My teenage years saw me spend the vast majority of my free time at a motel. A motel in the heart of my hometown, managed by my best friend's mum, with the perfect location for teenage skater boys like us. We’d shred the empty car parks, roads, schools, and shopping centres long after night had fallen, before returning to our little 8-room haven. This was a time when our biggest fears were first world fears. At the same time, on the other side of the world, a Colombian city was rife with third world fear. It was considered the most dangerous city on earth. Years later I would go on to learn that the large contrast between the two countries spanned across an array of different aspects. Safety and culture are natural standouts, but language in particular, would give me the greatest learning curve. In this case, their terminology for accommodation.
Fast forward 12 years and I find myself in that very city, walking the same streets that Pablo Escobar ruthlessly ruled in Medellin. The turn around since the downfall of the world’s most notorious drug lord and the decline of violence from the cartel wars, has to be seen to be believed. There are still dodgy areas, but the fact that people run tours to Comuna 13 (where Pablo ran the show) is a sign of the changing times. My four-day glimpse has provided a mere taste of what the city has to offer. After experiencing paintball in Pablo's mansion, climbing the 2nd largest rock in the northern hemisphere, partying in a club with a ball pit and experiencing a Colombian football match, I am craving more of Medellin. So I extend my stay, leaving me with only one night in Bogota before flying to Canada. It’s a shame that I won't see much of the capital but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. It just so turns out that my one night in Bogota would produce a bigger surprise than any I'd had on my South American journey thus far.
My flight into Bogota would arrive as the sun was setting and my flight out would see me say goodbye at sunrise. The logical thing to do, it seemed, was to get a room in the cheapest accommodation close to the airport. It is in this very accommodation that my education on the term "motel" in Colombia began.
A ten-minute cab took me to the front of a low-lit street harbouring some less than savoury looking buildings. It wasn't an inviting neighbourhood by any means, but it was for one night and I just needed a place to sleep. Inside, the foyer was small but comfortable. Some would call it cosy. A large fish tank boasting elegance greeted patrons at the entrance. Adjacent to it was a black, leather two-seater couch with guests seated, waiting to check in. An unattended no frills reception desk finished off the first impression. Eventually the receptionist made his way down the stairs to greet me. The check in process was awkward. His English wasn't great, and he didn't seem to understand my booking. After 5 minutes of back and forth he fetched his manager to clear things up. This did nothing but divert the confusion from language barriers to the actual booking itself. It seemed she couldn't fathom that I wanted the room for the whole night. Then she was even more baffled that I was by myself. I'd like to suggest that it's because she thought I was a strapping young lad, but the penny hadn't dropped at this stage. That didn't happen for another few minutes as she took my payment and we headed up to my room.
I followed the lady up two flights of stairs to the second door on the right, all the while she continued to talk to me in broken English, at what felt like a very excessive volume. The door opened and she entered ahead of me to turn the TV on. At the time I thought it was unnecessarily loud. A quick explanation of how everything worked in the quaint quarters, and she left with a short, sharp “buenos noches”. One final confirmation that I was definitely staying by myself preceded the farewell. Naturally I took this as her making sure I wasn't swindling her out of payment for a second person, until I turned the TV off. Then everything made sense.
It turns out that those guests sitting on the couch waiting to check in... Yeah, nah, they weren't guests, and they certainly weren't waiting to check in. The confusion about having the room for the night was because nobody ever stays the whole night in a motel in Colombia. As for having the room to myself, it's safe to say I was probably the first person who'd ever spent a full night alone in this motel. That's because a motel in Colombia is not what we call a motel in Australia. In Australia, we call them brothels.
As soon as the TV went off the vibration of the walls was very apparent. The sounds penetrating the plaster were unmistakable. To say the guests at this motel were enjoying their stay is an understatement. All but one. The solo Aussie trying to catch a few hours of shut eye before flying to Canada.
Just like that, my innocent childhood memories of motels were changed forever. They now contend with one of the most bizarre "motel" experiences one can encounter. But awkward moments lead to great stories. Perhaps, not ones I’d tell my nieces and nephews until they’re a bit older, but a story none the less.
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