Kieran goes drinking, hilarity ensues...

In this fabulous installment, your intrepid traveller finds himself in an early morning predicament. Hardly able to digest the surreal situation he finds himself in, he recalls the unlikely chain of events that led to this moment: being padded down by a Colombian military unit, in a strip bar, at 1am, while having a few quiet drinks with an Israeli and a mute maid from his hostel...

Gun

Things always seem to start innocently enough. After a lazy day filled with beaches and a rather disappointing "Indigenous Cultural Fair", I sat down with the Israeli bloke "Phil" (not his real name, to protect the innocent) to fire up his mobile hookah kit - as was our daily ritual. Before long we were once again reflecting on another day of doing not very much, and entertaining lofty ambitions involving the fabled "going out" and "doing stuff" - hopefully involving beer.

11:00pm - After using the hostel fridge to gain an early head start, the wheels were well in motion, with only destination to be decided. Being a Sunday, we were painfully aware that every clown closes up shop for the day, and goods and services come at a premium. Still hopeful that our regular haunt "La Puerta" (The Door) would be open, we asked around for confirmation of this before willing to commit to the 5-or-so minute strenuous walk. Enter the mute maid - who by means of a smattering of hand gestures, gyrations and grunts - somehow gets her message across to "David" (his real name, none of us are innocent) that La Puerta was in fact closed. Rightfully searching for a second opinion, the general consensus at the hostel is that it should damn well be open if they know what's good for them! So we prepared our A-Game and hit the streets.

11:30pm - In between leaping the festering streams of sewage that call the streets their home, I sensed we were being followed. How intriguing, it was the mute maid (MM). It was soon revealed that MM was following us all the way to La Puerta simply to rub it in our faces when we saw it was closed - which it was. Well, let's just say she had a good old chuckle about it all. Assuming that was that, we took it in our stride and contemplated Plan B. With a bar always just around the corner we thanked MM for all the fish and headed off.

She wasn't getting the idea - she was following us. Oh well, harmless enough, surely she won't come into this strip bar. Oh, yes she will. David comments that the strip bar is shit as a direct result of the lack of stripping going on. I agree. MM orders 3 beers and points to us to handle the payments. David and I exchange similar glances of disbelief. MM then proceeds to poke her tongue out and make obscene hand gestures toward any girl happening to stray to our part of the bar. A special mention goes to our favourite, "the devil's horns". We start to think MM is smashed, and possibly an alcoholic. We buy her two beers on the proviso that she would then be cut off and go home. Things don't look hopeful when she orders a bottle of rum, but I manage to cut off the delivery and make it clear to the barchick that we were no longer responsible for MM's drinks.

01:00am - The DJ kills the soundtrack as five armed military soldiers storm into the bar. It seems the locals know the drill - girls migrate towards the bar, and blokes "assume the position" against the closest wall. David and I are having a chuckle, and are padded down as we exchange gags. The soldier is far less thorough than the Stuttgart Fan Fest security guards, but I'm aroused nonetheless. Against my advice, David pursues discussion with one of the soldiers as to how he may be incorrectly handling his Israeli-made rifle. Luckily David's Spanish skills are rubbish, so he is spared a blow to the head with a rifle butt. One patron is getting some extra attention, possibly due to his terrible haircut, but the soldiers are soon satisfied and leave. I bid them "buenas noches" (good night), and earn a hint of a grin as the music kicks in and life goes on.

02:00am - Situation critical. MM is still hanging around even after we cut off her booze supply, and much to my amusement has begun pawing at David and putting her hand on his leg. The fits of laughter make it difficult to balance on my bar stool. At this stage David appears proficient in sign language, so his lack of Spanish and her lack of English seems irrelevant. It is a beautiful thing. David pleads for help - the emotional strain clearly showing. We start with the oldest trick in the book: he leaves, I tell her he's gone home. She's played this game before, and waits the 5mins before having a good hearty laugh when David returns with tail between his legs. Next trick: harsh but fair. We synchronise serious faces as David points fingers and tells her to bugger off home. She's not budging. In a stroke of genius David adlibs by grabbing one of the working girls and taking her to the dancefloor. Finally there is a crack in MM's composure as the green-eyed monster takes a stranglehold. She makes a totally misguided attempt to pick up the next bloke to walk past, but he recoils in confusion and horror, triggering her final and dramatic march out of the bar. High fives clap like thunder around the bar. The girl, David's saviour, salutes the first of many gratis (free) beers with us.

03:00am - Not thinking any further hi jinx was possible, we were totally unprepared for a visit from Terrence the sickeningly bubbly Californian history teacher. To be fair Terrence wasn't a bad bloke, but David looked decidedly drained from the night's events so I shouldered the burden of small talk. This bloke was totally blind, and asked the same questions over and over. He then made a slip-up by uttering the immortal words: "You can call me 'T'". I am not shitting you - his exact words. I spent the rest of the night calling him anything BUT 'T'. Tee-Pee, T-Bone, Tea Cup, Tea Bag, Tea Tree etc...

04:00am - The bar closes, but T-Shirt wants to kick on thanks to the couple of grams of Colombia's finest coursing through his body. Apparently a gram is US$4, and 95% pure. David looks like death warmed up, so takes his leave and heads for the shitty lumpy mattresses of home. T-Ball is starting to concern me with his arm around me, unrelenting comments on how much he likes my shirt, and how much he "loves ossies". Everything being "arssome" is also wearing thin. The next bar (the only one open) was well positioned roughly 30m away. It had no signs outside - instead relying on the unmistakable grumble of bass and quest for a drink to lure in punters. We sat at a strangely empty table, then turned to find a couple of uniformed policemen sitting down the other end. Within about 5 seconds of sitting down some joker comes up and offers me cocaine. I throw a questioning glance towards the cops, but they're nonplussed and obviously paid off. I politely decline the offer all the same.

05:00am - T-Bird is going ballistic. I wonder why I let him continue drinking. He orders a bottle of rum for 35,000 pesos without my counsel, which prompts me to declare bankruptcy as I enter the contents of my pockets on the table. For that sort of money I could have had a few beers to myself, rather than some shitty rum that was more than likely to disappear down the throats of any girls who asked. Sure enough we did shots with a couple of girls, and sure enough the rum was shithouse. The finer points of Cuban/Venezuelan rum were lost on these people, so I explained it in simple terms of hangovers. I go for a piss, but the men's seems to be just a tiled room where you just aim at a wall and go for it. Not a place for faint hearts or bare feet, and my thongs were not faring great either. A girl followed me in to watch, but I assured her I didn't need any moral support.

Just as the bottle has dried up, another one hits the table and T-Bone cracks it open. I remind a surprised-looking face of the fact I have zero pesos, and I sense bad news. Sure enough, he claims to be unable to pay and proposes I go (half cut) back to my room, get my credit card and then go withdraw money at 5:30am in Colombia. I tell him to kindly fuck himself, and begin to rise for my exit - not only did I see his wad of cash, but I was content that he had ordered the extra bottle so he could pay for it. Naturally he stopped me, and declared he had found some money in another pocket. What a surprise. Even more surprising? Another bottle appears on the table, he pays for it, and then he leaves with some average-looking girl who had been warming his lap for an hour or so. Stuck with two bottles of shitty rum, alone in a bar at 6:00am was not part of the plan, but it didn't exactly take much effort to assemble a panel of "friends" to help me polish off the rum.