Women´s Panties 4 (the denunciation)

 

¨I denounced him this morning,¨ she told me as I entered the shop. ¨Es una plaga, el,¨ she said. ¨Ese malparido viejo is a plague upon the block and I have denounced him to the police.¨

I realized she was talking about the owner of the minutos shop next door.

¨But we have nothing against him,¨ I said.

¨Sure we have. It is this one of ill-birth who provides the false notes that are passed.¨

I had never seen the shop owner sell anything. He stood out front on the sidewalk drinking beer and guaro with a wretched assortment of thieves and addicts. Throughout the day bazucheros went up to the apartment above the shop and came down later with a blown look in their eyes. He was running a perico lab and even if I didn´t like him I understood him. He didn´t need to pass off false bills on his neighbors.

¨I called the police and gave his address and that he sells bazucho and in his apartment has fake notes. I spoke with a paisa accent so that they will not know me.¨

I shook my head. I didn´t like this denunciation but perhaps it would be a good thing. It meant we wouldn´t need to sweep up the broken aguardiente bottles and beer cans in the morning. It would mean no more crackheads whistling for the shop owner and throwing pebbles at his window to let them come up.

The minutos shop was shuttered a few days later. There was no gossip of a police raid but during the week we did not see the owner. That Sunday, after Señor Roberto had closed the bicicleteria, a young kid who was clearly a thief passed by on the street and looked into the panty shop. Ines was alone in the shop and when the kid walked by a third time she came out with her pepper spray and cursed him and he ran off.

The children´s clothing shop three doors down was robbed the following day. Just after lunchtime two professional appearing men in suits entered and asked about boy´s pajamas. One pulled a knife on the shop girl and the other shut the door. They advanced upon the shop girl demanding money and her cellular. Then she realized they intended to violate her too and it was only when she protested that she was pregnant and they had her shirt off and saw her stomach that they left.

The old man at the corner mercado said that for six months now the block has not put money together to pay for a vigilante. And when the thieves do not see the vigilante in his security uniform and baton they return again to rob us. Without the vigilante there is nothing to do but to give the ladrones what they demand.

¨It was safer for the cuadra when the minutos shop was open,¨ I said to Ines. ¨The thieves and addicts that gathered out front were a security for the block. These other thieves arrive from beyond the barrio. Because no sensible thief performs his thieving in his own neighborhood.¨

¨Tienes razon, negro. It was a mistake to denounce el viejo,¨ she said sadly.

But later in the week the minutos shop reopened. The owner had been on vacation in Baranquilla and Ines was quick to welcome him. She now greeted him with a friendly ¨vecino¨ and he was much angered to learn of what had happened while he was away. He and his friends would watch to make sure nothing further would happen, he said. Of course it was unacceptable that there should be any sort of crime occurring on the block.

Women´s Panties 3 (a deception)

 

¨Qué triste, negro. What sadness,¨ she said to me over the phone. ¨All the 50,000 peso notes are false. Even the 20,000.¨

 

¨¿Qué pasó?¨

¨I went to buy the hangers and the Paisa told me the two 50,000 peso bills and the 20,000 were false. What sadness, negro. What sadness.¨

The hijo de puta malparido Paisa had switched the good bills for fakes, I thought. In the market in the centro, and at Christmas, it had to happen all the time. She must have missed what that ill-birthed, son of a whore had done. I didn´t say anything. It didn´t matter now.

¨I still had enough for the ganchos,¨ she said, ¨And for the yellow underwear that the Rolos have asked for.¨ It was believed in Bogotá that golden underwear brought prosperity in the new year.

¨Just come back,¨ I said calmly. ¨I´ll meet you at the shop.¨

I considered it and then I thought maybe it hadn´t been the Paisa. I went in the bedroom for the 50,000 peso note I had taken from the shop the day before. I compared it to a note withdrawn from the ATM and immediately I saw the difference. The paper was wrong. The ink bled at the edges of the bronze ¨50¨ in the corner.

I held both bills to the light as they do at the supermarkets. The forged note did not have the thin strip embedded in the paper that said 50 MIL COLOMBIA. It was also smaller than the real note. Someone was working the panty shop and had passed off a fake 50,000 peso note each of the four days we were open.

I hurriedly put on my shoes and left the apartment. No doubt they would try it again today. I had to get there in time. I hurried up the avenida in a rage, thinking about what I would do to him. I´d blind him first with the pepper spray and then drag him into the bathroom and beat him until the police arrived. Maybe I´d carve something on the fucking ladron with my knife.

But the pepper spray would make a mess of the shop. And what if it wasn´t a guy? There hadn´t been any guys in the shop that I remembered. Probably the counterfeiter was sending women. He was sending women with 50,000 peso notes and telling them to come back with the change and to keep the panties.

When I caught the woman I would keep the note and detain her until the police arrived. Or better I could tear up the fake and tell her to take the message back to the hijo de puta counterfeiter. That would make things clear.

¨¡El patron llega!¨ shouted Señor Roberto as I came up the block. He was putting out bicycles in front of the bicicleteria.

¨¿Qué más, amigo?¨ I shook his hand and then the little man hugged me tightly, his face pressed against my chest.

I went into the shop and told Ines to show me the false notes. The fake note I brought and the two of hers were identical. They had come from the same counterfeiter.

¨There will be another falso today, amor. Es cierto. The counterfeiter will send someone again.¨

I showed her the differences between the false and the real. She insisted it was the paper which made the difference but I explained a new bill might also appear too crisp. Then I held a fake and good note to the light and she picked the good note as the fake. I held two fakes to the light and she picked one of them as real. She wasn´t seeing it. I showed her the ink bleed around the bronze ¨50¨ on the fakes and she nodded that she understood, but I tested her and she missed that too. I would stay to catch the thief anyway. We could practice at home tonight.

¨But you cannot do anything to the one who comes with the falso,¨ Ines said. ¨They will send others to harm us or pay someone. What will happen when you leave and I am here alone?¨

She was right. I couldn´t do anything. It was the Colombian way to sneak up on someone, or hire a stranger. Colombians did not confront you. They were cautious and kept their distance. They even fought with belts instead of their fists. Anyway, the fault was ours. The thief had only acted in accordance with his nature and we had allowed it. We had given the papaya, as the Colombian expression goes.

In the afternoon a woman and a young girl came into the shop. They selected a top and panty set and two thongs. I watched the woman give Ines a 50 mil note and she came behind the display rack and gave it to me. It was a forgery, the same as the others. I came out and confronted her.

¨Es falso, mamí.¨ Her face was rough and she didn´t make eye contact with me. The young girl with her looked entirely innocent and unknowing.

I gave her the note and saw the tattoos on her hands. Then she rubbed the bill to show me the ink did not smudge.

¨That signifies nothing,¨ I said. I pointed at the ink bleed around the 50. ¨Mira. Look. It is badly done. And the strip inside the paper is missing.¨

The woman´s hands were shaking. It surprised her to be confronted by a gringo.

¨No más pendejada, mamí. You will have to do better next time.¨

The woman put the fake note in her pocket and turned to leave. But the young girl still wanted the thongs. She paid with 4,000 pesos of her own and they left.

That night we were walking home and Ines wanted to stop at the drycleaner to pick up the bed spread. She wanted to pay with one of the false notes. I didn´t say anything. The drycleaner was closed. Then she wanted to buy some nail polish. She wanted to pass a false note there. Again, I didn´t say anything.

I stood at the entrance of the shop and watched as she selected different bottles of nail polish and brought them to the woman at the counter. She passed the bill and the woman quickly pronounced it a fake and handed it back. She passed it back as if she had been receiving fakes all day. The counterfeiter had probably tried them at shops throughout the barrio. Ines paid with good money and we left.

¨Let´s just forget about using the false ones,¨ I told her.

¨Yes,¨ she said. ¨It doesn´t feel right.¨

¨It was our fault anyway,¨ I said.

¨Yes. We should have known.¨

¨Tonight we will practice so that you see clearly the difference. So that it does not happen again.¨

¨Nunca más de esa mariquera.¨

¨No, mi amor. Never again that faggotry.¨

Women´s Panties 2 (local practices)

¨Falta el aviso. When will you put up the sign?¨

It was Señor Roberto. He had ducked under the roll-up door and come into the local.

¨Ya, casi,¨ I told him. We were almost finished getting the panties and tops stretched onto hangers and put on the display racks. We were almost ready to open the shop.

 

¨You fault only for the sign,¨ said Señor Roberto. ¨You should put up the sign now. You should have put the sign up first.¨

The long, pink sign that read in white block letters PANTYS A $2.000 was leaned against the wall. It was stretched upon a flimsy balsa wood frame held together with staples.

¨Voy a ayudarte con el aviso,¨ said Señor Roberto, ¨I will help you to put up the sign. Vamos.¨

I followed him outside the shop with the sign. Above the entrance was a thick metal plate. It was smaller than the sign and it also wasn´t flat. Even if the sign was screwed into the plate it would not lay flush. Señor Roberto went into the bicicleteria and returned with a drill and two foot stools.

¨How will you do it?¨

Señor Roberto climbed the foot stool and held the sign up above him against the metal plate. He wanted me to step up on the other foot stool and begin drilling through the wooden frame and into the metal. Then we would put the screws in. But the sign was moving all over the place. Señor Roberto couldn´t hold it straight above him. If I drilled holes none of them would line up. With the sign moving I´d probably destroy the wooden frame by drilling through it.

¨Do it! Begin the drilling!¨ Señor Roberto´s thumb was pushed into the plastic, deforming the sign. There was bike grease on his other hand that he was smearing onto the sign. Señor Roberto was ruining it.

¨No. No,¨ I said, ¨This will not work.¨

¨Yes! Yes! Start the drilling!¨ The sign was moving all over the place.

The young bike mechanic from the bicicleteria had come out to watch.

¨Start the drilling! Start the drilling!¨

¨The sign is moving. The holes will not be aligned for the screws.¨

¨¡No importa nada! It matters for nothing! Start the drilling!¨

¨Tell him this is a failure,¨ I said to the young mechanic. He looked at me and said nothing.

¨¡Vamos! Begin the drilling!¨

¨You are destroying the sign, Señor Roberto. Come down.¨

Despite all this commotion women had begun to enter the store. They stepped around us on the stools at the entrance to get inside. They went in and came out cautiously with their bags of panties and tops.

Señor Roberto was tired of holding the sign over his head and came down from his stool and went into the bicicleteria. I had the drill now to myself and made measurements on the metal plate and on the sign where the holes should go and marked them with a pen. I got on the stool and tried to drill the first hole through the plate but the bit wasn´t strong enough. The young mechanic was still outside watching and I asked him for some wire. Perhaps I could wire it to the metal plate.

I was turning screws into the wooden frame of the sign to which I could wrap the wire when Señor Roberto returned.

¨Utiliza este torneador.¨ He had a very long screwdriver.

¨No, señor. Todo va bien.¨ I was screwing easily through the balsa wood.

¨This has increased power.¨ He held the long screwdriver before my face. ¨Use this one.¨

I continued turning a screw into the frame as he held the long screwdriver in front of my face.

¨It will be better to use this torneador for its power.¨

¨Goddammit!¨ I shouted in English. ¨Goddammit! Just get the fuck out of here!¨ and I spiked my screwdriver on the sidewalk as hard as could. I didn´t see where it went. I didn´t care what the women in the store thought. Señor Roberto and the young mechanic hurried into the bicicleteria.

I found my screwdriver and finished putting the screws into the frame of the sign and then stood on the stool and wired it to the plate. The sign hung perfectly above the entrance. PANTYS A $2.000. Ines came out and admired it with me. We had already sold 50,000 pesos worth of mercancia, she said. She was very happy.

In the afternoon Señor Robert came into the shop. I felt badly for yelling at him and spiking the screwdriver. But Señor Roberto was smiling. He didn´t seem to remember what had happened earlier.

¨We should mount a bicicleteria together,¨ he said. ¨Será el patrón. You will be the owner of a panty shop and a bicycle shop.¨

¨Oh, yes,¨ I said. ¨In the future we will mount a bicicleteria.¨

¨Peugeot. Gitane. LeMond. We will sell only French bicycles.¨

¨Sure.¨

¨LeMond was the greatest of the French cyclists,¨ he said. ¨I remember watching the marvel that was LeMond.  You must be very proud of him.¨

¨El es americano. LeMond is an American.¨

¨Nonsense. Qué tontería,¨ said Señor Roberto. ¨Of course he isn´t.¨

Off Corss, Merry Christmas

A best-selling top and panty set. The Colombian is captivated by even the appearance of the English language. 

Women´s Panties (a hidden transcript)

Recent events in Bogotá, Colombia

I was putting together the displays for the panty store when Señor Roberto, the friendly little man who owned the bicicleteria next door, ducked under the half open roll-up door.

¨Buenos dias, amigo! Como te vas!¨ We shook hands and then the little man hugged me tightly with both arms, his face pressed against my chest. I had only met him the day before.

¨When will you open the tienda?¨

¨When we have received the mercancia,¨ I told him. ¨Perhaps Monday.¨

¨Bueno. Bueno.¨ He nodded and looked around the local.

I went back to screwing on the legs of one of the mayas, the standing upright displays we planned to hang the panties and tops from. Señor Roberto stood at the roll-up door watching.

¨¿Qué tal Francia, amigo?¨

¨I don´t know,¨ I said.

¨Surely you do. How is France?¨

¨Soy americano. I am American.¨

¨¿Norteamericano?¨

¨Yes. I told you that yesterday.¨

¨I do not think so.¨

I measured the last piece of red plastic sheeting for the floor and cut it with my knife, using a piece of cardboard to keep the line, and then put it into place.

¨Tienes que descansar un ratito, amigo. Come. I want to show you something.¨

I followed Señor Roberto across the street and into a building that was under construction. On the ground floor was a tall mound of dry cement. The workers had mixed some of it and were putting up a brick wall. The lower level was to be the new location of his bicicleteria, explained Señor Roberto. The second floor he planned to rent to a family. Construction would be complete in twenty days.

Señor Roberto called over one of the laborers, a very dark negro from the Choco.

¨Let me present to you my friend,¨ Señor Roberto said to the negro. ¨He is French.¨

¨In truth, I am American,¨ I said and shook his hand. ¨Mucho gusto.¨

¨¿Vienes de Estados Unidos?¨ The negro asked.

¨Yes.¨

¨He is a norteamericano,¨ Señor Roberto said proudly.

In the afternoon Señor Roberto invited me to lunch at the pescaderia. He was insistent I order the cazuela de mariscos. It was a dish he ate four times a week for the maintenance of his cycling physique. It was the dish of all cyclists from the Boyaca. Señor Roberto ordered it for the both of us.

The creamy soup of mixed seafood came steaming hot in an earthenware bowl and delivered upon a wooden platter. With it came a plate of fried plantains, salad and arroz con coco. The server brought a pitcher of fresh lemonade and two glasses.

¨Why do you choose to live in America? It makes no sense at all.¨

I smiled at him. I was trying to think of some way to make things clear to him.

¨Why do the French not wish to live in their own country?¨

I didn´t say anything. It had started to rain outside. I blew on a spoonful of cazuela to cool it.

¨Do you have brothers and sisters?¨

¨I have a younger brother,¨ I said. ¨He lives in France.¨ I said it and knew I had made a mistake.

¨Claro. Of course he does,¨ said Señor Roberto. ¨And why should he not?¨

¨He is americano.¨

¨¿Norteamericano?¨

¨Yes. As I am. Somos norteamericanos.¨

¨Claro. Of course,¨ he nodded. ¨You are North Americans. But when will you open the tienda?¨

¨The cazuela is delicious,¨ I replied.

¨Yes. I eat it four times a week.¨

We finished eating and went to the counter to pay for our meals. The cazuela was 12,000 pesos.

¨¿De donde viene usted?¨ the woman asked me.

¨My friend is French,¨ said Señor Roberto proudly.

¨I am American,¨ I said.

¨But you live in France?¨

¨Yes,¨ said Señor Roberto,¨Claro. Of course.¨

¨I live in America,¨ I told her.

¨Then you are americano?¨

¨Yes.¨

¨He is americano. Claro, of course,¨ said Señor Roberto, ¨Vamos amigo, let´s go. I must get back to the bicicleteria.¨

Maria & Luciana

I awoke to Ines staring at me. She had withdrawn to the far side of the bed. She asked me who Maria was. I did not know what she was talking about. Who is she? Tell me. I don’t know any Maria. Mentiroso. Tell me. Who is she? You talked to her all night in your sleep.

Apparently I was talking Spanish during the night, mumbling words but mostly calling out the name ‘Maria.’ I didn’t understand it either.

She continued with it and I was unable to convince her that I knew no Marias in Colombia. The deep wellspring of jealousy of the Colombian woman had been released. But we had sex and later, when she left for work, Ines seemed to have accepted that Maria existed only in my dreams.

*******

Ines awoke very early the following morning and proceeded to make a tremendous racket in the kitchen preparing lunch for us, slamming cupboard doors and even broke the foot lever for opening the trash bin. I lay in bed listening to the Bogota rain. I wasn’t interested in finding out what was wrong.

In the evening she called me and said she was going to the discotheque with friends and would be gone all night and would return in the morning. I said ok. It was strange, but she could do what she wanted. Then she said it was a joke. Ok, I said. She would be home in 30 minutes. Ok. I wanted crepes and was going to make them for us. Good, she said. She loved crepes. Then she asked me if I cared for her. Yes. Mucho? Yes.

When she got home she was smiling and we hugged and kissed and she asked again if I cared for her. Si, tonta. Si, claro que si. We ate crepes and drank beer and everything seemed good again.

“Who is Luciana?” she said.

I smiled, thinking it was a joke.

“In truth. Who is Luciana?”

“I do not know a Luciana.”

“Mentiroso. Last night you talked again to Maria. You said ‘Maria, Maria, por favor, por favor.’ Then you talked to Luciana.”

I laughed. I didn’t believe it.

“Putas. They are prostitutes in Buga.”

“No, no, silly girl.”

“Putas. They are prostitutes in Cali.”

“They are not prostitutes. Que tonta eres.”

"Go to your prostitutes. In truth. Vete a Buga."

"Que tonteria. There is no Maria. There is no Luciana."

“No me quieres.” She looked very hurt.

“I am here with you now. I am not in Buga. I am not in Cali.”

It continued this way for awhile and then I told her I wouldn’t talk about it anymore. I had chosen to be with her in Bogota and not with my prostitute girlfriends. There wasn’t anything more to say about it. She could not accept that they did not exist but it was enough for now that I had chosen to be with her.

That night I lay in bed trying to think the names of Maria and Luciana out of my head. But you cannot think names out of your head. As I tried to think them away, Maria and Luciana only became more ingrained in the foreground of my mind. Then I realized I was thinking of other girl's names too and I tried to make those names go away. Then I started seeing the faces of other girls and their names and I became worried I would speak their names in the night. So I stopped all the thinking of girls and their names and I started to think of guys I knew and their names. That would be better. To speak a guy's name in the night. I thought of a few names and I repeated them silently to myself. I looked down at her, her head upon my shoulder, asleep now, her arm across my chest. She was a good girl. It would be a shame to ruin a good thing because I called out other girl’s names in the night.

Bogota 2

                             centro comercial

                        outdoor gym

                                     almuerzo

Bogota 1

           mi cuadra

          de la ventana

   mi hogareña cocina para mi

      good wall for a mugging

    siempre con jugos naturales

                 home gym

3 Cuchillos

I took the Transmilenio from Profamilia to the end of the line at Portal 80. It was 10pm as I walked along the busy carrera and then over the steel and concrete foot bridge to the other side. I was returning to the apartment after seeing Diego, a good friend I had not seen since San Juan, Argentina in March of the previous year. Ines was working late at the dentisteria and had told me to expect her after 11pm.

I was about to take the short cut behind a row of apartment houses and across the basketball court and then to pick up the calle our apartment was located on, when I saw ahead a girl in the blue baggy pants of the dentist’s uniform. I followed her a step and realized it was Ines. She was back early. I hurried up and joined her as she neared the corner.

She smiled and we kissed. She told me how happy she was to see me. As we turned down our calle I put my arm around her and took her two bags, the heavy one containing her dentistry equipment and the other her lunch container. She told me she was very hungry and very exhausted and she rested her head on my shoulder.

It was then that someone ran up beside me and passed me along the brick wall to my right, and I knew instantly what it was, thinking first to hit him as he passed but hesitating, and now stopped in front of me is a youth with a knife drawn back near his ear looking to strike down at me with it. He is right in distance to jab or cross him quick, before he gathered himself, and then to run, but there is another guy and he grabs Ines from behind, pressing a knife against her throat. And then a third is beside me, his knife out, and there is nothing now to do but let them take what they want.

The two of them back me against the brick wall and grab the two bags of Ines’ I am carrying. At either side of me, knives drawn, they start groping at my pockets demanding my cell phone. The one is feeling the thickness of my wallet in my other front pocket and is fumbling to get it out with his one hand, holding the knife on me with the other. Then with my wallet and cell phone and the two bags the three of them run and are gone around the corner.

I go to Ines. She is unhurt. The other youth took her cell phone but strangely did not take her purse or her wallet. She isn’t crying and she seems very calm. She says she is alright. It must have been the two bags, particularly the dentistry bag, that drew them to us. She tells me this is the first time this has happened to her. I have never been robbed before either, I say. I have been cold-cocked and had a gun drawn on me but none of them ever got anything off me.

I held her close as we walked back towards the apartment. I ran it back through my mind, first thinking how stupid I was to have not been paying attention. So what if it was a Wednesday at 10pm? The street was well lit but it was empty and there were so many dark side streets. I should have been more alert. We might have had a chance to run. I tried to see what I should have done, but with three of them and the one getting Ines’ back there was nothing to do. The first guy who had run past, holding the knife in front of me, I might have popped him and surprised him, but even if I had gotten him down I could not have been sure Ines would have run with me. You couldn’t leave a girl behind.

She still had her money and credit cards and her insurance would replace the phone. There was only 15,000 pesos in my wallet and my fake credit card. Another 40,000 pesos remained safely hidden in the secret pocket inside my jeans. The phone they had taken from me was a cheap, beat up model with only a few credits left on the sim card. It seemed we had gotten out of it pretty good.

Later we were sitting in the kitchen of the apartment when Ines explained that the dentistry equipment they had taken would cost 3 million pesos to replace. She could not work at the clinic without it. She could not borrow or rent another dentist’s equipment. The cost of the equipment shocked me, but it shocked me even more how unemotional she was about it. She spoke calmly and wasn’t shaken at all. After all, it is only dentist’s equipment, she said.

During the night she awoke complaining of a headache, but in the morning the headache was gone and we held each other in bed and we made love and then she showered and dressed for work. We talked again about what had happened and she spoke of it as calmly as the night before. She wasn’t scared. It hadn't touched her. I walked her to the door and we said goodbye. It was alright to walk the calle during the day, but at night, returning from work, she would now take a taxi from the Transmilenio station at Portal 80.

My Ugly Nigger

Because it is not simply to explore her firm large ass and well-hanging breasts, the nipples dark and large, but it is her moans, her whispers, and then she moans more loudly and begins to say these words to you, one after the other, as if a kind of code: mi amor, mi corazon, mi cariño, mi cielo, mi vida, and then when you smile at her she calls you "my ugly nigger" (mi negro feo), a term of great endearment. Then more moaning, and exploring her dark swarthy body, sweaty now and pulsing, looking up at you with those almond shaped eyes of hers, set just so far apart on her face as to make you crazy to look into them, and she inspires you deeper and deeper inside her, she grabbing your ass and pulling you in not letting you out, not even to pull back to thrust, your bodies crushing together. Then you struggle away and turn her around to have that big, smooth, tanned ass from behind where you can control it and shove into it and her groaning increases and more and more and si papi si Papi Si and then you both lay back, you having spent it all, it all gone now, something empty and peaceful, a long grassy Wisconsin field in the spring, the tall pines moving just slightly in the high wind and the dew drops on the grasses. Mi amor, you hear. Mi corazon. Mi cielo. Cariño mio. And you are coming back now from far away, and she is there again, stroking the head of your cock in a hotel room in Bogota.

Bulletproof

Today in Bogota the sun was out and it was blue and warm, the mountains visible high behind the city and I walked up the calle from the hotel. I took a tinto at a café and then continued through Chapinero past the little shops and restaurants and street vendors, and along the route of the Transmilenio, until I reached Miguel Caballero’s bulletproof clothing store on Calle 71, no 15-28. The door is kept locked and an attendant in a black bulletproof vest opened it for me. Inside the clean, bright shop two women at the counter asked what I needed and I explained I was interested in both motorcycle clothing and bulletproof garments.

A small woman guided me to the motorcycle section where I tried on a number of jackets of a durable synthetic material. These jackets were implanted with hard protection on the elbows, shoulders and back. There were various colors other than black and some fit more snugly than others against my body. She showed me to the mirror and we both marveled at how well the jackets looked on me. All were quite affordable at prices around 300,000 COP.

Then we went into the bulletproof section and I tried on the jackets there. There were many wonderfully designed jackets and pants as well as boots and other protective wear and I wondered if this tiny woman who was assisting me had upon acceptance of employment with Miguel Caballero, donned a bulletproof jacket and allowed herself to be shot in the chest with a handgun. I had read that a condition of employment, including that of his lawyers, was a personal trial of the bulletproof qualities of the garments.

I helped the little woman hang the last jacket up on the rack and I thanked her and explained I would most certainly be returning to the shop. I thought the clothing, all from the design of Miguel Caballero himself, was both expertly made and fashionable. She smiled graciously and told me she would be at my orders upon my return.