In Medellin, Colombia, a fantastic place. Gas is $3.50 a gallon. It’s a pretty spectacular landscape. Motorbikes are all over. Never have I seen this concentration of motorbikes in America.
Amazingly, they have practically no homelessness, though Colombia is much poorer than America. I had to wait two hours at the airport to go through immigration and customs. Wonder who came up with the great idea to have five customs officers for over 4,000 passengers debarking on a weekday, each two hours. It’s even worse on weekends.
The crime wave that swept the nation under Pablo Escobar and the drug lords of the 1980s is primarily gone. No fewer than 15 taxi drivers asked me if I needed a taxi at the airport.
This place is Hot and humid. Mountain ranges, rivers, and the rainforest.
At first, standing in line, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, though a good conversation is always a delight, short and long-term. I am not shy, but I don’t know Spanish, and less than 5% of the like was White. I couldn’t tell who spoke English or not. Also, I have heard about people talking with others in foreign countries, and others overhear, notice you’re a foreigner, and you’re robbed. Plenty of residents of Medellin who are far lighter than me, and they speak fluent Spanish, so it’s not easy to place me as a Gringo.
After carefully listening to surrounding conversations, I struck up a conversation with a White man for the thirty seconds it took us to pass each other in the long snakelike line. He comes to Colombia often; that’s as far as we got. Then, I noticed a gentleman ahead of me, a short black man with gold earrings, speaking with what looked like a mulatto woman, who wasn’t hard to look at and was dressed to stun, like the vast majority of women in Colombia. Modesty is not a national attribute. I heard him speak English, so we began talking. He is from the Caiman Islands, named Raul (using a pseudonym). He used to be a professional soccer player, from what he told me and owns apartments and a tour bus company. He is unmarried, has four children, and still has the athleticism of his younger days. A charming conversationalist. Apparently, he, like the vast majority of men, visits Colombia for the women, as the country isn’t the only thing that is noted for its beauty. And it’s dirt cheap to live in. $1,400 a month, and you can live like a King, according to expats from America who lived there.
We talked about many delightful topics, as we had an hour to burn at least. Then we began talking about the Jewish influence on society, and he was pretty savvy. It’s somewhat comforting to know that people from other countries know about Jewish evil as well. Caiman Islands, I learned from him, has no income tax. As we were talking, another man ahead, who turned out to be Fritz (Not his real name), a devout Catholic from Paris, France, reached forward in a furtive way and in hushed tones, and the delightful accent the French are noted for, said, “Everysing you say, I agree with,” This was said with passion and emphasis, and he followed it up by saying, looking around cautiously, “But, we have to be careful.” Hilarious, wise people understand you can’t speak up too loudly about Jewish wrongdoing in public, or there will be trouble. He was preaching to the choir about that one, as yours truly, though I’ve been controversial for much of my life, have never received the hatred, threats, and overall dislike that I have since I began speaking about Talmudic Jew evil.
So much more, but this is long. Thank you for reading; I look forward to the next two weeks in this exotic and lovely land.