Poison

The day is burned with a directionless wander around downtown Bogotá. There's nothing revolutionary here. It's alright.

What isn't alright, is the beer. The hostel is a sausage-fest, but come early evening, we boys have set to the task of drinking. I've been out here in South America for five months. With just a handful of exceptions, South American beer all can be broadly and thickly tarred with the same brush. A toilet brush would suffice.

The hostel sells two pilsner beers, Poker and Aguila. In these, the Columbian's have managed to set themselves apart from the rest of their continent. They've, possibly literally, mastered the bottling and sale of fizzy piss. Who knew beer could be too wet?

After the third bottle of charmless, bitter-ended punishment, I give up the ghost.