Darkened faces and dim shop lights, behind black and metal bars. On Monday night there was nothing to do in Pasto so we gave up.
The next morning I went for a walk alone. The city´s mountain air was fresh, and the sun glinted off glass and metal window frames onto transformed and crowded streets. I walked aimlessly about the city. I stopped to eat empanadas with salsa that tasted of water and drank coffee, which was black, but tasted only of sugar.
The multi-coloured dome of a church caught my eye and I turned a corner towards it.
I stopped. Men were shouting at each other. Two men standing on a truck, piled high with metal poles, and two others across the street. Voices rose again. I lingered on the corner, not wanting to get closer, but with that school yard fascination holding me there, not wanting to miss a fight.
Then the shouting stopped. Two of the men started running away, and from behind the truck a man followed, his arm extended, holding a gun.
I ran away too; though less dramatically than I would have liked as I was wearing flip flops that didn´t quite fit, so instead of diving or sprinting away, as one might imagine oneself doing from a gun fight, I just kind of slowly and incompetently skipped.
A single shot was fired, and a sharp boom filled the air. I can´t tell you what happened though. I was hiding in a shop, my heart beating in my mouth.
Approaching Pasto.
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