As the night drew on, more and more people joined us, including a young British doctor stopping over before heading off to Patagonia, some members of a women’s university sports team from the UK, and an *assortment of backpackers from around the world. We had pulled some tables together to accommodate everyone. The drinks and *banter flowed, and stories were flying; everyone it seemed was having *a blast. Ah, good old Irish pubs- one of the few places where you can go out by yourself and find yourself surrounded by mad drunk strangers buying you drinks in no time.
Thus far, the bankers had been very very generous with their money, always *dipping into their pockets and *splashing the cash, insisting on buying round after round for everyone. Not wanting to be seen as *on the scrounge, and perhaps not wanting the bankers to get all the glory, *hubris can do funny things to a man, I *reciprocated and bought an enormous round of drinks for everyone. It’s incredibly difficult to count the number of people when you’re all sitting round *dimly lit tables; I asked everyone what they wanted and bought drinks for expats and tourists alike.
What happened to the Colombian girl, Maria, from earlier? I hear you ask. Well, she was still there and had somehow circled round and was sitting next to me, thankfully as the heat of the day had eased off, she had put her jacket back on. As the drinks came the waiter *plonked them down in the middle and everyone helped themselves. Maria leaned over to me and quietly said that there wasn’t a drink for her. She then put her hand under the table, I thought she was going to put her hand on my knee or on my hand, it all happened so fast, I didn’t really know what to think. She reached for my hand and gently held it, and then to my horror dug her nails in hard, drawing blood. Before I knew it, she had one hand on my *pinky and ring finger and the other wrapped around my middle and index. She then *yanked hard with all her might twisting and pulling them in opposite directions. It was like a special force’s move or something you’d see in a martial arts movie. I felt something pop. I looked at her in sheer disbelief -what had just happened? Her face was expressionless, then someone said, “Oh, this drink must be yours” and handed a drink to Maria. She apologised and called me kind and sweet, and then carried on as if nothing had happened. *No good deed goes unpunished, I thought. I went over to the bar and told the bar staff what had happened, and they put a plaster on the bleeding finger and told me that she comes in often and they normally keep an eye on her as she is known to cause trouble. I kept my distance as best I could after that.
We were asked to finish our drinks and leave at around 2am. Maria was still with us, she got into a taxi and when doing so asked me and then others to join her. I declined, she seemed *capricious bordering on *unhinged and quite *frankly scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want to wake up in an ice bath with a kidney missing, later to be listed for sale on the dark web. OK, a touch of *hyperbole, but still she terrified me – she had already physically assaulted me for thinking I had got a drinks order wrong.
The remainder of the bankers jumped into a couple of cabs with some backpackers and headed to another party. They had asked if I was keen to join, but it was late, and I had work in the morning, it seemed like a good time to call it a night. I told them I’d give it a miss and we exchanged numbers. I was now alone, standing on the side of the once busy road and there was nothing but silence. I stood for a moment, wow, I’ve only been here a few days – that was some night, I thought. I called an uber and was home before I knew it.
I woke up the next day with a sore head, which wasn’t surprising as it’d been a heavy night. The first thing I always do upon waking after such a night, is to search for my belongings. This involves a panicked, *frenzied search of pockets and surfaces and it’s only when I find watch, phone, wallet and cards, that my fear *subsides, and I breathe a big sigh of relief – a hungover morning ritual that I always vow never to have to repeat. I then check my spending via online banking; thankfully this time it wasn’t too bad apart from the 44,000 CLP (around £40) I’d spent on the round; I’d hardly had to buy a drink thanks to the very generous bankers.
My hand was still painful and now looked a little swollen, I assumed it was just dislocated. I could still grip but it felt stiff, so I taped my fingers together and hoped for the best. I had to be careful with it, so from then on, I tried to go for fist pumps instead of handshakes. Unfortunately, later on in my travels an elderly Argentinian chap in Buenos Aires with superhuman strength shook it so ferociously after hearing I was English, that I let out a little *yelp. I resorted back to fist pumping for the rest of the trip after that. The following month I even struggled to do my bag up on a hiking trip in Patagonia. A month or so after that and it was still giving me *gyp, but I could just about do everything including playing padel. I probably should have gone to the hospital, as I may have needed a cast, but I was in denial. I couldn’t possibly be injured so soon into the trip, could I?
Maria called me a few times the following week, clearly, we’d exchanged numbers at some point in the evening. I was not particularly thrilled to hear from her but was glad she had got home safe. She asked if I wanted to meet up for a drink, and thinking with my *nether regions I almost did, thankfully, my brain *won out and I decided not to go – it was a self-preservation thing. I also suspected that she might be a *lady of the night, I guess there is a lot of advertising involved in that, so if the case, she hadn’t told me a complete *whopper.
A while later I went back into Flannery’s and spoke to the same bartender who had bandaged my finger. He told me that the Colombian lady had recently been thrown out for shouting at the bar staff “Give me a drink!”, “Where is my drink?”, apparently, she did not go gently into that good night. She was *evidently not in a good place, and I could sympathise, I’ve also gone through periods of drinking too much and have been thrown out of a bar before in a *drunken stupor in my young party days. I also forgive her for my hand, which as I write this is still only about 95%…damn, I clearly should have got a cast. Wherever she is, whatever she is up to, I hope she is OK.
The experience was a good reminder early on in my trip that I was alone in foreign lands; I needed to look after myself, have my guard up and beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.
