Each and every day I am surprised by the beauty of these people. Yesterday, a manic bus driver did not see me poised to jump out, and started up the engine. “Señor, aquí, por favor!” I shouted. He appeared not to hear. Seconds later, a chorus of whistles and shouts broke out from my fellow people on the bus. And so for me, he stopped, with thanks to these comrades.
I took a break to travel. I went right up to the northern-most tip of South America, to the desert. As the clock struck midnight, I danced, with strangers, to the beats of salsa in the salty carribean sea. And then Bogotá, where a friend of a friend hugged me warm as I shivered cold, and the first friend drove me tirelessly, with pride, around his city.
I still do not like hot coffee, but I have taken a fancy to it in the form of an icy granizada. The ladies at the coffee shop call me by my name, and wink at me as they overfill my cup and ‘forget’ to charge me the full price. I am eternally a bother to the staff at the language centre, yet grumble they do not as they see me approaching. And perhaps, just sometimes, they even smile too.
In the capital, I battled hard in a familiar Paisa-Rolo (Medellín-Bogotá) tiff. “In Medellín, we have mountains on ALL sides!” The damned Rolos giggled, chastising me for my use of “we” when, in their eyes, I am a foreign extranjera. But this magical city really has become a home.
And miss it very much I will when these last seven weeks run out.
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.
