Calí II

I´m almost ashamed to say I´ve been there. It was a two day stop-over. I feel like one of those backpackers starting every sentence with “I´ve done…” and then follows a long list of countrys in fourteen days. Chasing names only for the papertrail. Experience that goes skin-deep, put Nicaragua on like a deodorant and it´s washed off and replaced with Panama.


We never cross the big bad rowdy Calle 5 during our two day visit here. On the other side is Avenue Sixta with its giant Salsotecs. On our side is Parque Del Perro, a small patch of green surrounded by bars and restaurants. As darkness falls, locals mill on the curb outside a couple of hole-in-the-walls. Salsa-music blaring. Green laserbeams from one of the more epileptic establishments cutting through the night.

At our hostel, Café Tostaky, I meet a vital, 70 year old man. He´s been here there everywhere. He seems nice.

In order to protect his identity I´ve changed his name to: Bertrand. Because the second time I meet him he falls into a lucid rant about goverments across the globe conspiring against him. He can´t give me specifics, but he´s been the subject of at least two attempted murders.

When we´re leaving the hostel for some dinner, we say “see you later”, and he says: “If I´m still alive.”

Well, now we´ve done Calí. Check.


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