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### <u>**Title: Holy Week and the Shadows of Popayán**<u> --- God and man are at odds. During Holy Week, Popayán becomes the holiest city. Who would dare commit adultery while, just blocks away, [virgins and saints](https://lacelestina.co/) parade before thousands of devout locals and tourists in solemn processions? There is an answer to that question: José Fabio, who, since last Friday, has been on a bender—a single night of partying that unwittingly stretched into seven. Time flies when you’re having fun. Popayán, April. It’s Holy Thursday. On the way to the hotel, I asked the driver where to find "[girls](https://lacelestina.co/)." He must have misread me because he recommended—what I later learned was—not a brothel but a "brincolín": El Oasis. Clearly, we had very different ideas about what constituted a "girl." Another driver overheard and, without hesitation, took me to La Piedra Sur, a stretch of the road to Pasto lined with brothels. The first curve revealed three: Arizona, Kassandra's, and El Solar, all side by side. Arizona lived up to its name—desolate as a lonely American desert. Kassandra's door was open, but a fence blocked the entrance. "They’ve all left," a boy peering through the window told me. I didn’t push further. El Solar seemed my last hope, but as I approached, I found open doors and locked gates. Next door, a sunken house supposedly housed sex workers who hadn’t left in days. I descended the steep stairs into a scene of damp red walls, barred windows, and peeling metal doors. After ringing the bell, Valentina answered. She was Black, with a pronounced upper lip that held my gaze. Our conversation was halting, her answers vague. She hadn’t gone to Cali but worked Wednesdays with two others who stayed. "If a client shows up, I’ll see him. Fifty thousand for a while." Thursday and Friday were holy days, she explained, and people respected that. Next, I sought brothels outside La Piedra. Taxi driver Rafael, accompanied by his ten-year-old son, reluctantly mentioned two spots: Los Helechos and Punto 30, both in the north. Collectivos were the only option—taxis risked hefty fines. For 40,000 pesos, the gamble seemed worth it. The afternoon was warm, with no hint of the downpour to come. Twenty minutes later, we reached Los Helechos, a long white facade billed as the city’s [best brothel](https://lacelestina.co/)—though that wasn’t saying much. Marta Navarro, the bleached-blonde manager, greeted us with weary pride. "We’re closed today," she said. "Never open on holidays. The girls will be back Saturday." Punto 30, our next stop, was a blue-walled fortress with only a barred window facing the street. A young man in a national soccer jersey turned me away: "No girls today. Don’t bother." The sky turned an eerie red. Rain was coming. I returned to the sunken house near El Solar. Valentina, now unfriendly, called over Sandra and José Fabio, who’d been sleeping off a six-day bender. Sandra led me to a room with bare mattresses, peeling walls, and a single bulb. José Fabio, slurring and insistent, hijacked the conversation. Sandra, a 28-year-old mother of two, slipped away. We left, picking up her friends downtown as the Señor de Veracruz procession wound through the rain. At Casa Real, Sandra introduced me to Verónica—pink top, devil tattoo—who charged 50,000 pesos. Then came Jessica, a curly-haired 18-year-old who bluntly announced, "I’m a trans woman." Over rum, the talk turned to Popayán’s duality: "They think this is Jerusalem, but it’s Sodom." By 1 a.m., I paid and left. José Fabio, still clutching his bottle, begged me to stay. "Tell my wife I’ve been helping you," he slurred. I refused. The next evening, after the funeral procession at San Francisco, I returned to Casa Real. Jessica, wrapped in a flowered sheet, held court like a divine madwoman. César, the gay desk clerk, shared his dreams of breast implants and a dragonfly tattoo. Mamut, a piercer named Eduardo, drifted through, the sanest figure in this Holy Week circus. I walked Idema, Jessica’s "office," but the streets were quiet. A lone woman leaned in a doorway—working or waiting, I couldn’t tell. The historic center, too, felt suspended between piety and vice. I got lost again, this time stumbling onto my own doorstep, the city’s contradictions echoing in the empty square.