Cartagena, Colombia 2022
My consciousness snaps into focus. Where am I? I take in my surroundings: It’s night time and I’m seated in the back of a horse-drawn carriage surrounded by old Spanish colonial buildings with bougainvillea draping down from balconies. What is this? A dream? A nightmare? Some kind of time warp? I sit upright, bewildered. What the hell has happened? And who are these people sitting across from me? A young tourist-looking couple, their eyes fixed on me. Then, I notice the carriage driver holding the reins of the two horses up front. Rubbernecking, mouth agape with a thick moustache that curls up at the ends, staring back at me as if I’m some kind of alien. The horses and carriage are motionless, suspended as I remain in the spotlight.
I squint, trying to make sense of it all. The old town envelopes us, its narrow cobblestone streets surrounding a small park nearby. But which town? My memory is a foggy jigsaw puzzle, missing crucial pieces. The whole scene is so surreal that, as I take in the old colonial buildings and the horse and carriage, I imagine myself to be in some kind of period historical drama. “Am I in a movie?”
The couple exchange glances, and the woman’s voice cuts through my disorientation.
“What?” she asks, her tone a mix of concern and curiosity.
“The movie… ah, what’s it called?” I rack my brain as I try to wake up from this bizarre dream.
The couple look at each other again, their expressions reading, what the fuck?
“Where are your clothes?” she asks.
I glance down—my attire consists solely of bright red Ralph Lauren underwear. Nothing else. Panic surges within me. My wallet? My phone! How in God’s name have I landed in this bizarre situation?
The man leans forward, his eyes probing. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
I open my mouth, but no words emerge. My name, my identity—lost in the haze. I’ve been in some hairy situations in my time, but I can say without a doubt, this—not remembering my own name—is the most terrifying of them all. Fragments of memory tease me, like distant dreams. Disoriented doesn’t begin to describe it; I feel adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
And just when I start to remember who I am again… “Arch…”
Darkness swallows me whole once more.
My next memory materialises as I stand in the middle of a bustling road. A bus whizzes past, its headlights temporarily blinding me in the darkness, its proximity uncomfortably close. This is followed by an impatient blare of the horn. Then, a softer, higher-pitched toot—a scooter swerves around me, its rider pulling over to the roadside. I pivot just in time to witness the scene unfold.
The person dismounts from the scooter, and long, dark hair flows from beneath the helmet. It’s a woman, her expression far from welcoming. She approaches me, her gestures punctuating her words like exclamation marks.
“¡Estúpido gringo! ¿Quieres que te maten o qué? She exclaims, her voice a fiery blend of frustration and concern. I blink, utterly clueless. What is she saying? And how have I ended up stranded in the middle of this chaotic thoroughfare? I notice a landmark down the busy road—it’s the stone archway entrance to old town Cartagena.
“Cartagena. I’m in Colombia!”
“Dónde está tu ropa, gringo borracho?” she continues, her eyes narrowing. I stare back, my mind racing. Ropa? Drunk gringo? My scantily clad state suddenly strikes me—I am wearing nothing but those same red Ralph Lauren undies, and she is staring straight at my package. Mortification washes over me. What makes the situation worse is, as far as I can tell, I’m talking to a human version of Pocahontas, the most gorgeous looking woman I have ever laid my eyes upon.
The woman switches to English, her accent thick but understandable. “Get off road, you will dead!” she admonishes. Bless her for attempting English, even if it is a linguistic tightrope. All I can think about is how sexy she sounds. I stumble backwards, my legs obeying her command. The asphalt feels unforgiving beneath my bare feet.
“Anything for you, Pocahontas,” I say, giving her a salute.
I think I notice the slight turn at the corner of her lips into an ever-so-subtle smile but then…
The great nothingness envelopes me once more.
Iemerge from the darkness yet again and I’m next memory unfolds on the back of the woman’s scooter—an old motorbike that carries me through the labyrinthine streets. Clinging to her waist, I remain clad in nothing but my underwear, the wind whipping my face as we speed forward. Her jet-black hair dances around me, a curtain of mystery as I smell the sweet fragrance from her shampoo.
“Where Getsenami?” she asks, her voice cutting through the rush of air.
My mind scrambles for coherence. “Plaza… el Plaza,” I stammer, my words barely audible over the engine’s roar.
“Plaza de la Trinidad?” she presses, her face still obscured by the helmet.
“Si. Plaza la Trinidad,” I confirm, my gaze darting around. The unfamiliar surroundings blur past: the vibrant colours of market stalls, the scent of spices, and the hum of life.
And then, her judgmental tone again: “¡Estúpido gringo!”
I wince, feeling both exposed and foolish. But then, a spark of defiance: “Sí, Pocahontas. Me a stupido gringo.” I can’t remember much, but my gut feeling tells me I have been foolish. Her laughter echoes, fading into the recesses of my fractured memory. It is the most beautiful sound in the whole world and one I could listen to forever, except her tone suddenly changed back to fiesty Latina.
“Sit back, gringo!”
Taken aback, I glanced down, reminded that I was only wearing underwear and to my horror I realise that a sudden rush of blood had gone to my loins and there’s no way to conceal it but before a wave of embarrassment takes its full effect, the Goddamn nothingness consumes me once again.
My next memory unfolds as I stand before the entrance to my hotel in Getsenami. At least I think it’s my hotel. Frustration gnaws at me as I realise I have no key; I’ve obviously been robbed of everything on me bar my undies, and the stolen hotel key dangles like a cruel joke. The criminal—my mysterious adversary—left me stranded, my only connection to shelter now vanished. There are not many less pleasant realisations than when it dawns on you that you do not have your most basic human need—shelter for the night.
Then I noticed the good Samaritan from the bike frantically conversing with neighbours in rapid-fire Spanish. Their gestures mirror the urgency of the situation. Have they called for reinforcements? And then, like I am travelling through time into the brief future as I am unsure how much time just passed, the hotel manager, Ricardo, suddenly appears. But Julianna is nowhere to be seen. Ricardo’s lined face holds a mix of concern and annoyance as he brandishes a spare key.
“¿Qué pasó?” Ricardo’s voice cuts through the chaos. I don’t blame him for being upset. He probably assumes I’m drunk and got naked out of my own accord and had to come out in the middle of the night to let me inside.
I attempt to explain, but my tongue feels like lead. Words stumble over each other, forming incoherent sentences. Christ, I don’t even know what’s happened. Instead of recounting my bizarre ordeal, I trudge upstairs, and collapse onto the bed. The soft embrace of exhaustion envelopes me, pulling me under.
And there, in the quiet of my room, I remember my name. I’m Archie… Archie Flynn. How did I get here? My mind goes into overdrive as it attempts to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of how I came to be here in Cartagena, totally disorientated and stripped of my belongings. But exhaustion—both physically and mentally—consumes me. And my last thought before I crash into oblivion is:
I was seduced by the wrong woman.
