In most conversations, at one point or another, local men would tell me I’d find Colombia’s best women in Medellin.
When I got there, I mostly found men dressed as women.
Ania and I spent our first few nights in a red light district motel. Sure, there were half-naked tranny’s at the doorway and junkies in the hallways, but the room cost $5 a night and the Italian owners seemed to keep business under control.
As much as they could, of course.
There was a fight in the front one afternoon. Ania and I were next door buying moldy carrots when it happened. A tranny in a bath towel came running out the door with a long piece of wood in her hand. She chased a black woman across the street and threw the piece of wood at her, but missed badly.
The black woman started yelling, picked up the piece of wood and threw back at the tranny, but missed badly. And then the tranny tried throwing the piece of wood again.
But missed badly.
Eventually, the black woman started crying and the tranny went back inside. I asked around to know what happened and street vendor answered: “She didn’t want to pay.”
This happened in daylight. At night, Medellin’s red light district was one catastrophe of humanity after another. Drugs, sex and vomit. The most extreme poverty Ania and I had confronted during our journey.
We made the mistake of going out for bread one night and never did it again. The rest of our red light district evenings were spent in the hotel room watching Colombian television, second-rate action movies and Saturday Night Fever.
John Travolta in spandex. Colombian men with butt implants. It all fit together.
Medellin, Colombia - © Diego Cupolo 2012