It's here in Columbia that my alter-ego, Rolando Flores, really comes alive.
Flo and I take turns with the hotel and car bookings. We're in the South, so perhaps no surprise that it's routinely assumed that it's my name on the reservation forms. "Senor Flores, will you be dining with us this evening?"
What's more, by now my beard has acquired its own authority. Two months of sun has made the Baltic palour a bit less conspicuous. Puffing on a Churchill with sunglasses and a Panama, I could be a writer, a reformed drug baron, a renegade Jesuit... Ah, the heat and this rum must be going to my head.
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