And it was. At 1737 meters.

Near the Ecuadorian border in southwestern Colombia lies the mile-high town of Popayán. It's a drunken stumble from certain hidden coca plantations, as well as the woodlands that harbor many carrying, uniformed FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia), whom if are unkown to you... could probably be figured out pretty fast. Popayán is also so goddamned bright (called the "White City") with its whitewashed colonial buildings, that even in pure sobriety one would swear the morning light had aroused them from a drunken stupor. Blinding.

I was taking respite in this pleasant town before the push across the border; a straight run recommended by locals, lest the paramilitary decide to pull you from a "random" passport check. I was traveling with one Villalobos, a Colombian woman i'd met in the north. I took her to a German film at the cinema; a film that we never watched. So this was my companion now.

One day she headed into the nearby park, Puracé National Park, which is famous in the area for its absurd amount of waterfalls and hotsprings. My own sightseeing took me to the museum (... and i'd like to mention that this was one, if not the only museum i ever visited in these particular travels. I, for the most part, would rather drink a pint or two at the local watering hole than visit a town's museum). This museum was special though for its abundance of stuffed birds and i had to see it. I gave the guy a dollar or two and walked in. Two stories of taxidermy... i marvelled at claw, beak, and feather while two sorry museum workers followed me around, eyeing me nearly equal to me upon the birds. Leaving, i was pretty certain that my visit had been one of very few... ever.

Meanwhile, Ms. Villalobos was discussing the beauty of "Nature" with a FARC commando on some discrete trail in the national park... praying that she didn't pee herself. Act casual, she kept telling herself, quelling the stories every Colombian knows of their brutality, second-hand or first-hand. But how exactly does a civilian act casual, when discussing nothing with a steel-toed, AK-47 toting, ransoming rapist? Fortunately, Ms. Villalobos was in the company of an intellectual para, who expressed his deepest sympathies for the grand misunderstanding that had ensued between commoners and the FARC. His sentiments were wounded, he informed her, that anyone could see them in such a bad light. He wished her well; prayed she would shed a fairer light to friends and family on the predicament.

Later that evening i lost my key to our hotel and no one would answer the bell. Night had fallen heavily, the midnight hour near and the quiet town of Popayán somehow grew quieter. I took a walk back toward the town square and found a group passing a bottle. A young woman shouted to me to have a seat, have a drink... and what the fuck, was i an American?... and yes, i could tell her the truth. I had a seat and smiled at everyone, took a pull on the aguardiente (translation= burning water, a fine anise liquor for the tight-fisted). I told her i was French and to get tossed. All thought that was pretty funny, until the woman spoke French to me. Damn! I said, okay, I'm German and you're a miserable drunk! It flew... and so we drank the bottle and another one from someone's pack. She kissed me before i stumbled back to my hotel; in slow, bending Spanish wished me a good night, and let it be known she knew i was American.

I found my companion at the hotel and she had a key; had managed quite a stupor herself in some other part of town. We made beautiful sloppy love in our square of a room... and then she told me her story.