when you’re a tourist…we’ll need to get that out of the way. Bogota Beer Company. Decent beers at fair prices with terrible service. If I was making pesos/day, I’d be a terrible server too. Bogota girls seem to love rich white guys. Luckily, I am neither rich, nor white, so they virtually ignore me. No problems there. If you speak English out loud, you’re either making yourself a target to be hit on, or a target to get robbed later before you get into a cab. Either way, fu-uun! I should clarify, when I say ‘Bogota girls love us‘ I’m specifically referring to ‘Drunk Bogota girls on the BBC patio love us‘ I had to explain how far Edmonton was from Toronto which, if you own a globe and aren’t afraid of books, you’ll know is obviously far. So, obviously, I don’t know her friend from Edmonton, and have never seen her around. I don’t think she understood. Her man-friend was pissed. Whether at us, or at her, I’m not sure. Pretty sure he wasn’t gonna get any that night anyway. We were on the this patio for a while, until we ran out of cigarettes and pesos. The patio was cleared by the time we left. We were probably there longer than we should have been.
For a few days, we’re crashing in a small, dark room with a view on Calle 140.
We’ve only previously seen the inside of this room whilst drunk, via Facetime. There are several computers and several guitars strewn about the room. It’s almost as if a graphic design student/musician lives here. It’s dark, due to the dark curtains (duh), so the shitty Facetime quality suddenly makes sense. Here I was blaming the South American tech infrastructure the whole time. Shame on me. Our bed is harder than a white gangster, and smaller than a white gangster. This city is loud as fuck at night (This city is loud as fuck in the day time). Though, at night, it’s 60% city noise, 40% my Accountants iPhone vibrating on a hard surface from the Tinder match notifications. He’s now increased his radius to encompass most of the city. Except the rough parts. I hope.
There’s fresh avocado stands on every corner (sometimes two) Drunk post bar food consists of arepas, fried cheese and anything else that you could possibly smear guacamole on. Oh yeah…there are also buckets for used toilet paper in all the bathrooms, because the plumbing can’t handle the toilet paper. That’s right. In every single bathroom in the continent, there’s a bucket, filled with used toilet paper. Imagine the hottest girl you’ve ever met. Imagine going to her place, using the bathroom, and just seeing a bucket, that you know is filled with her poop.
Sometimes, I feel so sheltered.
Bury Me In Vans 
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