What do you think of when you hear the word "Colombia?" Narcoterrorism? Third World living? A university in New York?
In preparation for my trip here, I had to get a couple of vaccinations. The receptionist working for my doctor asked where I was going, and why. I said Colombia, because I wanted to improve my Spanish and get volunteer experience, working for a foundation that serves kids living in poverty. She responded, "Oh, there must be a lot of those." I think she meant to sound encouraging, like I was doing something important and necessary. It's just, she was showing that her impression of my favorite South American country (so far) was limited to the worst news coming out of the place.
In my
last blog post, I explained the thought process behind planning this voyage, and let the curtain down between what might be an outsider's impression of me, and the very different reality. Time to bust up some more misconceptions, by way of a story about my voyage.
Last Saturday, I hugged all of my precious children, got in a truck and cried as my calm supportive husband drove me to airport, to begin this odyssey.
I wanted to look forward to my adventure, but my head was so full of unknowns. An open mind seemed best. I wanted to believe that I would love Colombia, that the people would be as friendly as I had read they were, and that I would be able to enjoy some of the best things about the beautiful Andean college town, Manizales; but the superstitious part of me felt that I would jinx myself into being wrong, so I held out and decided to focus on the actual traveling part. One thing at a time.
Flying here took a full day, a night, and half of the next day. I tried to sleep on the overnight flight from Texas to Bogota, but I was sandwiched between two bulky hombres with the screen on the back of the seat in front of me flashing the same five commercials and movie trailers, mere inches from my nose. By the time I reached Bogota, I was in full space cadet mode, and it was suddenly time to speak and understand Spanish. My neurons were barely firing well enough to speak English. It was early morning, still dark, when we arrived. I went through immigration, exchanged some of my money, and wandered to the small terminal where I would get on my last flight, in a mere three hours. Three hours of trying to stay awake, by reading, listening to music, writing, imagining sleeping, and dozing off, which, it turns out, is not staying awake.
One hour before my flight, a vision appeared. Three women arrived and seated themselves across from me. At first, I saw only their shoes, because my head was resting on my hands, my arms wrapped around the bulging messenger bag on my lap: three pairs of wedge boots, at the end of three pair of very tight pants. Surely I was dreaming of Shakira in triplicate and needed to wake up before some wily thief snatched my bag from under my chin. But it turns out, I was awake, and these chicas calientes in front of me were actually
señoras*
*Señora is what you call a woman in Spanish when she has garnered enough años to earn such respeto.
With the sun starting to beam through the window behind them, they resembled a mythical trio from an epic poem. Okay look, I was really exhausted. Each lady looked as though she could be a grandmother, if grandmothers were eternal hotties: perfectly coiffed hair, make up, bling, designer duds, and
the accompanying aura of lux perfume.
They took their seats and started to open the newspapers they carried with them. A glossy insert dropped from the paper of the
señora directly in front of me and I reached down to pick it up for her. She got it first, but noticed my effort, smiled warmly and graced me with a sincere "Muchas gracias." I smiled weakly and nodded, and went back to the Herculean task of staying awake. That's when a distorted female voice spoke very rapidly over the intercom. I heard the word "Manizales" and figured I had just missed important information about my flight. "Oh yay, my first chance to ask someone for help, and I'm not even there yet," I thought. So, after thinking about the right way to phrase things, I leaned across to the ladies and asked if they were going to Manizales. All nodded, and the one whose paper I reached for said,"
Sí." That's when I cobbled together something that must have sounded like, "The woman who talked, she did say we must board now, or she says only is for the people with the needs special or something?"
Our Lady of the Newspaper Insert very kindly offered me a long incomprehensible explanation and I tried not to stare too blankly. I said, "In that case, I wait then?" She said, "
Sí!," which I did manage to understand. She then said that they would bring me with them when they boarded the plane to Manizales. The resulting relief I felt was not only because I didn't have to worry anymore that I would accidentally board a plane to Uruguay. It was also caused by the knowledge that here were people with kind hearts, able to take pity on a travel-weary gringa and keep her from accidentally boarding a plane to Uruguay. Conversation ensued, one which I have had in one form or another since arriving here. It covers the following bases:
Where are you from? What part of the U.S.? What is it like there? How long will you be here? Why did you want to come to Manizales?
I managed clunky answers to all of these questions, the last of which seemed to make a good impression: I'm planning to work for
La Fundación Niños de los Andes, as a volunteer. By now the conversation was solely between me and the woman whose paper I feebly tried to rescue. She opened her designer clutch, took out a small billfold, and handed me a multi-colored, embossed business card, from which I learned that her name is Maria, and she is a lawyer who specializes in family and children's rights. She spoke slowly, saying, "I want you to take this and give me a call while you're in Manizales. If you need anything, I'm at your service. But if you don't, you should call me anyway because I would love to show you the beauty of my city." I was moved beyond words, and that's not just because I am limited in what I can say in Spanish. I held the card to my heart and smiled gratefully, saying something like, "Maria, I cannot say how thank you I am."
The time to board arrived, and as promised, I was included with the three
señoras as we walked out to tarmac. Maria put her arm in mine, half dragging me, saying, "You will love this country. Everyone is very relaxed and friendly. Some people who visit are afraid to be here because they only think about the bad things, but it's not true." I cobbled together, "Same it is in United States. One can think only the bad without to think about the rest." Dude, I needed sleep. She then looked up at the sky, smiling, and proclaimed, "What a beautiful day for you to arrive, the sun is coming out!" To me, this seemed like the kind of thing an angel from heaven would say. I perked up, thinking, "I'm really doing this, and it's working out, and oh my g, this lady should be the ambassador of Colombia."
Together, we climbed the steps a small red and white plane.
Our seats were in different spots, so the conversation took a little siesta, as did I. After flying over the velvety green mountains and brown snaking rivers between Bogota and Manizales, there began to be more and more colored and metallic dots of development until we were over a dense, pastel, Gustav Klimt painting of a city.
That's when it dawned on me that the money I had exchanged earlier was all large bills. I suspected I'd have a difficult time making change in the cab. As I left the plane and crossed the tropical landscaping around La Nubia airport, I wondered what I would do about that. Maria al rescate, once again! Once we were inside the small, clean airport, she took me by the arm, pointed to the luggage carousel and said, "Suitcases," then to the row of tiny yellow cars waiting on the other side of a glass wall and said, "Taxis." I thanked her and asked "I think my money is too big and this is not going to not please the driver the man." She opened her wallet again and took out some small bills, trading them for one of my large ones, led me outside, asked my the address of my final destination, ordered the cab driver to take me there, hugged me, did that kissy cheek thing, and held her hand to her ear, like a telephone, saying, "I await your call!"
Did any of you envision any of that when I asked what came to mind at the mention of Colombia? I didn't. I was probably a little guilty of being afraid of the place before experiencing it, not because I believed the hype, but because I know what a target I am when I go anywhere where the people aren't pale, tall, blue-eyed and English speaking. I stick out like a big white blue-eyed thumb who speaks bad Spanish.
I was also expecting to see more accordions by now. Not a one, so far.
At a vulnerable time in my journey, I didn't get my bag stolen, or my throat slashed. I was helped by someone who could have ignored me. I probably could have managed that leg of the trip on my own, but it certainly would have been much more stressful, and possibly would have been more expensive. Besides, without the kindness of a stranger, determined to represent her country and prove that it was the best place on earth, I wouldn't have known right away what a great idea it was to come here. Well, not until my next warm helpful interaction with a Colombian, which ended up being right around the corner in the house where I live, and at the gymnasio, and at the supermercado, and at La Fundación N
iños de Los Andes, and basically everywhere else I go. When my good old American fear of being an idiot pops up and I fall all over myself apologizing and thanking someone who helped me navigate some aspect of life here, I hear the same word over and over. "Tranquila," which means, "Relax." As in -Relax, nothing is such a big deal that I'm going to be a jerk to you. Relax, you're among decent folk. Relax, you're in Colombia.
