Leaving Bogota

I´ve got First Aid Kits “Emmylou” in my earphones singing about being their “…Graham and Johnny too…” while me and the busdriver are almost the only ones still awake as the Colombian night grows deeper and more tropical. A gang of raggedy mixed breeds blare into our headlights as we´re entering a roadside village, facing the driver down, forcing him to slow almost to a halt before they reluctantly stroll out of the way.

The sleepy sisters, M&A, covered their eyes and drifted away even before the screening of “Fast and the furious 5” was over; the monitor went black halfway through but they still played it out, audio only, movie theater volume: tires screeching, guns blasting, deep, dark male voices grunting, female voices going “Oh my god your shot! That´s so hot! I love you! Now fuck me!”

But now it´s just me and the night. A touch of magic realism. We make a stop at a roadside café. Bright lights over plastic furniture. Although there´s no-one there, the drivers still use their VIP-table reserved in the corner.

It´s warm and humid. Crickets scratching their legs together. “Emmylou” ends and Tom Waits comes on with a throat full of shattered glass.

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