Cartagena

snake oil merchants wave smoking herbs under noses, trumpeting the healing powers of sacred oils and bottled holy water. a battered suitcase lays open to the street as a clam revealing its pearl to the light. a woman dances slowly with a dissected fruit on the corner, singing a song that drips with centuries of sweat. the sound of a beating drum rises from the underground - a great pulsating, terrestrial heart - as bosoms heave and muscles tense under a buttery yellow sun.
the Alley of the Scribes fills as the sun sinks into the incubating pool of the night below. the arteries of the city run thick with the juice of a thousand fruits and the thick syrupy voice of melody saunters down the gutter towards the carribean dawn.