Postcard from Colombia
My apartment window rattles as the shop across the street plays salsa from speakers bigger than my torso. The tropical bass-line never lingers on a single note, penetrating the single-sheet pane and compelling it to dance. My own attempts provoke unconcealed mirth on the part of the locals; I tell them that, being Irish, my hips are fixed in place. Where is Ireland? Families lounge in the summer heat, punctuated only by an occasional foghorn as street vendors carry wooden carts of fresh pineapple, passing under the palm trees dividing the road. The cracked tarmac struggles to suppress the jungle lying underneath. In this neighbourhood, a product of the dubious philanthropy of Pablo Escobar, I am the only gringo. But I am immensely satisfied that the shopkeeper has begun to call me amigo.