Mompos

T (the Dutch guy I have been travelling with for a few days) and I were standing in the corner store near La Casa Amarilla about to pay for our Mango Hits(fruity drink) when the power went out. Little screams rose up from the crowds in the streets practicing for Semana Santa. We used light from the one working headlight on a moped idling in the street and a store flashlight to find the proper coins and pay for the drinks.

“You wanted to punch someone in the face in your lifetime?” I joked, “well here’s your chance, we’re probably going to get mugged” as we step into the dark toward the hostel.

We stopped in the street and took a quick video to take in the complete darkness. In the streets the only light came from a few more mopeds, I noticed the store we were in now has a back up generator running.

Two uneventful minutes later the power returns and we arrive at our hostel. The night security guard has locked the door again and left his post so we stand impatiently, waiting for the guy to do his only job and let us in.

Earlier in the day or maybe it was the night before a sweet elderly couple joined the small “crowd” in La Casa, now our total gringo population reached 6. As we walk towards our rooms and the kitchen I see everyone is showing their serious faces, with their hands planted on their hips.

The older Canadian lady looks to be in shock of some kind, standing awkwardly and staring outward at us. As we get closer I can see red dripping from her face down her neck onto her chest soaking her white v-neck.

Did someone fall down the stairs when the power went out?

“Some asshole threw a mother fucking rock at my wife. If I get my hands on that son of a bitch I’ll fucking kill him” growls the mild mannered man that had an air of sophistication about him earlier in the day.

“Who the fuck does that?” politely asks the older woman, bleeding all over herself. “They threw a fucking boulder at me”.

The night worker comes down from the terrace overlooking the busy plaza outside with a chunk of cement larger than most grapefruit in hand. In unintelligible Spanish complete with numerous shrugs he appears to tell us his breakdown of the situation.

“You should call Richard, have you called him yet?” Asks another man we were traveling with. Richard is the British travel journalist who owns this place, he bounces back and forth to Bogota and is not in Mompos tonight. The night worker says some more bullshit about not being able to reach Richard but has not shown much effort in trying.

A few minutes after T(acting as Spanish interpreter) and the Canadians left for the hospital the police arrived. They glanced at the boulder and went up the stairs to see the blood on the stairs leading up to the terrace.




She has just returned from the hospital now, feeling a little light and giggly from a shot in the ass. We’re not sure what was in the cocktail but the painkillers are clearly working. After many more “fucks” her attitude is positive and she made it clear she was not going to let this incident ruin her image of Colombia. We’re all sitting around the kitchen exchanging favorite audiobooks and movies, smiling and chatting, it is incredible to think someone could have died in the hostel tonight.