I'm on the first bus of what promises to be a thirty-plus hour passage to Bogotá, Columbia. I've got to get to an Ecuadorian frontier town, take a taxi to the border, walk across the border, take a taxi to the nearest Columbian frontier town, then take another bus upto Bogotá.
Suffice it to say, I'm not in a happy-go-lucky mood as I'm passing through Columbian customs. And now it's raining.
My days of overseeing some of the largest and some of the most process-driven foreign exchange transactions in the world might be far behind me, but I'm still not ready to be reduced to selling USD/COP in a wet car park, with man in jeans and leather jacket, casually leaning up against a lamp post as he thumbs through a wad of cash. This isn't OK. I don't do business this way. But, some ten minutes later, I discover resistance is futile and I am that far reduced. I'm assured that's how things are done here. Welcome to Columbia.
I guess a plate of rice and chicken will subdue the rage. When I eventually find a street vendor, it does serve to distract me. It looks good on the plate, but as the fork closes in on my mouth, a blur of food reminds me that I'm still far-sighted. This is a little worrying, but it's not enough to slow me down. Forkfuls of this blur taste just as good. I'm sure it'll be fine.
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