He stumbled into the bathroom after his rude awakening from the alarm. The flurry of hair gave him the appearance of Slash, he even had the t-shirt. His beard was scruffier than what he had realised. He's once strong shoulders & firm mid-section was something of the past, like that distant dream you try to recall but can't. His eyes were bloodshot from a late night on the terrace & his skin tone had changed a few shades. Too many days in the sun. 'Damn I'm tired.' He muttered in a voice more gravelled than before. That's all he could muster between the clearing of his throat from a night of Marlboro blanco's. His only joy came from the single room he slept in. 'Onward & upward.' His body may have changed, but his mind's compass was still set on one place, South. He arrived in Turbo after a quick sojourn in Capurgana. The first port of call in Colombia, Capurgana was where you got your passport stamped on entry & would be where he would say goodbye to the guys from the 'Desdomona.' After a 2hr speed boat ride from Capurgana he reached the mainland & Turbo. Most people would leave immediately. There's not much to see in places like Turbo. He enjoyed those places. The smell of rotting food, the sight of decaying boats, the sense of unease, the streams of polluted water flowing down the streets. The madness on the streets he had only seen with last minute Christmas shoppers 5min before the shops close on Christmas Eve. He somehow saw the charm in this place. Countries ain't all 'rainbows & butterflies.' There's the real people & places as well. He stayed the afternoon to walk the streets. His demeanor & appearance allowed him to blend in. Allowed him to be there, but not. Anonymity is underrated. He basked in his ghostly presence, he was in his element. He found a cheap hotel just off the main street. The stairs made painfull aching sounds, like the sounds of the old work horses that dominated the Turbo landscape. The room's walls were covered in blank patches where paint had once resided. Those days were long gone though. He didn't mind. It was cheap & had a soft bed, that's all that mattered. The fact that there were 'trade workers' at the front desk also didn't bother him. There conversions would be surprisingly refreshing later in the evening. He didn't seek out there company, but as the only thing on his t.v was a black screen, there tales of interesting clientele proved good entertainment. Who needs HBO. Business was slow, so he sat on the terrace listening them well past the witching hour. As tired as his body was, his mind was fresh & excited for the new day ahead. Rain had fell the night before & caressed the streets with cool air. 'Leave now before the madness resumes.' Medellin layed in wait. Once a major exporter of gold & still presently coffee, it's main claim to fame was for something much stronger than coffee & at one point more valuable than gold. 'Old slow hand' famously mused about it, it caused the destruction of millions of lives & made one man from Medellin one of the most powerfull men in the world. 'She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; COCAINE. Coke, blow, nose-candy, yayo, jack up, jelly beans, c, flake & charlie, are just some of the names to describe the white powder obtained from the leaves of the coca plant. In the 80's & 90's Medellin became infamous as the Drug capital of the world & the one man who ruled this world was Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria. Drug lord of the Medellin cartel, the city at one point supplied 70% of the world's cocaine supply. So if you ever used it back the 90's, it probably came from here. 'El Patron,' was once listed as 7th on Forbes rich list. Robin Hood to some, a murderous thug to others, he once famously said, ' sometimes I am God, if I say someone dies they die the same day.' In the early nineties he tried to prove that fact. In 1991 the violent murder rate was over 20 000. After his death in 1993, Medellin made a concerted effort to shake off that tag.
The scene of 'El Patron's' last stand
Before he became 'The Accountant.'
After hours on the road from Turbo, He arrived at 'Hostel Pit Stop.' Situated in the Poblado district in Medellin, it had a real party feel about it. It would no disappoint. Crazy Irish & Australians made early nights impossible. The hostel would gain the nickname, 'The Compound.' Since nobody ever left it, EVER. He did make time to go on the Escobar tour to meet Roberto Escobar, Pablo's brother. He even got the chance to do a five min interview with the man labelled 'The Accountant.' Five days flew by & Cali was calling. Famous for it's Salsateca venues, he would give the famous dance a go. 'It would be rude not too.' He had been called many names in his life, 'someone with rhythm,' was not one of them. He found himself in a place filled with would-be salsa champs. The hostel even offered free salsa & yoga classes. It also had a make shift gym. His body hadn't felt the strain of weights on it in a while. He would give the Salsateca a good crack. He reached the venue which seemed to be a resort by day, at round 11pm. The place was heaving with the passion of sweating bodies closely held to one another. The pro's glided elegantly across the floor like swans across a glass like lake. There movement was truly art in motion. He didn't feel intimidated by the poetry before him. He felt strangely confident. The poetry & art he had witnessed was as far removed from what he would display to the audience as possible. It didn't matter one bit though. 'Never die wondering.' He had as good a time as could be imagined. The next morning would prove his final in Colombia. He climbed into the weights once more. Another strange feeling swept across his body. The feeling of pain screaming through his muscles, 'I haven't heard that in a while.' He welcomed the pain. It was comforting, it reminded him of how things use to be. Before the flurry of hair, before the scruffy beard, before the hoarse voice from a night's of Malboro's & 'trade workers.'
Until that day ...
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