Colombia:Part I, The Interior

I have wanted to go to Colombia for a long time. First, back in high school when it was considered one of the most dangerous places on earth. My mythology teacher told our class stories of traveling through the country with her husband after they got married. They were in three automobile accidents, their bus tipped over once and they were shot at. Sound like a honeymoon to you?

That is the Colombia of yesterday, a far cry of what you see today. The people and government have tried hard-and succeeded-in changing the country's reputation from a kidnapping and drug smuggling paradise to a peaceful and diverse destination. So much in fact that today the Department of Tourism for Colombia has a slogan that says, "Colombia. The only risk is wanting to stay."

I arrived in Bogota and stayed with a friend of mine, Melissa. Melissa and I had never met face-to-face before but we've known each other for several years through a mutual friend of ours whom I went to school with, Aida. Remember the opening scene in Mr. and Mrs. Smith where the characters played by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie meet in Bogota at a colonial-style hotel ridden with bullet holes, surrounded by palms and it's about 100 degrees outside and explosions are going off in the distance? Colombians hate that movie. The city has an elevation near 8,000 feet in the Andes Mountains and temps rarely exceed 70 degrees, there are very few examples of colonial architecture or palm trees and the city has never been under heavy fighting like was shown in the movie. I don't blame Hollywood though, I mean who wants to see Angelinain a parka?

For four days Melissa and I cruised around Bogota seeing the sights like the Salt Cathedral, going shopping (I needed to boost my wardrobe) and surfing her internet for free (a luxury I hadn't enjoyed for months.) We also went to a birthday party for one of her friends and I was introduced to vallenato, a type of folk music that's very popular on the Caribbean coast. Its accompanied by an accordion and guacharaca, a ridged stick that is played by scraping a wire fork over the ridges to keep the rhythm.

From Bogota I went to Medellin. I could live in Medellin. The weather is described as "eternal spring" and fluctuates very little throughout the year. (Wyoming readers: "spring" is a pleasant season between winter and summer characterized by warm temperatures, new growth, emergence and renewal. It doesn't exist where you live!) Previous generations might associate Medellin with Pablo Escobar, whereas current generations associate it with Latin pop sensation, Juanes!

I don't know exactly what it is about the city but I got the feeling as soon as I arrived, that I liked it. Maybe its the weather, or the cleanliness of the streets, the convenience of the metro rail, the beauty of the valley or the attractiveness of its people. I'm sure its a combination of all these variables and more, the truth is I liked Medellin instantly!

My couchsurfing host was Veronica. What can I say about her? She's one of the best hosts I've had and she shaped my experience in Medellin into something I could not have experienced on my own. We walked through downtown visiting the botanical gardens, the planetarium and a couple parks. We were going dancing with her friends that evening. The famous Colombian author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez says, five Colombians in a room inevitable turns into a party. There is a lot of truth to that. As we waited for everyone to arrive a party spontaneously began on the sidewalk! A couple drinks, some plastic chairs, a barbecue grill and a stereo brought people together and before you know it I was receiving some vallenato dancing lessons right there on the sidewalk! Before long we went to a street lined with clubs blaring salsa, merengue, vallenato and reggaeton music and danced into the early morning.

The next day we went to town for the Labor Day Parade. Or at least, what I thought was going to be a parade. Veronica called it a march and when I asked if they would throw candy she said no, but they would probably throw explosives! That's when I learned a new Spanish word: lacrimogeno, or tear gas in English. About ninety-five percent of the marchers are normal, peaceful workers marching for recognition, representation or protesting labor rights. The other five percent are made up of the anarchists and communists. A select few actually believe in a cause and desire revolution. For the most part though, they are mostly young people who want to break stuff (Why else would the two groups march together? They should be polar opposites.)

We shadowed this group as they marched through town, spray-painting revolutionary slogans on store fronts, throwing rocks and paintballs at buildings and lighting explosives in sidestreets. The riot police soon showed up and walked alongside them acting as a small, and sometimes futile barrier, between the businesses and the marchers. You could physically feel the tension rising the further we walked and I was confident I was going to see some tear gas. See some tear gas, I wasn't thinking I was going to get shot with it! As soon as we arrived at a wide boulevard the police finally lost their patience. Veronica and I were in between the police and the hooligans (not a good place to be) when they stared running. I turned to look and saw smoke rising from gas canisters in the street and police shooting more into the crowd. I didn't look back again! I grabbed Veronica and turned to run when I was shot in the back. I ripped off the scarf I was wearing and gave it to Veronica and covered my face with my shirt to try to breathe. Tear gas makes it nearly impossible to see or breathe, both of which are very necessary when you're trying to run away from something. The entire morning I was excited to have this experience, but as we were running and my face was burning, and I couldn't open my eyes, I had snot hanging out of my nose and I wanted to puke up my lungs I decided, 'Okay, that's enough! I don't want this experience anymore!' Then just as we thought it was safe to slow down, the armored truck drove through and shot us with a water cannon which prompted us to run further.

Once you get away from the gas, your lungs feel better and your eyes begin to clear up, but your face continues to burn. Fortunately, my trusty sidekick new the antidote and bought some milk to wash our faces in. It quickly took the burning away and we gave it to anyone who needed it. At that moment, when we were standing in the street, soaking wet from the water cannon, our eyes teary and bloodshot, still trying to catch our breath and milk running down our faces, I gave Veronica a big hug thanking her for this experience and we began to laugh!

We were back with the other ninety-five percent in the march within fifteen minutes, eating a popsicle and listening to music like nothing happened. It was going to be another beautiful day in Medellin.