On the plane ride home I felt it, that ridiculous, infallible exhilaration one feels upon returning to the known…
The first night in Medellin, I forwent the beautiful views of the city from the mountaintop. Instead I focused on white-knuckling the seat in front of me each time the taxi swung across the double yellow lines, particularly in the middle of deep curves. Later I would notice that locals do not clutch at the seats to steady themselves, even when drivers whisk through “Pare” (Stop) signs and generally ignore painted road lines.
Upon arrival into Envigado I found myself warmly welcomed at an Airbnb apartment and thoroughly briefed on the dangers to which I had exposed myself by traveling to Colombia. The warnings ranged from tales of cell phones being snatched via cracked cab windows (be sure to lock your cab doors so no one can jump in with you), to street muggings (always carry at least 50,000 COP around so you have something to give up). But the stories all circled back to scopolamine ingestion. The loss of property, memories, sex trafficking and deaths are very real effects from this “zombie drug”. By the end of the conversation I was experiencing a peculiar faintness of heart each time the word “drug” mentioned in the conversation, only by my keen interest in the fact that all people- men, women, tourists and locals are equally at risk of attack stayed my temporarily craven heart.
The playing field thus leveled the following morning we ventured out to explore Medellin. The city has the only metro (light-rail) system in the country and I found my New Yorker instincts taking over as we surged into the crowd of people, pouring onto the downtown platform, work ward bound.
We rode the train to the first connecting metro cable and hitched a ride through the air towards Parque Arvi. Suspended in the air we watched as the wealth diminished the further we rode up the mountain. Piecemeal roofs composed of plastic and metal sheets anchored by flower pots of bricks and decorated with advertisements adorned our view. Most roofs in Medellin are composed of tiles ,a red clay grooved into and fired. The bricks are layered upon each other and form a protective and lasting roof, but the cost is significant. As we neared the top of the mountain, the fourth and final metrocable transfer point it I started to realize the appeal of the lush Norther Andes mountains. If ever I was to buy a finca (Castle) in the clouds. It would be here.
Following the metrocable we descended into the heat of the city stopping into a corner shop for a pastry with guave and cheese (always the fruit and cheese) and a cafe tinto each. As we munched a brawl between a police officer armed only with a baton and a man, wielding a car door raged its way to a spot directly in front of us. Instantly I leapt up prepared to run? To hide? Certain I was about to get shot with such a fray… Despite the typical swarming masses, combing their way towards the violence, the bashing soon stopped. The participants after shouting a bit, clapped each other on the back and walked away. No one was arrested and no one had been shot. The boys had fought, cooled their tempers and walked off. If it hadn’t hit home yet, it did now- This was certainly not the “good ole’ US of A”…
Passing the Basilica de la Candelaria I found myself glancing surreptitiously at street walkers congregating on the church steps next to porn and fruit hawkers. Inside the church I was more taken with the statues however, for along with his typical cross, Christ also bore a wig of real hair and real semi-modern clothing on his person. And just beyond that novelty I found myself stayed, first in shock then in brashness for an unfortunate amount of time as I stared wide-eyed at a priest (who stared right back) taking confessions in an open confessional. No curtains, no doors, just him, his confessee and myself. Eventually it occurred to me that I was intruding on something sacred by staring, so I backed slowly into a praying gentleman and blundered my way out of the church.
We moseyed into Plaza Botero. Like all the tourists around me I stopped to touch the first statue I saw. The nipples and gentiles on Botero’s statues are said to bring luck to all who rub them; these members shine a brilliant gold above the foliate bronze of the other body parts. I always wonder about who comes up with these superstitions and tall tales.
Plaza Botero flows seamlessly into the Museo de Antioquia. The art was fascinating as the contemporary installations are littered with and interwoven with modern arts. Later in the Museo de Arte Moderno Medellin I watched enticed as Colombian school children walked up to walls and touched painting. Still later I watched a woman touch a balancing glass bobble filled with yellow paint. In slow motion the piece tilted sideways, then fell and smashed to the floor covering us both in a spatters of paint. The woman’s hand was bleeding. Dramatically we were rushed out of the gallery by attendants.
There are no tapelines surrounding the art in most Colombian galleries. There are no sensors nor alarms limit the viewer to a particular vantage point, nor to dissuade him/her from interacting exactly as desired with the art. What to me seems liked a lack of spacial respect by Colombians simply isn’t apart of their culture in reality. Logically there is no reason to expect all peoples to have similar self-imposed bubbles as I do, nor to deem them so imperative to sanity.
Lunch intoned the first of many challenges incurred through by my rusty high school Spanish. I ended up with cheap Agaurdiente and food which was certainly not “sin carne” as well as a serious bafflement regarding the the word for:”check”(target)? or “bill” (cuesta)? When none of the words in my handy Pocket Spanish Dictionary (#whydidIbuyaWebster) mean anything to the waitress. Sign-languge for the Nike logo was eventually resorted to.
The morning before we depart for Bogota I chewed some important tastebuds off my tongue on the ride up the mountains to Zona de Viola. On the return ride down, I dug my nails into my hand so hard I snapped two nails… But for the minutes I flew, paragliding around, soaring with the Condor (extremely rare to see!) and crows, spinning up thermals into the clouds, in the minutes of freedom before the altitude sickness kicked in, the hours of car sickness were worth it. That first rush when my Jaime, my instructor strapped me into a harness and told me to run off the mountain’s edge at the on his shouted command… “Listo!” In those few moments I fell, then glided, then flew.
intrepid trekking 