Morning.

I fight the alarm clock. It's cold. The sounds of bus breaks, sirens and engines slashes through any semblence of peacefullness the gentle sunlight was attempting. Concrete buildings with no heating, no double glazing, tile floors.

I find a set of clothes, and blunder to the bathroom, turn the water on first. Metal pipes set into concrete mean a five minute before the water leaves the showerhead above pneumonia degrees Celsius.

Wash the still resident pollution down the drain, along with grey/black snot and some hair. Shave? not shave. Take care not to lose too much time staring at green painted brown tiled walls.

Water off, towel dry, moisturize against the dry wind.

Gather things, anything of value into right hand pocket, bag across left shoulder. Light jacket and long pants. Close, lock front door walk though garden. Light transient exchange of pleasantries with the guard on the way out of the building.

Turn left, fixed stare hand in right pocket walk, cross road watch traffic. Wait for army uniformed police to whistle the westbound traffic on the 127 to a halt cross with crowd while people rush around looking for a bus they can jam themselves into. The police leave the street and the sea of taxis, brightly coloured buses and tinted windowed four-wheel drives surges to fill the gap.

There are no police controlling the crossing of the eastern bound traffic. Crossing involves a mixture of timing, determination and sheer stupidity. Best to wait for one of the stocky, middle aged, jaded, self-righteous colombian women to halt the traffic, they are practically indestructible and it's better that they are somewhere in sight (they will try to knock you over from behind given the chance).

Stride to the Trans-millenio, Bus way station, ignoring those asking for money and feeling sorry for those so weathered by life they can't anymore. Human wreckage resides in the same shadows and doorways that it fell into the night before. Avoid more brick shaped women whilst weaving in and out of the beautiful girls and unfortunate men scaling stairs, along metal walkways. There is a pedestrian speed limit in Bogota, enforced by altitude and attitude. Never arrive sweaty nor early.

Show contents of bag to police, enter station passing mifare card across reader, a trip is deducted from the card, continue though turnstile. Bag in front, fingers fondle valuables in pocket, confidently picking out the teams of thieves working the station this morning, look long enough to let them know they have been spotted, not long enough for them to bother doing anything about it.

Wait. Crowd gathers at automatic doors.

Bus arrives people fight off, I fight on. Wedged against people I don't care to know, grab for support. other hand still firmly in pocket, finger on bag, eyes on the hands of others. 20 minutes dancing with my new friends, whom I still don't care to know.

Watch for station, the inaudible voice announces its imminence. fight off while others fight off, grab bag and valuables tightly, most pick pocketing happens during bus departures.

Eyes ahead, stride forward, known streets only. pass waking stores and dental supplies. follow the herd though narrow tunnels and little walkways, ever climbing the hill to familiar ground.

Getting to Uni on time is a proud achievement.