The Palomares Brothel - Colombia

Sta. Barbara, Colombia – The Palomares Brothel

When I arrived in Sta Barbara after a long, uphill climb into the mists of the Andes, I went to the first hotel sign I spied - HOTEL PALOMARES - because there wasn't much else from what I could see. I don't like to arrive in places at night, but then I hadn't known where I was going from Medellin to begin with.

I dragged my exhausted self, plus suitcase, up a long flight of stairs to a reception desk where three children were watching television in an adjacent living room. I wouldn't have heard a 747 jumbo take off for the volume of the television. After an uninterested glance into a dark room, I told the proprietress I would take it.

'Come and I’ll give you the key,' she said. The halls were H-shaped – two long halls with a small one connecting the two, with rooms on both sides. I chose a small room at the bottom of the H as I wanted to be away from the television and any music emanating from the street below. 

The door to my room, a chunk of plastic you'd find in a shower stall, opened into a tiny, dark space with a double bed, chair and end table. There was no window to modify the gloom. I ignored the usual array of dangerous wires dangling beside me, and turned on the small lamp beside the bed. The damp and musty air hit my nostrils, along with the slight smell of urine from the tiny bathroom behind the shower curtain at the foot of my bed. I sighed and removed my sweater and shoes. I'm too tired and it's too late.

I put my sheet over the sticky bed to have a rest, but my head struck a twelve-pound bag of cement fitted with a cotton pillowcase, which gave me an immediate headache. I rubbed my forehead and dug a soft pillow out of my bag, but while tucking it under my head I bumped the wall with my arm, and it shook and rattled, as if I were in a shower stall. I sat up and sifted through the various layers on the wall.

Green shag carpeting had been cut into large squares and glued to the hard plastic partition between the rooms; sheets of red velour were stapled to them, and to the wooden slats that made up the rest of the room. Except for a clear patch above the door, it was all covered in plastic and green shag. Where am I? I peeled back one of the squares to gaze into a room identical to my own. I shrugged and fell back on my pillow and slept through the night as if I’d been slugged with a frozen chicken.

The proprietress and her family passed most of their day in the living room slash reception room, and they were so friendly and hospitable, and the kids were so cute that I thought I would check out the following day instead of that morning. As people on the street watched me come and go out of the 'hotel,' they stared and whispered, or laughed and pointed, but I was the only gringa in town, so it didn't surprise me. I always waved back and said hello. It was wonderful to only speak Spanish.

That afternoon, while sitting in the living room with the family, I saw a young couple with no luggage come up the stairs, talk with the proprietress for a minute, hand her some money, then head down the passage toward the rooms. However, they didn't have time to get electrocuted by the light switch and call an ambulance, before they were leaving again. I wondered why they were leaving so soon. But it didn't take long to figure out what was going on. 

I went to bed late that night and tossed and turned, and I was still awake when I heard the bell ring, a woman laugh, and a man speaking Spanish in a deep baritone, climb the stairs to the reception area. I turned on my flashlight and looked at my watch - it was three in the morning. Keys jangled in the hand of the proprietress as she padded barefoot down the corridor, switching on the lights as she went to receive them. She unlocked the gate at the top of the stairs and led them back, the woman's high heels clicking on the tiles. The proprietress unlocked the door opposite mine, let them in, turned off the lights in the corridor, and padded back to her room.

Light from the couple's room now streamed into mine through the clearing above my door. Why did she put them directly opposite me? Why not down the other end of the hall?

Their elbows banged the fragile walls as they removed their clothing. His boots plopped to the floor with a thud, his belt buckle whacked the chair, and some coins rolled across the floor. The bedsprings squeaked as they got into bed. The lights went off again, and I lay awake in the dark waiting for sounds, my arms folded under my head. I didn't wait long.

The plastic sheeting on their bed crinkled and crackled as their bodies slapped against each other, gaining in intensity along with their passion. I felt like I was in a movie, and imagined having my ear to their door and listening for sounds, and if the door were to suddenly open I would probably go crashing head first against the wall to the other side of the room and collapse to the floor. How would I explain that? Thinking about that very thing happening, I started to laugh and couldn't stop.

I thought of The Three Stooges, and just as I held on to my nose to stop laughing there was a boom and a thud, and the thin wooden wall vibrated. 

After a while, when I was beginning to think his train would overshoot the station, it was all over, and two minutes later the light was on, and the world went into reverse - he picked up his coins, put on his pants, did up his belt, donned his boots, and they turned off the light, closed the door, and disappeared back down the stairs into the night.