Sore Feet and Drunk Drivers

Remember that time I ended my blog on a positive? Haha. That was funny. Because the very next day I left the strange alternate universe of the millionaire compound, and entered real life, where everything always goes wrong.

I had decided to take a night bus to Medellìn because I thought if I was going to spend 8 hours in a bus, it may as well be whilst I slept. I spent my morning preparing substandard crafts and checking my 11 twitter followers, with the occasional look at travel options. Whilst perusing I came across a DON'T TRAVEL AT NIGHT thread, which led to full on hysteria. I was faced with the dilemma of prolonging my trip yet again, or sucking it up. Or wait. There was a third option. I could leave RIGHT NOW. So obviously that's what I did. I made the decision, and then ten minutes later I was gone, in a flurry of glitter glue and unread Spanish textbooks. There were no tears from either side, but that may be because I left 46 of my 50 kg backpack there to be collected before Mexico, so we will see each other again.

The bus journey to El Terminal (yes it does make it confusing just calling A terminal-one of many- THE terminal, but who am I to judge) is bizarrely complicated. There was no information online, and for some reason none of the staff at the Northern terminal knew.

Luckily I had my trusty friend Eduardo (who may now regret giving me his number after receiving inane requests day and night ever since) and he gave me very comprehensive instructions.

They involved three changes, a long wait and a scamper through the streets. This could have been fine as my backpack is a mere whisp of a thing and the buses are comprehensive, but of course it wasn't through circumstances which were wholly my own doing.

Instead of being a breezy two hour journey from Chia to the south of Bogota, it became an endurance test of utter agony because of a pair of stupid shoes I bought last week. They are far too small for me, and ugly to boot, but Claudia told me they were too small, so of course I had to buy them.  I hoped wearing them around the house would stretch them but alas no, and my feet now resemble small newborn piglets who have been tossed onto a coral reef.

I grimaced my way through the bus changes and the brisk walk with a nice lady who showed me the way, but by the time I hirpled into the bus station I was bleeding profusely and beyond furious at myself and the world in general.  Obviously the station was enormous, and instead of asking for help I wandered its length three times before finding the right stand. My bus was $35 not $20 because it had air con, wifi and films.  I didn't care at this point and took what I was offered. Later I would regret this, as I shivered on my seat whilst watching dubbed films in Spanish, and not using the non-functioning wifi.

Anyway, the lass at reception said that the bus would take 8 hours, as confirmed by lonely planet (my old friend) so, whilst aware this would take me in at about 10pm, I thought that would still be ok.

3 dubbed Harry Potters, and several chapters of bloody boring old Kafka later, we rolled into Medellin. All well and good, except it was 1.30am in the morning, I didn't have my Colombian phone any more and my malfunctioning uk number iPhone had deleted the email with my hostel details.

Medellin is a lot safer now. It's come on leaps and bounds since ole Pablo bit the dust, but it's still no Baltasound.

I was pretty feeble on the courage front to say the least, particularly as the station was full of about a thousand male eyes, and they were all looking at me in that special Latin way (except the ones who were looking at me because I was a shiny, hideous, dirty mess and had biscuit crumbs over my face but never mind those.).

I asked the 12 year old smoking a fag at his empanada stall where the taxis were, and scuttled down to the main road.

There were about 724828 taxi drivers, and I chose one with a nice face. I should have probably, knowing me, picked the one who radiated serial killer the most, but what ho. What followed has made it into the top ten most stressful encounters of my life, and I am DEFINITELY learning the language before I ever go and live in another country again. 

We set off from the terminal and I give him a garbled version of the address. I instantly twig he's not the sharpest tool in the box, but rightly concede that  he may not be the only one in the taxi to bear that description.  He doesn't know the hostel but the address seems to ring bells ok so figure that it will be fine. Vaguely concerned at this stage that the iPhone has deleted my email, but also quite smug that I took precaution of writing down the address. Ten minutes later we arrive in the street. It doesn't seem to be there, but that's ok because he doesn't seem worried and starts to do another lap.

By this point I can smell alcohol in the taxi, quite strongly, and I also become aware that there are quite a lot of people rolling about the road in the area. They seem to all be having quite a horrible time, but I'm ashamed to say this does not stop me locking my door and rolling up my widow. I considered how much the driver had had to drink, and weighed up the pros and cons of getting out. Old beer head seemed marginally preferable to the man wandering about with no trousers on outside the car, so I decided to wait it out.

1 hour of driving around the block, I was starting to have an extreme (if at this stage internal) reaction. Particularly as beer head kept saying he wanted to go home. I think, to his mams dinner but I can't be sure because I DON'T SPEAK SPANISH. He was really complaining about the invisible hostel, and kept shouting PUTA, which is very rude.  To give him his due, he did ask for the phone number (which I obviously didn't take note of) and if I had a friend to call for help, but after establishing early on that I had neither of these things, he didn't need to keep droning on quite so much.

By the time he took me to a house party (I kid you not) and asked in a hopeful voice if it was "aquí?", I was seriously freaked. I was so freaked out I actually considered going into said party but then I realised the only thing worse than being dead would be arriving at what was clearly a cool party, like a tragic, friendless loser.


It was nearly 3am by this stage, so phoning my few Colombian acquaintances seemed the last option. Instead I phoned Gillian M Fergie. I am fortunate in my life to have a lot of really good female pals, and to pick a favorite is nigh on impossible. However, Gillian is certainly one who has a special place in my heart. Partly because she is an beautiful, kind and wonderful person, but also because she looks after me in a way that no functioning adult should ever have to be looked after. Some examples;

1.Writing the reference bibliography to my dissertation at university, at 6 am on the day of my hand in, whilst I cried on the floor, garbling incoherently about the rape scene in Narnia.  (No you didn't miss that chapter, I was merely a student of English Literature, and quite keen on the feminist polemic.)

2.Assuming my identity in order to find out what has happened to my visa/bank account/phone bill/ relationship, whilst I was hysterically rolling on the floor and probably still babbling about the rape scene in Narnia.

3. Filled out job applications, student loan forms and council tax claims, when my sheer laziness and ineptitude meant I hadn't and was now unable, due to being abroad, stuffing my face, and looking at temples....

The list in infinite but probably is just about to get a bit embarrassing for the poor sap.  Anyway, I couldn't call my mum (?!) so I called Gillian, got her to send the phone number and some alternative hostels in the area.  The driver point blank refused to take me to another hostel saying he didn't want to as he was hungry(?!?!) but he did agree to call the hostel I had booked. Ten minutes of using my UK phone in order to call a building presumably less than 200 metres from where we were, and we still couldn't find it.

He had by that point stopped at least 14 other people and nobody knew where it was. Then, after asking another glass eyed stranger two things happened at once.  I finally started to cry, and simultaneously out of the gloom, came a beautiful, waving, lovely boy with an umbrella.  We had driven past the hostel at least 30 times, as despite the fact the hostel is signed, this sign is approximately the size of a child's hand, in roughly the same colour as the wall it's painted on.

Anyway...old smash head got to go back to his mum and I got to lurch out hysterically into the arms of small boy with brolly. I even TIPPED the drunk, because I was so relieved, and there is something wrong with me.  PWs mam asked if I got his number so I can make a complaint, but any alleged outrage would be deemed slightly inconsistent in court, were it discovered I gave a 25% tip....