Bogota. I didn't anticipate being spattered with fake blood and being granted the privilege of creeping around 15-foot concrete walls, pretending I've just gone ballistic and murdered my corporate office comrades. What started as a practical visit to a new city to get my bike cleaned up unraveled into a tangle of crazy experiences and yet more friendships.
The city itself is seductive as hell. Ancient, unsanitized and simmering with an unspoken artistic violence. Nearly every concrete surface is covered in street art. Music seeps out from every doorway and entire city blocks are dedicated to the sale of used books.
Motorcycles are everywhere. They stream through the traffic clogged streets like blood pulsing through massive plaque-filled arteries. There is a mutual understanding between bikers, a code of ethics that follows the patterns of a dance. Like riding in New York City, that dance entails dodging taxi cabs, buses, bicycles, cars, but in this case there are no rules.
Tonight will be my last night here. I feel drained but rejuvenated. Southern Colombia awaits.