I shall take my return flight as planned.

Colombia has been a beautiful home for a wonderful six months. But so much of a home, in fact, that these wandering feet are itching again. New adventures are calling, and an extraño, queasy homesickness is telling me to to hop back to England.

My unfinished business is not yet finished. I still want to perfect my Spanish and to master the tropical beats of salsa and merengue. And so this matter is not closed, rather postponed.

“Where to next?” Perhaps I’ll go to Italy and study and the art of flirting in yet another language. Or I’ll train to be a diving instructor in the Caribbean. No, seriously. I found a job advert yesterday and I quite fancy myself as a Dominican Republic water babe. Glowing sun, turquoise seas and a resounding tang of cultura latina.

Of course, falling short of olympic swimming skills and fearing the dreaded sand-in-knickers situation, problems might abound.

But pah to those: why not?

“Semanita” is a Latin American variation of “semana“, the translation of “week”. The “ita” belittles the word, somewhat. A lady can be called “señora” (madam) or “señorita” (miss, or little miss). So what I infact told her was: “just four, little weeks”.

A month before I left my life in Chennai, India, my feet were itching. For the comforts of home, for the Christmas that would be had there, for ovens and microwaves. (Better still, Mum-cooked food.) But here, my thoughts are of a different, anxious nature.

As I type this the sky is a glorious pale blue and the clouds are big and white and fluffy. (Let’s forget the monsoon-like rain shower earlier.) I am sat in my modern flat, where I get to sleep in a giant double bed with a pink duvet cover. And yes, we even have an oven and a microwave.

A feeling of ‘unfinished business’ feels me with a dread, a hope, an overwhelming felicidad. I am strong in my language, but not quite yet done. I am yet to try every exotic fruit that fills the market I strolled past earlier. Yet to guess correctly whether the downstairs shop will once again put Air Supply’s “All Out of Love” on repeat.

Unbeknown to me, I had been making a life here. Building a home. And this home is one full of music and dance, language and love. I am not yet ready to file this away, tuck this under my pillow of yesterdays, yesteryear.

“Stay a few more months”, my masseuse advised. “Work here and perfect your language, then go get that job that’s on offer at home in January.” Not such bad advice.

The tiny detail is that “non-exchangable” word written on my airline tickets. Well, I shall use all of my philosopher training to fight with the agency until I am blue in the face.

Please, deséame suerte.

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.

Usually, their response to this is a kindly sonrisa. But last night, a friend piped up with something else: “Ah! So why not for forever?”

The shock that I am at halfway still slaps me, teasing me with wet eyes, too. I usually pinpoint my ‘place’ feelings with remarkable accuracy: halfway, I cannot imagine going back; a month to go, I am in pain with homesickness; two weeks left, and the sting is in the leaving, not the staying. But here, in my Medellin, I will not be homesick.

It is a great luxury to have lived in the number of cities in which I have been able to. In each one, there have been things that I have loved, and things that have driven me nuts, nuts, nuts. Two months ago I had cravings for London. For the little, trivial things that do often cause the biggest pangs. But now that I can reasonably fumble with endeavours in speech, those hungers have left and gone on their way.

I am left to ponder on how I will possibly be able to leave. I tell people that I must earn a salary in my own currency, to allow me to return to England when, or perhaps even if, I choose to. Secretly, this is likely an excuse for the slight inquietude that surely accompanies the awareness of having found one’s lugar in this grand, vast world.

And for this, I do not know what to do.

Indeed, this sparkling society has provided me with more than one belly ache of amusement, my dear flatmate Hugo having topped the list of offenders. Glorious mistakes in language I promised, and glorious they have been. One night in particular, getting ready for a fabulous night out on the town, I bounced into the living room to ascertain his opinion on my outfit:

“Uh huh, good!” he nodded, asked me to twirl around. (I obliged, with style.)
“Now … bend!” he shouted.

Slightly bemused, I doubled over at the waist to form an approximate ninety degree angle. He choked a giggle: “no Sam, BEND!” Even more befuzzled, I dropped down to my ankles, which only provoked tears of potent, sweet laughter.

You see, Latin Americans pronounce their “v”s as “b”s and in my excitement, I had forgotten the expression “ven”. Pronounced as “ben”, it can rather easily be mistaken for “bend”. (Perhaps not, but to save face, I have to say that.)

De hecho, it means “come over here”.

Ah …

Yesterday I started level four of the nine that I will take here. Four, phew, that happened quickly! I have clocked up 122 hours of Spanish classes and I finally feel semi-literate. Graduation from a shaming ignorance happened when I could, at long last, understand my mobile’s omnipotent voicemail queen. (Alas, she was neither as intriguing nor as fearsome as I had first anticipated.)

What is more, it seems that I am not only thinking in Spanish, but dreaming in it, too. Yes, that is correct! Last night it was most bizarre: I was on a bus, aside a woman with three dogs. They were muddy little pups, and I had taken it upon myself to clean them. Además, my English reservations were satisfied because the woman was blind; she could not be offended by an act that she could not see!

But oh no! She began to pet the dogs and I froze as she felt my hand. Here is the punch line, and I distinctly remember it: “por favor, señora, ¿puedo limpiar sus perros?” [Lady, may I please clean your dogs?]

Goodness me, I must be going mad.
That, or the deep tipsy-drunken slumber might have played a hand …

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.

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.

Some time it has taken me to write this first entry. I hung about in a hostel for seventeen days, and felt somewhat reluctant to document those experiences as “Colombian” ones. Good alcohol, bad alcohol, and of course their related effects! But true, I made friends, some close friends. For that I am thankful.

I also made tentative steps into my new world, my Medellin. I became seasoned to local supermarkets, where ingredient lists are in a foreign tongue. (”Sin azucar” being “without sugar” – I gave that up over a month ago, hurrah!) The fruits and vegetables go on for miles, but god forbid, houmous is nowhere to be seen. Alas, I got by.

The pounding electronic music became too much, and I moved into a shiny flat. Hot water is missing; yes indeed, those petty shrieks are from my shivers in the shower. But not to fear, a double bed is mine! I live with Hugo, a Colombian student. We make glorious mistakes in language, and he willingly listens to my rambling. A wonder!

I also started my Spanish lessons, and my four daily hours seem to sail pass. I feel purposeful and challenged once again, though the greatest test is perhaps more from the 8:00am start than any grand, intellectual trial. My teacher is smart and super nice, and there is only one other student. Good stuff!

Right now, it’s time for tarea …