#he cant stand up and hes struggling and its such a quick decline

[kieren-fucking-walker]

So I'm going to have my cat put to sleep tomorrow, the cancer is hitting him really badly and it's not fair to not but it feels unfair to do it as well y'know?

[dunmerofskyrim]

1

When a body’s abandoned, unburied, unburnt, the eyes are always the first to go. Ants or racers, buzzards or crows — the scavengers change their skins, but their habits stay the same. Whether in Skyrim or Morrowind, some things hold true. So much here, so much there, as much as anywhere else — that way runs my reckoning.

I wonder: was it the same with Bodram’s windows? There must have been glass once, in the eye-sockets of all these buildings, but something emptied them out.

What I know of history’s a thing of pieces and patchwork. Areas of detail, embroidered bright, then swathes of plain fabric — holes in the wholecloth. What do I know of the War of the Blue Divide, for instance? Nothing, except that there was one. But I do know that once, Bodram was Hlaalu.

Budding up at the flat-valley fork where the local River Tonlun tributes into the longer broader River Balda that snakes through all of Stonefalls, Bodram is hemmed by water to east and south, and shows a walled face to the western mountains. A place to deal with the hillfolk, in whatever way was needful. A safe space for trade in times of peace, or to buy the hill-clans’ brute strength with silk and shils when House Hlaalu had enemies. And when feuds, or hunger of one kind or another, turned the hillfolk warlike, Bodram was built able to turn them back.

What I do know, is that when the hillfolk came to inherit Bodram, it wasn’t by right of conquest. Or rather, they conquered it as the Hlaalu conquer: they made Bodram too expensive to keep, and offered a deal to its desperate owners. But by then they called their tribe a House, and called themselves the Sadras. Council-seated, technically Great, with numbers swelled by the hill-clans that rallied to their banner, or were forced to their knees beneath it. Say whatever kind of sourness you will of the Sadras and no doubt I’ll say it with you, but to call them all fools would be false.

This doesn’t mean, though, that there are no fools at all among the Sadras. There are imbeciles and easy marks wherever you look in the world, and sometimes you need only catch a clever person from a particular angle for them to show themselves a simpleton.

There’s no knowing whether the Sadras lord with Bodram in their charge was a fool by nature or only had a foolish moment on the day that Bodram was sacked. Were they too proud to watch the plains as much as the peaks around them? Or being from a line of mountainside nix-herds, did they not know a guar’s head is full of buoyant fat, and that this makes them fair swimmers? Or were they young, born to ease and wealth, more House Dunmer than hillsmer, with no knowledge of why anyone might bother to raid in Winter?

Anycase, when the Vereansu came, they crossed the Tonlun. Maybe they swam, shooting as they came. Maybe they came in the cold-months, with hunger to drive them over the river while it stayed low and shallow, logged up with ice at its source. Anycase, the Sadras failed to stop them.

And I wonder: when that warband came, were Bodram’s windows first to go, before the buildings burnt? Did the clansmer smash them for plain-glass, like a crow opens up a corpse’s eyes to get at the jelly inside? Because when the Sadras made their return, what they inherited from themselves and the long-moved-on Vereansu, was a boneyard. A beach of empty shells to crab into as they rebuilt. Empty eye-sockets in the faces of empty houses.

Should he mention the parchment panes that covered the empty frames? Skins scraped and stretched til they let the light through, weatherwaxed against the rain, wind, and cold. It was Sadras work, riding on the back of once-Hlaalu design. For all they might be a House now, the Sadras were hillfolk yet at heart, and it showed in their crafts.

Things reflect their makers, Simra reckoned, and for that, the parchment windows were interesting. Ghosts only know, he’d puzzled over them long enough, wondering how they’d take ink… Write them down, and he’d record by reflection the people that made them. And wasn’t that the whole point of all this writing? A record? Partly.

But a city of eyeless skulls, wind in at every window and moaning in every corner? That was a better story. A grosser more glittering lie. How many travellers would come now to faded far-flung Bodram and find him out in its telling? And if they did, he’d only say: I wrote as I saw it, when I saw it; not once did I say it wouldn’t ever change.

Simra dipped the black iron nib of his pen once more.

And yet Bodram is rebuilding itself. Blooming from the ash, like Morrowind herself has, over and over, even before the Chimer. But today it’s back to a bud once more — an enclave of inhabitation, regrown from all the waste and harrow around it. A double-handful of hearths in a ruin of scorched shells, and the crumbling bones of buildings, eyeless still with stolen glass.

Bodram is also where this story begins, and where it ends, and begins again.

Kreshfibre, ragpress, the pages of his journal dragged rough as he wrote. Every stroke of his pen seemed to catch, pushing as he pulled, pulling as he pushed. Resisting. It had been the same since buying the little clothbound book. Pretty covers, dyed in swirls of purple, stitched in dove-silver thread at the edges, but the paper inside was poor, and each leaf smaller than Simra would’ve liked. After a year with no means to write, he’d been desperate, starved, and poor again. He’d bought the first notebook Sadrith Mora offered him. Since then not a day went by he didn’t regret the string-and-some of shils he’d spent on it.

A journal’s something you’ve got to live with, he reckoned. Like a pair of shoes. No sense scrimping on quality. But no, unlike shoes, and like so many other things, it was better to have a bad one than have none at all.

The gloom inside the cornerclub had grown. Every tall window in its long and canted roof-wall faced east, designed to catch the dawn but doing bad work with the dusk. The shadows in the commonroom deepened til ink, dark, and the table’s black lacquer were all one: the same muddy shade of useless.

Simra kissed his teeth into the half-empty quiet.

The short island of bar at the dug-out’s far end was starred with slowburning lamps. A tired server with sour brown hair wandered down the long communal table, setting down more lights on its top. Coming to the end Simra had colonised, she stopped.

The surface was strewn. A homelike mess that had grown up round him in the half-handful of hours since he’d arrived. The slat-bound copy of ‘Breathing Water, and Other Essays’, closed and with a fired earth teacup atop it, keeping it that way. The flap-and-drawstring waterproofed bookbag, half-spilling its contents of scrolls and paperscraps onto the tabletop. A plate that had once borne a dour sweet blackpaste pastry, now scoured meticulous of even its crumbs. A bundled ragged scarf of faded patchwork colours. An inkstone in its stained carved bone box. Wetting brush, notebook, a pair of pens. A half-empty cup of local sourplum shein. In refuse, Simra had marked his territory.

“…Light, ser?”

Simra glanced at the basket of clay lamps and wicks, and the oil-kettle the server carried. Nix-wax, yellow-scented and acrid — he could smell it from the lamps already lit. His nose wrinkled.

“Thank you, no. Wouldn’t decline another cup though…” Simra fished three loose shils from his change-purse and set them on the tabletop. Dark lead and red-crusted iron, a hole punched through the center of every one.

The server hooked both basket and kettle over one arm. Nodding, she took the coins and bustled away.

Off-duty soldiers packed the table’s far end. The sound of their drinking echoed quick and dull in the narrow commonroom. The server spoke to the bearded clubkeep behind the lamplit bar. Looking Simra’s way, the keep paid him a short bitter look — the same as he’d offered since Simra had checked so sudden out of a twin room, four days ago.

Excepting them, and the hidden workings of the kitchen, the cornerclub was empty. Simra was alone again. No full-fledged solitude, this – no time to put down roots – but a solace all the same. The sweet middle difference between loneliness and being alone. One rushes in and round you, closing like cold water til you’ve struggled too long and it makes you breathe what it’s made of. The other you fall back into, waiting, welcoming, sometimes warm.

It had been a long time. All over again the world had grown tight about the two of them, knotting in like a rabbit-snare. He’d felt it first on the edges of Old Ebonheart, and then again, in the tunnels beneath Bodram: the looming danger of gaining anything you could never stand to lose.

But being alone let Simra gather his thoughts. Pretend the worry wasn’t there. When he came out from the stormtunnels into the sun, his heart was still hard as rawhide, beating hard and fast as his nerves slowed their jangling… Here and now, he needed this. It gave him time to write. To love the flow of ink from his thoughts into something lasting. To hate the tug and catch of the paper he had to work with. A retreat from the edge of panic.

He’d left Tammunei and Noor to themselves, but in time he’d still return… His lip twitched. He closed his eyes. Rolled them back behind his lids til he felt them stop and strain. “Fuck it…”

“Ser?”

The server was back. Simra’s jaw tensed and his teeth clenched. Colour in his cheeks, he nodded to her, raising his eyebrows into something that might stand in for a smile. She poured his cup full of pale pink shein and moved to leave again.

“Wait,” Simra said, almost a snap. “Sorry, but…” He balmed his tone. “These windows — who makes them? They Bodram work, or d’you order them in?”

The server frowned. Simra looked at her face for a glance, then only pretended to look, staring past one cheek. An illusion of eyes meeting eyes. She was pug-nosed for an elf, low heavy lids to her pinkish eyes, but the broad band of freckles that spanned her face put him in mind of Tammunei…

She glanced up at the parchment windows. Her face seemed almost surprised to find them there.

“I can find out..?” she said.

“Be grateful if you did.”

[maximus31]

As I land in Medellín after the quick 45 minute journey from Bogotá my hangover of the year seems to be passing. Thank you Latam Airways for changing my seat to an exit seat at the gate.

There are two options to make the 45 minute journey from the airport to Medellín. The bus is 14,000cop / £3.70 and as expected had everyman and his wife, child and donkey are waiting in the queue; or a white airport taxi that is 75,000cop £19 with no queue.

Hangover not completely averted and the thought of the Hotel pool, I go for the taxi. Forty five minutes of pure hell, holding down the vomit with each turn and bend as we go up one side and down the other side of a mountain.

I finally arrive at my last attempt of luxury and check into the Dann Carlton Belfort 5 star. It would seem the higher the star, the lesser the trust. I paid for my 2 nights in full at check in and made it to my room, with a massive bed and a shower big enough for the Colombian football team I was happy.

Unfortunately this 5 star establishment doesn’t permit guests of guests unless details and passport documents are taken. So no football team for me. Instead I get room service, watch some columbian tv and crash. Obviously I checked out the local talent too 😜 via my orange local guide app.

It’s my first full day in Medellín and im excited about seeing the city, I had arranged to meet Olivia and Luke who were friends of friends from London at the museum of Modern Art.

Feeling a bit museum fatigued I decline to join them inside, so we caught up in the local park, where to my delight I am informed that all parks in Medellín have free wifi.  I wonder off and head into Poblado the epi centre for tourists and familiar myself with the surroundings. Already I am getting a completely different vibe to Bogotá, and I like it,  I like it a lot.

Evening arrives and I meet up with Olivia and Luke for food and drinks fresh from their kickstarter video, they fill me in on there fact finding mission about the Colombian narcos trade and the effects on the local community. The stuff you don’t hear on the walking tours.

Hearts and red balloons are everywhere, it turns out it’s Valentine’s Day, but Colombians are inclusive, in tell me its for friendship as well as love. The Bars and Restaurants around Parque lleras are packed with tourists and locals, you can feel the energy.  After dinner the guys decide to call it a night, but after quite a few margaritas I have the party spirit in me.

Sitting alone in a bar taking cover from the monsoon like rain pouring down outside, I check on my local guide app. Before I know it the guy on the next table has messaged me, so I message back. Turns out he can’t speak English and my Spanish was still to rocky to enter in conversation, so we translate using google.

I join him and his mates and go to the club upstairs for a dance. I meet a couple from New York and their friends and we dance and drink and dance and drink. Not content with our fill, we demand more from our local friends. Where to next we ask.

Six of us pile into the smallest taxi and head over the river to a bar/restaurant that was packed to the rafters (I cant remeber its name). A bottle of rum later (I hate rum) and few more hours of dancing I’m feeling woosey, and make my way back to the hotel at 8:30am. Suffice to say the next day was spent by the pool writing last weeks update.

Monday comes and so to does my first day at Spanish school, having decided to do three weeks of school while in Medellín. My poor tutor Hugo, I think he thought he was getting someone far more advanced.

It turns out the online tutorials of daily Duolingo hasn’t made me 30% fluent the lying son of a… but I’m determined and ready to learn. The El Dorado Spanish School in Envigado is great and at a great price. One on one, 3 hours a day, 4 days a week 320,000cop / £80.

By Thursday my brain is well and truly fried from all the new information and my frustration was getting the better of me. I needed some fun.

Through the free walking tour  of Medellín, which I might add is well worth doing to get to know your way around the city. You see first hand the struggles of the past and understand the amazing journey, from the most violent city in the world to the city it is today, open to anyone.

As you may have noticed when on organised tours I tend to get talking to people and make them my new traveling buddies. This tour was no different and my new buddies and I decided to go to a salsa club. For those of you that know me, you know I love to dance 💃.

Son Havana was perfect, full of locals dancing salsa to a live salsa band. Sylvia my new Dutch friend showed me the main salsa steps and before I knew it my hips and legs were moving in time. I loved it and can’t wait to do it again.

Talk of paragliding the previous night turned into seven of us actually heading up to the top of Medellín, strapping up and taking the plunge. I can honestly say I have never been so at peace, being 3500m in the air, with birds flying below and no sound other than the wind whistling past your ears, an truly amazing experience. I can see why the instructor is happy to make 36 trips in one day. It is an experience not to be missed. 145,000cop £36 or 165,000 cop £45 with an SD card for videos. We used Zona de Vuelo, but there are a few outfits that can be used that take off form the same place.

DCIM955GOPRO

DCIM955GOPRO

Saturday like for so many in the world is a day for football, and no where more so than in Colombia are they mad for it. Me on the other hand, only ever watches England play in the Euro or World cups and thats normally only a maximum of four games, as they tend to get knocked out by some other country quite early on.

Fast forward and it’s 4pm in the stadium, I’m wearing my newly purchased Medelliín home shirt (my first ever), standing on the seats with 20 or so other foreign travellers and 16,000 Medellín supporters.

The atmosphere and passion was electric, with their own brass band in the terrace and 16,000 fans singing chants at the tops of their voices, jumping up and down on their seats, it was like nothing else I had witnessed before. Within 10 minutes a spectator was stretched off by an ambulance crew, due to falling from the upper terrace from too much excitement.

The Medellín fans put a lot of time into creating the chants, a shame the players didn’t spend as much time on their game. They just didn’t know how run forward or kick into the box. When the away team scored, there was and eerie silence, as only home team fans can spectate in Colombia. So after the second goal scored by the away team, the chanting and stamping got louder and finally Medellín scored with 6 minutes to full time. Sadly not enough to win.

One thing I have learnt about Colombians and especially Paisan´s, is that they are full of optimism and will celebrate the smallest of wins, especially in the hardest of times. This mentality has certainly proved to serve Medellín very well.

Its Saturday night and I have been invited to a BBQ by the friends of one of my local guides Kevin. We turn up to what can only be described as one of the best penthouse apartments ever. It’s has everything, the view, the cinema , the jacuzzi; oh and racing pigeons.

As always I was made so welcome by the hosts and all their friends, it’s just the Colombian way. I think the giant bottle of aguardiente certainly helped.

Tales of Coloumbia cont… As I land in Medellín after the quick 45 minute journey from Bogotá my hangover of the year seems to be passing.