Brandy and phalluses (phalli?)

I`m in Villa de Leiva right now, finally finished with a writing assignment. I`m getting used to constantly changing work environments I think. I`m still lacking my ritual bag of peanut M&Ms though. Can you guys send some over to me?
V da Leiva is a hamster-sized town of blinding white-washed houses and green trimming that delightfully always reveal more than meets the eye upon entering. I`m here with Chris, my new Seattle friend from Bogota, so I`m lucky to have a tour guide in addition to the good company.
And a trustworthy friend, in fact. I had spent my last night in Bogota at a new bar/pizza/crepe enterprise after getting depressing personal news. I had drank five brandys -- yea, I know, I dont ever drink brandy, but it was high time I began -- without too much trouble. I came home almost sober.
Fast forward to yesterday night. Chris and I were trying to find a place to while the night away, but everything shut up shop at 11. When we were at the end of our ropes, alas, there was a light coming from a window. An open place. I thought it was a good idea to get a small bottle of brandy after ordering one drink -- after all, it would have been cheaper this way as well. So there we were, on the bench outside of this place, drinking from midget cups that dispensed equally midget-sized portions of liquid. OK, i could deal with it. I refilled. And refilled. And Chris refilled for me. And I refilled. Then three Colombian guys came out of the bar, stumbling and laughing. One of them had been passed out on the table when we walked in, but there he was, upright (with the help of a conveniently placed wall) and observant. Another guy, well-dressed in a suit, swaggered and shuffled with an open bottle of whiskey in one hand, midget cup in the other. Then there was the uproariously funny and upbeat one, a working-class type. Time went on and we laughed with them and at them -- the guy in the suit is a manager at the local bank -- and exchanged brandy for whiskey and whiskey for brandy... and the next thing I knew, I was walking with two left feet on the cobblestone streets and praying to the rain gods that my head would stop doing washing-machine turns.
The spins got worse, as they were apt to do after I had proudly drank my fair share of half a bottle of this brandy on top of a few gulps of whiskey. I barfed and even after I thought everything was out, I forced more out. And passed out on the bed, all pathetic but nevertheless, gratefully numb from all emotional feeling but nausea.
I woke up with a horrendous hangover but the tour we took to the surrounding sites cheered me and my hangover up quite a bit. We visited an ostrich farm, fossil museum where I bought some to bring home and later, the highlight -- a field full of B.C.-era phalluses erected (sorry) by Indians as a way to honor and encourage the earth`s fertile womb. Most of them stood pencil-straight like middle fingers at the sky, but there were a few impotent ones laid out on the ground. A field of dicks invites all sorts of giggly jokes, as you can expect, and I will have to send a private email around later with some of the ridiculous photos we took.
I am finding all sorts of similarities between Bolivia and Colombia. A lot of the music sounds the same, and some of the terrain as well, but Colombia is by far more established financially. Tomorrow, Bucaramanga, and then the Carribean coast.