Kelly and I land in Colombia at night and take a taxi to the place we’re staying. After dropping off our bags, we go for a walk around Cartagena’s Walled City. The streets are mostly deserted, but the first person encountered approaches us in broken English with what will soon become a familiar recitation.
“Amigo! Where you from?”
“Oh, hey. We’re Canadian.”
“Ah! Toronto, Vancouver. My brother live there. How long in Colombia?”
“We’ve been here twenty minutes. Just landed.”
“You like beer? Come with me! I Peter.”
We follow Peter into a nearby store where around twelve people are sitting haphazardly, bright lights and loud music surrounding them. The back corner has a hole in the ground and a small saloon-style door that together form a makeshift bathroom. An unwatched television hanging from the ceiling plays an evidently-popular singing competition. I’m still getting my bearings as he pushes a Club Colombia cerveza into my hand. I go for my wallet but he stops me.
“Don’t worry about it, my friend. I buy this one.”
He introduces us to a few of his own amigos. We try to converse, albeit in a limited way, but the volume of the room is deafening, even if we did all speak the same language. He shows me a book that’s helping him learn English and gives us each a bracelet that he claims to make himself, before getting down to brass tacks.
“You like the white stuff?”
“Nah, not really.”
“Yeah you do, my man. It’s the best. Colombian.”
I figured the cocaine being offered was from Colombia, even without his confirmation. Still, I turn my attention towards the television, as if I need to know who’s moving on to the next round.
It occurs to me that neglecting to try coke in Colombia is like going to France and not sleeping with a mime, but I can’t risk it. I had surgery recently and am on too many prescribed drugs to toss another one into the mix.
We stick around for another hour, buying Peter and his friends a couple of beer, and then I thank them for their hospitality. We’re tired from the flight so we leave to head back to the hotel.
He chases us down and guides us to a stall selling shrimp, where I inadvertently order a cupful. We sit together at the outdoor table and continue talking. A man he said previously is his brother takes a seat next to me and slyly lays a baggie containing about a quarter ounce of cocaine into my hand.
I try to hand it back but he refuses and walks away. I look at Peter, who tells me I now need to give him several thousand pesos, a currency for which I have no concept when it comes to the exchange rate from the Canadian dollar. Instead I give him the unsolicited bag.
“No, no, this is yours now. If you don’t take it, I will be disappointed and my boss will be mad. You don’t want my boss to be mad.”
I concede that I don’t want his boss to be mad, but I make it known I don’t have any money and also don’t want any cocaine.
“That’s okay. We go to ATM.”
“Well, it’s not really okay.”
The back-and-forth continues for a while until I make it very clear this transaction won’t be going ahead as planned with a half lie.
“I have cancer. My doctors said I can’t do cocaine.”
Peter’s eyes finally acknowledge that there’s more to life than that cocaine cow money. Still, after saying he feels bad for me, he tells us we do owe him for the shoddy bracelets form earlier.
“Twenty American dollars.”
Luckily I have that cash on hand and am happy to accept the minimal extortion in order to get the hell out of there.