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A Gringo Stops in Order to Move Forward
On a revolution, being spit on, robbery and Beethoven's 9th
Bogota- “What the hell? Did someone just spit on me?” I ask myself, wiping saliva from the side of my head and face as I look around.
It’s day six of an ongoing national strike in Colombia and I am in the city center, surrounded by tens of thousands of anti-government protesters. Riot police aren’t far off and someone is calling them names not fit for print — maybe not the best of ideas considering that they have been gassing crowds pretty much at random all week. Not to mention they managed to kill someone with one of those teargas canisters, but I get it. People are furious.
Why would someone spit on me? And who?
I decide to move on and forget it, there’s a lot of work to do today. Speaking of, I wonder what time it is.
“Son of a bitch!” I swear aloud in English, stopping in the middle of the street.
The saliva attack was a distraction. I’ve been pick-pocketed for my phone. I have a grudging respect for the variation on a classic pickpocket move: usually one person bumps into you while their partner snatches the phone.
