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| TalkingStory with Arlo |
Arlo's Totally Random Colombian Adventure: A Wandering Storyteller's Ridiculous Ride
By Arlo Agogo
Arlo was 69 going on eternal teenager, a wandering storyteller with a battered acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder.
He wasn't chasing fame, fortune, or even a decent Wi-Fi signal. Nope, Arlo just drifted where the wind—or in this case, a super cheap last-minute plane ticket—blew him.
One day in New York, he's staring at his laptop, thinking, "Eh, why not?" and books a flight to Bogotá, Colombia. No plan, no itinerary, no particular reason.
It was just the plane he got on. Could've been Cleveland or Timbuktu, but fate (or Expedia's algorithm) said Colombia. "Why fight it?" Arlo shrugged.
"The universe is probably trying to tell me something hilarious."
He'd long ago ditched the rat race. No more suits, no boardrooms, just faded shirts that looked like they'd been around for awhile, and a head of long, silver-streaked hair that made him look like a wizard who'd lost his wand but found a surfboard instead.
Back in the day, he'd been a secret metalhead crooning love songs that could melt steel, but now? Pure peace-and-love beatnik vibes, with a dash of rebellion.
Arlo wasn't here for business—heck, he didn't even pack a notebook. He was just wandering, storytelling his way through life, one ridiculous detour at a time.
Touching down in Bogotá, Arlo stepped off the plane into a wall of warm, jasmine-scented air that smelled like coffee.
"Whoa," he muttered, eyes wide as saucers.
The city hit him like a piñata exploding with colors: vibrant street murals bigger than billboards, music blasting from every doorway, and people smiling like they'd just won the lottery. Colombians, man—they hugged strangers like long-lost cousins.
One taxi driver nearly squeezed the life out of him upon arrival.
"Bienvenido, amigo!" while honking at absolutely nothing.
Arlo wandered the streets, guitar in hand, drawn to the chaos like a moth to a neon flame. He ignored the fancy hotels and dove straight into smoky little bars where locals jammed on everything from accordions to homemade drums.
Strumming his metal-infused love ballads—think Black Sabbath meets Barry White—he had the crowd howling with laughter and tears in equal measure.
His hair? Epic. His clothes? Weathered
He looked like they'd survived a dozen festivals. His smile? Infectious. Pretty soon, folks were buying him beers and tinto (that tiny, rocket-fuel coffee) faster than he could drink 'em.
That's when the real comedy kicked in. Everywhere he went, Colombians—especially the older ones—kept staring at him like he'd time-traveled from 1969. A young barista with sparkling eyes leaned over the counter one day and said,
"Señor, you look just like those crazy hippies my abuela talks about! The ones with the flowers in their hair and the magic bus!" Arlo chuckled, "Magic bus? Kid, I took economy class."
But it got better—or weirder. Turns out, decades ago, a wild band of American hippies from the Grateful Dead had supposedly rolled into Bogotá for one of the Dead's very first concerts in Latin America.
The stories went—exaggerated over generations like a game of telephone played by caffeinated grandmas.
Legend had it that Jerry Garcia and the boys parked their tie-dyed van right in the middle of town, handed out daisies to confused policemen, and threw an epic Deadhead concert that shook the Andes.
Drums echoing off mountains! Dancing in the streets till dawn! People claiming they saw rainbows shooting out of amplifiers!
The Colombians never forgot it.
To them, those Grateful Dead were mythical beings—peace warriors who brought love, groovy tunes, and probably a truckload of questionable brownies.
Elders in mountain villages would gather around fires, eyes twinkling, recounting how the "locos gringos" turned a sleepy plaza into a swirling vortex of guitars and tambourines.
"They played for hours!" one abuelo told Arlo, waving his arms wildly. "The music never stopped!
And the dancing—ay, Dios mío—the dancing made the coffee beans grow taller overnight!"Arlo, with his guitar and beatnik aura, became an instant celebrity.
"¡Es uno de ellos!" people whispered. "One of the original Deadheads, returned from the spirit world!"
Kids followed him like the Pied Piper.
Grandmas pinched his cheeks and force-fed him arepas the size of hubcaps. One village even threw him a welcome party, complete with a band playing mangled covers of "Truckin'" on pan flutes. Arlo joined in, strumming along, exaggerating his head bangs until his hair whipped like a helicopter blade.
The crowd went nuts—old ladies twirling like teenagers, dudes attempting air guitar with machetes (safely sheathed, thankfully).
He surfed the Caribbean coast on waves so big they could've swallowed whales, yelling "Cowabunga!" while locals cheered from the beach, convinced he was channeling ancient hippie surf gods.
Then—because Colombia's geography is gloriously bonkers—he zipped to snow-capped mountains for a day of "skiing" (mostly tumbling) in shorts, because why pack pants when you're wandering?
"Tropical snow angels!" he declared, flopping face-first into powder while villagers howled with laughter.
His guitar was pure magic. He'd belt out peace anthems, and suddenly everyone was singing along in a mashup of English, Spanish, and pure joy. Women flocked to him—not in a creepy way, but with that fiery Colombian passion.
They'd drag him to salsa clubs, spinning him until he was dizzy as a tie-dye swirl. "Arlo, baila!" they'd shout, and he'd flail like a giraffe on ice, earning roars of applause for effort alone. Moonlit beach walks turned into storytelling sessions where he'd exaggerate his New York escape:
"I fought off subway rats the size of Volkswagens to get here!"
Deep in one mountain village, elders invited him to their circle. They shared tales of indigenous magic, land spirits, and how those Grateful Dead followers had "blessed" the soil with their vibes—making coffee the richest on Earth. Arlo listened, wide-eyed, then played a soulful ballad. Silence... then thunderous clapping.
"You are a shaman!" one elder boomed. "A wandering hippie shaman with the heart of a jaguar!" Arlo blushed, "Nah, just a guy who got on the wrong—or right—plane."
By trip's end, Arlo had a second family. Invites to weddings, christenings, even a goat-naming ceremony. As he boarded the flight home (economy again, because why spoil the randomness?), he gazed at the emerald mountains fading below. Colombia hadn't just welcomed him—it adopted him as their long-lost Grateful Dead cousin.
The spirit of those mythical hippies? Alive and kicking, in every smile, every strum, every ridiculous dance.
Arlo grinned out the window.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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