Stable Heart

Tranquilo. Fresca. Todo Bien. Calma. Relajada.

My pulse stabilizes. My shoulders slide down to their natural position. My eyebrows separate, dissolving the seemingly ever-present crease that has lived between them for the last ten years. My breath is full and rich and when I inhale, I smell the prickly scent of Pine and Eucalyptus. Exhale.

Colombia fascinates me. It wraps me up with the warmth of my favorite childhood blanket. It all seems familiar, it even smells familiar, though I'm living a completely new life in an entirely new world. The people take me in for lunch, then buy me coffee afterwards. At night we dance and discuss music and the intricacies of our idiomas diferentes. The hands of the clock tick slowly, and for the first time I have nowhere to be... Nowhere to be but right here, in this exact moment. What a feeling!

I am not on anyone's payroll. I have no income, and only a hope of a job after three weeks in Manizales. Luckily for me, the cost of living is doable for the recently-unemployed American. I spend very little in my daily life. For example, it is a mere $.50 for a bus ride into town, $3.00 for a 3-course lunch, and $7.00 for two potent afternoon martinis. My meager savings will last me quite a while here, even with a healthy appetite of late nights and 25-minute taxi rides to Malteria (a whopping $5).

I am a musician, a teacher, a writer, and a world-wanderer. Beautiful words, cierto? In reality, they simply mean I lead an unstable life when it comes to money. I more often have short-term "jobs" that suffice until my pocket is full enough to move on to greener pastures. I choose this life freely. Me encanta. I believe this mentality is common for travelers, but for the first time in my wandering life, I want to stay. Here. Right here. In Manizales, Colombia. Yo quiero a quedar.

Colombians have many words that essentially mean "chill-the-fuck-out", and they mean it. In any given conversation you'll hear "Tranquiiiiiilo. Todo Bien!... Si, si, relajada hermosa!" A literal translation would equal to "Calm down, everything is good!... Yeah yeah, relax pretty girl!" It's much more convincing in Spanish though, believe me. Perhaps they know something we don't.

The frequency of suicide in Colombia is less than 2%. In the United States, the percentage climbs to over 10%. One tenth of the population of the United States is lost each year to suicide. Think that through for a moment. What?? The stress of daily life eventually leads to our demise. Instead of enjoying each precious moment on this entirely awesome and majestic earth, we are finding reasons to leave it. How does that make sense? Tranquilo, mi amor. Todo bien. En realidad, todo es perfecto.

Today I saw a motorcycle run into the back of a stopped car at a busy intersection near the Cable Plaza. I gasped as the man flew forward onto the street before him. Cars slowly avoided the man as he stood up, uninjured, and brushed himself off. Three police officers came to the scene immediately (they were also watching from my same corner on the sidewalk) and spoke to both the motorcyclist and the driver of the stopped car. No one rushed, the man was obviously okay, and no one seemed angry at all! The accident was resolved on both ends in under one minute.

Replay this scene on a busy New York City street - perhaps 2nd Avenue and St. Marks in the East Village. Would the end result be the same? Oh no, my friend. I, myself, have been guilty of slapping the hood of a yellow taxi and screaming obscenities simply because the taxi driver had tried to slowly turn on a yellow light at a crossing that I was leisurely (or more likely drunkenly) walking across. Oof. How embarrassing.

I'm not alone here, but I don't have the community of friends and loved ones that I had in New York. I don't have a "job" yet, but I've sent an invoice to the best school in Manizales for September. Money isn't flowing. My future is as unstable as it has always been. But I'm learning new things every day. Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned thus far is - just go with it. Release all inhibitions and accept that nothing is under control. In this way, oddly enough, everything is perfect.

Tranquilo. Fresca. Todo Bien. Calma. Relajada.

Just BREATHE.

No, No, Gringo

Today I saw a chicken cross the road, and I couldn't think of the punch line.  Well, it was a rooster to be exact and the hen was close behind him. Two peas in a pod. Two birds of a feather? Two phrases too cliche.

There is nothing cliche about my current situation. Everything is new and strange and completely unexpected. Simple tasks like getting groceries or opening a can of tomatoes can present extreme challenges when you are a stranger in a foreign land. 

Walking to De Uno (the cheaper grocery store in town) requires fifteen minutes of relentless trekking. The roads are steep and curvy. I think to myself that a walking stick may actually be appropriate in this situation. My knees are creaky and stiff at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. I am getting lost at each possible turn and end finally decide to ask for help.

I approach a lady who is distinguished, and polished. She is probably around sixty years old with ironed pants and pearl earrings; a safe choice. As I near her, she averts my eyes and picks up her pace. 

"Disculpe me, por favor," I start. She looks at me and looks away, her pace unwaning. Perhaps she didn't hear me, I think.

"Disculpe me," I try again. This time she slows, looks me square in the eyes, pinches her lips together tightly and wags one finger disapprovingly in my direction. She steps widely across the sidewalk to avoid being close as she passes.

I am aghast. My appearance is clean - even conservative - and my question was asked with politeness and respect. I realize... I have just experienced my first Gringo Racist. The air in my lungs is temporarily unavailable. I take it personally. It is similar to the feeling I had three summers ago in a New York Subway train when a group of men surrounded me with insults like "Stupid, white bitch," and "Why you ignoring me, white cunt? You think you're better than me? Is it cuz I'm black?"

Racism is a tricky thing. I understand my experiences with direct racism are limited. I am one of the lucky ones. I grew up in a middle-class community in Middle America as a white girl. I had the whole world in the palm of my hands. I grew up in America, for God's sake: Land of the Free. But for so many people, it isn't free at all. 

Perhaps those men threatened me simply because they had been subject to racism for so long, they thought it natural to lash out at my pale appearance. Perhaps they had been pummeled by white NYPD officers for crossing the street too close to a pretty little white girl who grew up in Middle America. Is that freedom?

To resume my story about finding the grocery store - I quickly recover my shock and approach a young Colombian couple. They are holding hands and walking slowly. They do not avoid me, and smile when I say "Disculpe me, por favor". In my limited Spanish, I explain that I am looking for a grocery store called De Uno. "Conoces?" The girl shakes her head "yes" and then tells me her boyfriend will be glad to accompany me. This young man then proceeds to walk ten more minutes up and down steep mountainside roads in the opposite direction of his house just to show me the location of this grocery store. 

Kindness prevails. I just hope the balance will always stay in the favor of the open-hearted.

No Dar Papaya

I returned to La Playa Blanca last week for the third time in my Colombian experience.

This tropical paradise is a slice of heaven complete with white sand (hence the name), crystal blue Caribbean Sea, delicious Coco Locos and fresh fried fish. I take a motorcycle taxi there from Cartagena with my new friend Laurie-from-Canada.  The trip, combined with the bus to get to the moto-taxis takes around 2 hours and costs about $8 USD.

The motorcycle driver is attractive in a dark and mysterious way that is closer to dangerous than sweet. His voice is soft and suave and he stops more than once to help Laurie and I find our footing on the small bike. We race towards the beach with the wind in our hair, smiling and laughing at the dangerous road rules (or lack thereof) giddy with youth. As we near the beach, the dreaded question arises.

"Tu tienes un novio?"

His voice is so soft, I make him repeat his words. This time, more slowly, he asks me "Tu tienes un novio?" while he covers my hand with his. We are very close to the beach and there are plenty of people around, but I can't help but feel a little threatened.

"Oh! Si. Yo tengo!!" In broken spanish I explain that both Laurie and I have boyfriends waiting for us at the beach. I had previously thought of this excuse as a precaution on the bus ride to the motorcycles - just in case this exact situation arose.

The motorcycle man tries to explain that he'll be better than our boyfriends. He'll be enough for both of us.

"Oh, haha... No gracias!" I make a joke out of the situation and pretend to be at ease, although this man is starting to genuinely get under my skin. He grabs my hand tighter as he slows to a stop at the entrance of the beach. Before he lets me go, he cracks three of my knuckles. It doesn't hurt, but it is a warning. If I stay longer, or speak more to this man, I will be his. I pay him quickly and rush Laurie to the beach before explaining why we ran out so fast.

This was my first uncomfortable experience in the paradise of La Playa Blanca.

The second came that night.

I start drinking (but not too much) with a group of new friends and we decide to make some music. I know Jorge, a musician in the next hostel, from my previous times at this beach. I interrupt him to ask for his guitar and he says, "Ahhh! You are the girl with the beautiful voice!!" I thank him, and he offers to play drums while I play his guitar.

"Por supuesto!" I say.

Jorge and I jam until 11pm before we realize everyone else has gone to bed. We want more beers and more music so we ramble down the beach until we see an open hut. There is music and dancing, and we sit for drinks and conversation.

While we chat of hometowns and jobs with a small group of locals, I start to notice the beauty of this Bogota-born man. He has stunning green-grey eyes and his golden skin stretches sweetly over his active body like caramel sauce on a Golden Delicious. Trouble.

All of a sudden, a hermit crab catches my eye. I squeal with delight and get up from the circle to chase my new friend. I love the funny way they walk, scared and sideways, their eyes bugged out in constant surprise. Jorge picks it up and places it on my arm. I scream, laugh, and ask for it again. I realize, perhaps, I can't handle the crab legs on my arm and return the five paces back to my chair.

My phone, which I had left on my chair in the circle of four new friends, is gone. One of my new friends has acquired a new phone, and I have no one to blame but myself. Pero...una rata!

Luckily, I know Jorge is not a culprit. I would have hated to imagine such a pretty face stealing my phone. But the man who took it (it is very obvious) starts screaming at me when I ask for it back. I decide to let well enough alone and chalk it up to a stupid loss. I have not been physically hurt, but if I pressure the thief much longer, my chances of getting out unscathed lessen.

Jorge takes my hand, apologizes profusely and offers to take me to the police station in the morning. I thank him and tell him I'll figure it out later. In situations like these, I know it is unlikely the police will be of any help, but I keep my mouth shut. It is a beautiful night and I am alive.

"Swim?" Jorge asks.

"Porque no?" I reply.

We undress in the moonlight and leave our clothes on the beach. Together we enter the warm waves of the ocean, the stars our only audience. I look down and see glitter trailing behind the movement of my hands.

"Bioluminescence" Jorge explains. "It happens at night when there is little light from the moon."

I have never seen such incredible beauty. I feel like I have magic powers as I kick up specks of shiny green light that glitter in the black sea then fade away.

"Float?" He asks. I say yes and he lifts my seemingly weightless body to the top of a wave. The only sound in my ears is the hum of the current. The only thing I see is an ocean of sparkling stars.

There is a saying in Colombia, "No dar papaya". Literally it means, don't give papaya, but the phrase itself is a warning to take care of your belongings. Don't give a thief easy access. Don't wear expensive jewelry or take photos with a fancy camera in an impoverished neighborhood. And for God's sake... don't leave your iPhone 4 with your shiny pink case on a plastic chair in La Playa Blanca.

But if every victim of petty theft had a night that ended like mine, perhaps papaya would be given more freely.

Mountains, Mariposas, and Manizales

Andres, the owner of El Color De Mis Reves, has arranged to pick me up at the air cable one stop away from the main bus station. I am to stay there for one month teaching music workshops on the weekends and writing during the day. Food and lodging is included. 

After much confusion at the terminal, I finally find my way up the large staircase and onto an air cable towards Manizales. Imagine - four kind and quiet Colombians on their way into town stuffed into the same tiny cable car as one clumsy gringo with way too much baggage. The car is lopsided with my 50lb pack and guitar, but the view is stunning. We are high above the scenic town and I realize I've never seen so many shades of green. Thick masses of Eucalyptus, Palm and Evergreen reach majestically to the clouds that seem just out of their reach. The clouds, like the cable car, move slowly and I relax.

As I leave the car, I spot a tall man waiting by a white Kia. He has dark, curly salt and pepper hair and is very tall. He says "Jana!! I've been waiting, haha!!" I explain my confusion at the terminal and he laughs softly and waves it off. He carries an ease about him that resonates tranquility.

He loads my belongings into the back of his small car and I notice a little girl in a car seat. She is covering both eyes with her hand, her curly black hair cascading over in a playful mess. She is beautiful.

"This is my daughter, Franchesca," Andres explains. "She is three."

"Hi!" I say, somewhat overzealously. I'm surprised when she doesn't respond, then realize this little lady speaks Spanish... not English. Obviously.

"Hola! Como Estas?!" I try. She uncovers one eye and then quickly hides again. I smile and proceed to the front seat. Andres has some errands to run in town and asks if I can stay in the car with Franchesca. "Of course!" I reply.

As soon as Andres leaves, I turn back to Franchesca. "Hola!" Her hands are tight against her eyes. "Yo te veo a ti!..." She removes one hand. "Ah! Aqui!! Franchesca es aqui!" A melodious laughter erupts from her little frame. I've done it!

When I turn around again, her eyes are covered, but her hands can't hide the giant smile taking up the remainder of her face. "Franchesca!... Hola? Franchesca? Donde esta Franchesca??"

"Aqui, aqui!!" She squeals, kicking her feet against my chair.

"Oh! Si! Hola Franchesca!"

This dialogue repeats until her father returns. She resumes silence, but her eyes are no longer hidden and her little mouth has a little smile.

I think we will be the best of friends.

An Airport Ride to Medellin

I start taking pictures of Medellin while still in midair. The mountains soar through thin clouds and drop dramatically to reveal deep valleys, farmlands, and pueblos. None of my pictures quite capture this reverent beauty as the plane lowers to the tarmac. While waiting for my massive moleta to slide by in the baggage claim, I make small talk with an Indian family I'd met in Cartagena. Surprisingly, they hail from the Midwest as well. The mother and father are both surgeons at Riley Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana - my birthplace - and are taking a leisurely Colombian vacation with their astute ten-year-old-daughter. We say our goodbyes and after some confusion with transportation, I start talking to a young Colombian man with an amicable face and short stature. He speaks no English but we manage to communicate that we should split a taxi for the 45-minute ride into town for economic purposes (though mine, unbeknownst to him, is also for safety). Altogether, the ride costs $60,000 COP or about $31.00 USD. Perfecto.

I realize I've just entrusted two strange men to guide me to my destination, but strange is becoming more and more familiar. I am not at all afraid as I introduce myself to the young man. Andres Fernan is a dance teacher in Cartagena who has lived in Cali (the Salsa capital of the world) for most of his life. He smiles frequently and asks questions I can answer easily in Spanish. The taxi driver is quiet and knowledgeable and converses freely with Andres Fernan about the duration of the trip and the direction of the barrio.

The men's conversation sinks to a peaceful hum as I breathe in the stunning countryside of Medellin. The mountainsides are covered with rich green plant life, the roads are winding and steep, and the windows seem to be rolled down out of necessity for the pure, fresh air. We pass cows grazing, and horses running freely while Reggaeton and Salsa drift in and out of focus.

As we pull up to the Intercontinental Hotel (the location of which I am to meet my host family), both men jump out before me to lift my heavy bag and guitar safely to the sidewalk. Andres Fernan pays the fare and as I reach for my cash he shakes his head.

"No. Es mi placer."

I argue a bit just to make sure. "Seguro? Yo tengo treinte mil... esta bien."

"No, no. Tranquilo. Todo bien."

He smiles again and I say a quick "Gracias" before putting my cash back in my bag.

Thank you, sir. And much thanks to the driver. And the family from Indiana. And the beautiful land and the cloud-covered cielo.

Muchas, muchas gracias para todo.

The Return

The first thing I feel as I return to Cartagena is the heat. I step off the plane and into a balmy greenhouse smell that reminds me of my first trip to Colombia on the twenty-sixth of March earlier this year. The guard at Customs is, once again, completely charming. A sweet, middle-aged man with a leather face and a full head of curly gray hair waves me to the window. He thumbs through my passport and asks me which street my hostel is on. I answer, "Calle Quero. El nombre del hostel es Makako."

"¡Quero! Oh no... No Quero...No Calle Quero!!"

Then a mischievous grin starts to spread from the right corner of his mouth. He looks at my picture, my face, my picture, then back at my face in a quick cartoonish fashion. His eyebrows are twisted in faux confusion. Suddenly a smile as big as the Magdalena River washes over his sweet face as he says, 

"¡Bienvenidos, chica!"

Welcome home, Jana.
Colombia has been waiting.