Out with my camera last weekend, I was chatting to two locals. They asked about my desire to learn Spanish, and I mentioned that I had a job in Mexico City. They raised their eyebrows, questioning my decision. “But the smog, the traffic!” Hm, that is true. Though perhaps, most importantly: “No mountains!”
Medellin is in a valley. If I look left, they are there; right, they are also there. Their majestic permanence is a comfort, a solace. Tinted with the rosy hues of the sun’s rise, they are with me when I go to class. Then in the gym, late in the afternoon, blackened clouds dress them up with an awesome foreboding.
And the rains. Heavier than India’s monsoons, they fall along with a deep, rolling grumble from the higher lands. The thunder spits a winding smack of gunfire; car alarms respond with ugly music. The shots of white light are terrifying, humbling. Siempre aqui, these mountains.
Alas, nobody notices. They sleep on the bus, or run harder on the treadmill.
I will always notice. I promise.
I had my second class of baile tropicale today.
Before flying out, I was familiar with the slogan of the national tourism campaign: Colombia es Pasión. Today, I finally think I understood.
I arrived breathless to the dance class, worried that I was late. As promised, my interpretation of ‘tardy’ was a Colombian’s ‘early’. The others were yet to arrive, though our instructor, Andres, was there.
As tropical notes of song stretched into the muggy air at sunset, he danced. Alone, by the mirror. The rising montañas distracted not as he twisted, turned, spun. His students neither, as they entered, with soft toes, the room.
His body glowered with the grace of a militant precision. Andrés locked his eyes to the reflector. One turn, no, two; a roll of the shoulders, a swing of the hips. Dedication, fervor. An arch of the back. Fever.
The canción stopped its play, and his body fell limp. He jogged to the music maker, to start a new song, and to greet us. As if nothing had happened.
Hoy, entiendo. Creo que sí, Colombia es pasión.
