The weekends of my previous stays in Medellin were rewards of debauchery for getting up to teach an intra-week 6am English class. Two of my fellow English teaching friends and I would without fail have rum and cokes on our balcony, then stumble up the road to a modern wonder overlooked by the recent selection committee. Parque Lleras. Situated in the center of the ritzy El Poblado, during the day this park is pleasant enough. A statue, a fountain, trees, benches...but then the sun sets, and the bars and restaurants surrounding the park fill up with the beautiful, rich and plastic of Medellin. I would guess there are about 50 high-class bars/restaurants in the 2-block radius of Lleras, all completely packed with suit-wearing yuppie guys and the silicon-filled dresses that accompany them. Not owning a suit myself nor keen on the overly augmented, I would relegate myself to cheap litros of beers in the plaza, and make occasional people-watching strolls to ogle the elites in their bars like cages at a zoo. The plaza would fill up with an equally beautiful, but younger (and cheaper) clientele, so that despite my age nearing 30 I thought it suited me for obvious bank account reasons. The nights would always progress from us three Gringos gawking and drinking, to inevitably one of us having drunk enough to start a random Spanish conversation. The irony of this need to drink and stand around like a herd of mute sheep before starting the social quest of the night is that unlike in the States, in Colombia I have never had an intro to a conversation go poorly. And I have said some pretty butchered and stupid things. The response, though not always bearing romantic fruit, is always warm, curious, and usually followed up shortly with a half shot of guaro in a plastic cup. Drinking and conversations usually continue till past midnight, when the park begins to empty as thick tongues and loose bodies motivate the masses to the nearby discotecas. After a couple hours of dancing to what seems like the same playlist at every bar, every night, my favorite part of the night was the remate (afterparty) at Parque Poblado. This park, despite its proximity to Lleras, has a whole different vibe. The per capita ounce of silicon in Lleras is equaled by the per capita ounce of marijuana at Parque Poblado. An eclectic vibe of alternative thinking students, post-party plastics, pot dealers and upper middle class stoners embodies the park. This is the place that a non-Spanish speaker could come for utterly safe people watching, paralleled only by NYC (except New York is not as safe), or one that does habla Espanol can have some of the more interesting, albeit slightly drunken, conversations. Despite the recipe for violence engendered by the time of 4am, the nightly alcohol consumption of the park needing to be measured in swimming pools, and the mixing of socio-economic groups and political opinions, the park is incredibly pacific and safe. There is a police station located on the premises, but instead of cracking down on harmless marijuana smoke or underage drinking, the police truly embrace their role of being peacekeepers and stay out of the way, but provide security through their passive presence. I am convinced that an after hours park like this in the States would be a disaster. Frat boys who came down from Lleras frustrated they will not wake up to two silicon pillows would fight, police would harass and write tickets, teenagers would over drink and vomit, and the park would get condemned as a cesspool of sin by the upper middle class neighbors. In Colombia though it is a safe, fun and at times even an educational alternative (or compliment) to loud discotecas and late night drunk driving.
This trip, without the company of my Gringo cohorts, I find myself sticking to the Salsa bars and Parque Periodista in my neighborhood in the Centro. This park is to Parque Poblado what Parque Poblado is to Lleras; the slightly more alternative, uglier, cousin. A cloud of low grade marijuana smoke hovers over the park at all times, and if it weren’t for the contrasting odor of urine brought on by a bathroom-less hot spot, I could probably smell weed from my balcony. The style is the US equivalent of Emo rockers, but there music taste hasn’t evolved past liking the once popular 90’s indy-rock and hating the current Colombian or American pop. Dropping hip names of up and coming Euro bands is fruitless, but say you hate Shakira and you are golden. The crowd borders on sketchy, and your typical upper-middle class Paisa would think I am crazy for avoiding a $3.00 cab ride to Lleras, but the education level, laid back style, and insightful conversations make it a culturally interesting hang out for this trip.
Trying to find my niche in a foreign social scene is always a challenge if not impossibility. Given my American status and white skin, I can play the Lleras game, but would never go to its US equivalent. My left wing view points and education makes Parque Periodista good conversational fun, but again, I wouldn’t hang out with the smart, alternatives druggies under the bridge in the States either. The upper middle class stoner argument could be made for Parque Poblado, an undeniably good argument, but there too I am not quite socially at home and can’t make it my go-to spot. Truthfully, being the “tweener” that I am, I love playing to the extremes of both sides of my social spectrum and feel that I get a broader range of cultural experience than I would if I could identify with a social scene that fits who my American self truly is.
miércoles, 25 de junio de 2008
A day in the woods
I awoke Monday morning replaying a thought I had on my balcony Sunday night- “I don’t have a damn thing to do today”. Admittedly, I have never been the 9-5 type, and might make a run at the Guinness Book of World Records for fewest total hours worked by age 30 for a debt-free, non-junky; but even for me a completely empty Monday was off-putting. Trying my best to take advantage of a city that is undeniably a place to live and work, not be a tourist, I hopped a bus into the surrounding hillside to explore. I headed toward Santa Elena, a flower-filled pueblo popular among college Paisas as a place to go eat psychedelic mushrooms. Shroom-less and not really sure what I was looking for, I got off at the bus stop that most closely resembled civilization. I felt out of place to say the least, even more so than I am becoming accustomed to in Medellin. I meandered over to a local-filled bar trying to pretend I had a clue what I was doing, though wearing sandals and carrying a soccer ball made it quite obvious to everyone that I didn’t. I quickly sucked down a black, sweet liquid that claimed to be coffee, and asked if there was a hike or a soccer game nearby. Though intrigued by my optimism for a pick up soccer game in the middle of nowhere (in my defense there was at least a soccer field), I was pointed back the way I had came by bus as to where the tourists go to hike. Still not sure what kind of jewel of nature I would find, or even expected, I made my way off the main drag with the lone goal of finding a nice view overlooking Medellin by sunset. I walked along a paved but narrow road suitable for cars, that quickly became far more suited for horses or dirt bikes, and eventually narrowed so much that I wondered how I would fare on my dark return. Knowing I was within meters of a beautiful view, and now minutes of a setting sun, I picked up my pace in hopes of both achieving my previously stated goal, and not spending the night alone in a Colombian forest. Seconds after I had talked myself out of desperately going off the path to bushwhack to the view I was sure was on the other side of a few sets of trees, I finally came upon a beautiful clearing. To my surprise given the hour I had walked in utter solitude, there was a group of local teenagers there that recommended a faster way to get back to civilization, and smartly left before the sun dropped behind the city. I was not so smart, and wanted to revel in the completion of my day’s accomplishment, so I sat mapping out the different barrios in which I had once lived in the distant grid of the lit up city. Eventually I came back to the reality that even the local kids wanted some light to guide their way home, and started to head back.
The decision of whether to cautiously return the way I had come knowing it was to be long and dark, or to follow the advice of some kids who could be waiting for me in the bushes, was my first of many challenges in getting back to the glowing city below me. I opted with the more adventurous, and hopefully shorter route. A half hour later and with the stress of a worried parent just below the surface of an adventurous smile, I was questioning my route….. my choice of the day’s activities….and why I even came to Colombia at all. I then mercifully saw another person walking towards me who assured me that I was on the right path and the comforts of the pueblito were just 10 minutes away. My stress subsided like that of the parent whose child has called with a plausible lie of their whereabouts. No more than 2 minutes later, after specifically asking if there were any forks in the road, I get to a point where I either cut through someone’s farmland or continue on a ever-diminishing trail. Since there was an intended absence of barbed wire big enough even for my huge Gringo body to get through, I opted to go towards the farmhouses. I was happy with my choice as leaving the brush of the forest yielded a slight bit more light, but quickly began to question my judgment when about six harmless but loud dogs came running at me. Worse than the dogs was an awful shriek, not moo, of a cow in the yard that made it very clear to me that this was not a path frequented by many. This was one mad cow that I was afraid of. I quickly retreated and promptly explored my other option only to get myself confused (and thankful not to be shrooming), and almost so turned around that I couldn’t even get back to the salvation of a crazy cow. Feeling I had a better chance riding this bucking cow to safety than bushwhacking my way back to Medellin in the dark, I returned to face my newly acquired Cow-phobia. Again I was put to ease by seeing another more cow-savvy person, and again I was told I was almost to town.
Here is the cultural rub. Something I know and have joked about, but can’t seem to recognize when in the moment. Latinos are horrible with directions. And I mean this with no racism or stereotypes, nor do I mean they can’t follow directions or get themselves where they need to go. It has to do with giving directions. First, no one will just say they don’t know. Their desire to be helpful, friendly and give you the answer you want to hear screws not them, but the one they are trying to help. The direction asker is subjected to the 50-50 directional whim of which hand they point with, then a 1-60 even odds chance of the number of minutes it will take you to walk. My Colombian girlfriend once gave detailed directions to somebody to a place I knew she had never heard of. When I asked her why she sent the poor sap on an impossible goose chase, she said, “I didn’t want to be rude”.
So, now at least an hour from the “10-minute point”, through a heard of angry cows and killer dogs, skirting barbed wire fences and taking multiple different turns I was on a paved street and could smell the empanadas coming from town. That is why I was so surprised to eventually pop out at a corner store that was said to be a 15-minute bus-ride from town. Utterly confused as to where I was, where I went wrong, and what the hell the people that had given me directions were smoking, I stopped fighting it, got a juice and waited for the bus. Given the experience I had, the spot I was standing and the growing suspicion that maybe I really was shrooming, I thought the chances of a bus passing were about as good as the chances of Kobe opting to pass instead of shoot a three to win. But as is my luck with these random adventures, a mystical bus pulled up and I asked the bus driver in desperate and accented Spanish
“Where are you going?”
He replied “where would you like to go?”
“To Medellin” I optimistically stated.
“Lets go to Medellin, then”
I got on the bus, put my headphones back in, and contentedly gorged myself with those tiny caramels that you used to get by the handful at Halloween. Life was good.
The decision of whether to cautiously return the way I had come knowing it was to be long and dark, or to follow the advice of some kids who could be waiting for me in the bushes, was my first of many challenges in getting back to the glowing city below me. I opted with the more adventurous, and hopefully shorter route. A half hour later and with the stress of a worried parent just below the surface of an adventurous smile, I was questioning my route….. my choice of the day’s activities….and why I even came to Colombia at all. I then mercifully saw another person walking towards me who assured me that I was on the right path and the comforts of the pueblito were just 10 minutes away. My stress subsided like that of the parent whose child has called with a plausible lie of their whereabouts. No more than 2 minutes later, after specifically asking if there were any forks in the road, I get to a point where I either cut through someone’s farmland or continue on a ever-diminishing trail. Since there was an intended absence of barbed wire big enough even for my huge Gringo body to get through, I opted to go towards the farmhouses. I was happy with my choice as leaving the brush of the forest yielded a slight bit more light, but quickly began to question my judgment when about six harmless but loud dogs came running at me. Worse than the dogs was an awful shriek, not moo, of a cow in the yard that made it very clear to me that this was not a path frequented by many. This was one mad cow that I was afraid of. I quickly retreated and promptly explored my other option only to get myself confused (and thankful not to be shrooming), and almost so turned around that I couldn’t even get back to the salvation of a crazy cow. Feeling I had a better chance riding this bucking cow to safety than bushwhacking my way back to Medellin in the dark, I returned to face my newly acquired Cow-phobia. Again I was put to ease by seeing another more cow-savvy person, and again I was told I was almost to town.
Here is the cultural rub. Something I know and have joked about, but can’t seem to recognize when in the moment. Latinos are horrible with directions. And I mean this with no racism or stereotypes, nor do I mean they can’t follow directions or get themselves where they need to go. It has to do with giving directions. First, no one will just say they don’t know. Their desire to be helpful, friendly and give you the answer you want to hear screws not them, but the one they are trying to help. The direction asker is subjected to the 50-50 directional whim of which hand they point with, then a 1-60 even odds chance of the number of minutes it will take you to walk. My Colombian girlfriend once gave detailed directions to somebody to a place I knew she had never heard of. When I asked her why she sent the poor sap on an impossible goose chase, she said, “I didn’t want to be rude”.
So, now at least an hour from the “10-minute point”, through a heard of angry cows and killer dogs, skirting barbed wire fences and taking multiple different turns I was on a paved street and could smell the empanadas coming from town. That is why I was so surprised to eventually pop out at a corner store that was said to be a 15-minute bus-ride from town. Utterly confused as to where I was, where I went wrong, and what the hell the people that had given me directions were smoking, I stopped fighting it, got a juice and waited for the bus. Given the experience I had, the spot I was standing and the growing suspicion that maybe I really was shrooming, I thought the chances of a bus passing were about as good as the chances of Kobe opting to pass instead of shoot a three to win. But as is my luck with these random adventures, a mystical bus pulled up and I asked the bus driver in desperate and accented Spanish
“Where are you going?”
He replied “where would you like to go?”
“To Medellin” I optimistically stated.
“Lets go to Medellin, then”
I got on the bus, put my headphones back in, and contentedly gorged myself with those tiny caramels that you used to get by the handful at Halloween. Life was good.
domingo, 8 de junio de 2008
A weekend in a pueblo
For my first weekend in Medellin I opted to forgo the anatomically enhanced Parque Lleras for a pueblo an hour outside of the city. Lleras is a phenomenon like no other in terms of beautiful people per square foot, and in my previous trips I felt like a Gringo kid in a Latin candy store on most Friday nights. But this weekend was for nature, tranquility, and escaping the bustle of the big city, and Lleras deserves a night and an entry of its own. Santa Fe de Antioquia is one of a dozen pueblos within a few hours of Medellin that Paisa city dwellers frequent for long weekends and holidays. These pueblos vary greatly in climate due to the mountainous landscape, and one can literally choose if they want to leave the moderate temperature of Medellin for hot and sunny, or cold and crisp by traveling an hour in either direction. The norm for middle class to elite Paisas is not to go to the pueblo center, but to a finca (Literally “farm” but seems to really just mean “house not in the city”). Every Paisa will at least tell you they own a finca…..and have a cousin in Miami.
The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.
The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.
Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.
The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.
When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.
I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.
With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.
After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.
The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.
The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.
Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.
The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.
When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.
I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.
With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.
After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.
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