Happy Anniversary Cartagena

It's a universally accepted truth that time flies when you're having fun. And since this past year living, working and loving in Cartagena has absolutely rocketed by, you can assume that I've had mega huge truckloads of fun. Although, as many of you can attest, I kindof always do.

Since this is our anniversary, I wanted to get all romantic and write a bit of a love letter/thank you note to my adoptive city. It might help to explain what the heck I am doing all the way over here in Colombia. And maybe even inspire some of you to visit.

So.. Cartagena! Mi vida! Mi amor! It's been one year since I found myself at your tiny aiport after flying from Buenos Aires, via Peru. We got off to a pretty good start right away. Despite never meeting me before, new friend Willy, picked me up from the airport and dropped me at my hotel. This, ofcourse, involved driving along Avenida Santander where I first saw the kilometres and kilometres of unobstructed beachfront I am now so familiar with, stretching out for me under the setting sun. And man! You sure know how to set a sun. Where do you even come up with those colours? The dreamy purples and blues, nudging their way into the shock of almost fluorescent orange and peach, all set off with a kindof halo of gold and a salty ocean haze. Each day your sunsets are different and differently spectacular. I never tire of them. 

 

I arrived just as you were readying yourself for the start of FICCI: an international film festival that transforms the streets and plazas and theatres around town into one giant free movie cinema – 7 days of almost non-stop film. There was a buzz, an energy, almost touchably thick in the air. It seemed that every bar was filled with up-and-coming directors discussing way-out ideas, getting drunk on aguardiente and dancing salsa. 

So I joined in. Obviously. 

There was a tall, dark stranger who held my body close so that I had no choice but to move as he moved. I overcame my Australian “personal-space issues” and together we danced; sweaty, exhilarated and punctuated by shots of Colombia's own rum, until the sun threatened to rise again. I retreated to my beachfront hostel by way of a hilarious taxi driver, rested for a few hours, then set out once more under the gloriously warm sunshine, impatient to explore.

People often ask me, Why you? Why would I choose to live in Cartagena? My answer usually has something to do with the warmth, the colour, the music I encountered that first day walking around your streets, and that I continue to experience each day as I fall more and more in love with you. It somehow felt like you were giving me a giant hug. The way 8 different types of music were playing simultaneously from 8 different portable music players within the one short street and it still felt right. The way the vendors pushing carts of fruit, saturated in colour, would sing out their daily haul – aguacates, papaya, limones, so that the people in the houses could come out and buy from this ever moving mobile market. Everyone moves with music. They act with kindness, humour and smiling eyes. Life is taken way less seriously than dancing here.

I've more than embraced the dancing way of life. I manage to dance in some way every single day. Sometimes all day (hello fiestas de independencia and Carnaval, I'm looking at you!). And that's good enough for you. The people have in turn embraced me; this crazy Australian who dances a lot like a Colombian (but a little too fast and a little too big – “mas SUAVE por favor!”) and it hasn't seemed to matter a great deal that my Spanish is below par, so long as they can see me wiggling with all my energy and with a mega-watt grin. I started going to Zumba classes with the amazing, incredible, inspirational Erv. We started giving the classes publicly in Plaza Trinidad. The locals, the children, the expats, the everyone – joined in.. lending me almost celebrity status in the barrio. One of the songs we dance to is that previously annoying car alarm sound. Like the entire song is made up of that series of sirens. So anyway, thanks to zumba and Erv and you, Cartagena, even a previously annoying sound now makes me smile and want to dance.

So yes, even though I definitely stand out here, I still feel like I fit in.

I've learned so much!

Drink half your cup when you buy a juice so you can get a top up free. Tourists never do that. Suckers. And isn't that awesome? You always want just that little bit more, right?

Catch a colectivo. This is the best concept ever. No matter where you are going you can always share a taxi with three other complete strangers and share the expense, you just have to know where to leave from and get ready to raise a single finger (this is the symbol for colectivo as opposed to regular private taxis). When I do catch a taxi (very infrequently) I know all the real set prices for the different barrios depending upon the time of day. And if the taxi driver says an amount higher, I've learned to say “No jodaaaa” until he realises I am, in fact, a costena disguised as a blonde Australian. I've also learned to decipher the meaning of the different taxi-horn beeps (“hey, I'm here”, “hey, want a ride?” “hey, you're pretty” “Hey, I'm bored waiting in this traffic”).

I've learned to distinguish between merengue, vallenato, champeta, reggaeton, salsa, cumbia and bachata (among others) and do a passable impersonation of someone who knows how to dance each of the different styles.

I've learned a lot about your history, the stories, the monuments, the ongoing struggles, the controversies. There's still so much to learn. You've definitely led an interesting life.

And wow! You are super popular! It seems everyone in the world wants to visit you, have a major international conference or event with you, get married with you. A city after my own heart, you really like to party. And when you party, you always do it for at least a week. None of this weak-assed single day stuff for you. No senor.

I've had pinch-me-moments where I've been invited to enormous colonial mansions with grotto-like swimming pools and chandeliers with real candles. Days out on yachts visiting private islands and eating lobster. Met inspirational people and certified geniuses. Basked in the glow of their ideas and ambition, then felt a little cold when they all inevitably packed up and returned to reality.

I haven't found a boyfriend. But I've amassed some seriously entertaining stories while I've looked. And I think I'm getting close to developing an understanding of the complexities of Colombian men and the way they are different according to which part of the country they hail from. And why I probably won't end up being with one. That's all fodder for a separate entry, however. Perhaps a book.

More importantly I've made some really amazing friends. America's best and brightest who are here working as part of Peace Corp or the Fullbright Scholar programme, other expats from around the world who are captivated by the latin world and have come here to teach or translate or volunteer and make a difference, others who work in tourism or hospitality, locals who are endlessly sharing their perspectives and priceless insider knowledge with me, or teaching me street-slang. People I've partied with, danced with, eaten with, spoken very bad Spanish with, felt a connection with, felt like I belonged with. People who visited for a short while but somehow formed a bond with me that I will carry forever. So many amazing friends that it really feels like it has to have been more than a year to have amassed such quality and quantity. I'm not going to name names, but thank you. I love you.

Can I just name random things I love about you now? Gonna.

I love the pimped out buses with all their glitter and signs praising God. I love the enterprising rappers and chocolate salesman that travel on them looking to make a bit of money. I love how the buses have sound effects (like a cheesy radio station) so they can wolf-whistle hot girls they pass.

I love all the public holidays you have. It seems like there's one a fortnight.

I love Getsemani and the feeling of community there. If one person owns something, the entire barrio owns it. Need a ladder? Well, go see Rodrigo. Need a hammer? Dario is your man etc. People have less, but then they also have more because everyone shares.

I love how it's always Summer. Always.

I love leaving the house feeling dowdy only to be declared a goddess, queen, precious princess (insert multiple other over-the-top compliments here) by every man I pass.

I love $3 pedicures and $4 haircuts.

I love bolis (frozen home-made ice-blocks in various tropical fruit flavours).

I love the bright pink Kola Roman softdrink.

I love the Plazas: Trinidad for chess playing and friends-greeting. San Diego to soak up the creativity of the artistic students who frequent it. Simon Bolivar to buy enyucado from one of the Palenqueras. Santa Domingo to watch Shakiro (your tubby-bellied male drag version of Shakira).

I love the way costena women colour-block. And colour-block in neon no less. Black? You've got to be kidding. Their patchwork painted houses are just as bright and I really believe all this colour makes people happy. It definitely makes me happy.

You can buy hot pork crackling whenever you want, but my obsession is coconut water. It's all new craze and fancypants in the first-world (or is it back to being old news now?) but here it is fresh from a coconut, fresh from the beach. The water is poured into the same long thin plastic bags they use for bolis, and tied off. When the bags are used and empty they look like condoms. This amuses me too.

I love all the hand/body gestures and their meanings, like how Colombians point to stuff with their lips. The way they say “no” with the most decisive finger-wave you've ever seen.

I love running along your bays, your beaches, perhaps pausing to buy freshly caught fish from the very man who caught it on the way home.

I love that people love big butts here, to the extent that butt implants are really commonplace. If someone tells me my ass is big, it is 100% genuinely intended as a compliment. My roommate actually applies butt-enhancing cream every night in the hope of making hers bigger.

I love my work. Our website, www.thisiscartagena.com is going to be a huge success and I love that I've been on-board almost since the beginning. I'm also loving doing my tours with www.cartagenaconnections.com and sharing all the the things I love about you, giving visitors the local experience even if they are only in town for as little as a day.

I love your walls – 11 kilometres of communal seating area with amazing views surviving from the 1600s; the perfect perch for making-out, sunset-gazing, wish-making. Or just public drinking. I love how on Sundays they turn into the perfect backdrop for baseball.

I love how if you feel you need to “get-away”, you're just 15 minutes by dinghy from Tierra Bomba, which feels like your own private island retreat. And if you have ganas to go further afield, the islands just get more and more beautiful and remote.

There's things I don't love, ofcourse. My biggest gripe is the way people (like, every single person) litter your beaches, your streets, your waterways. Then they tell me it's good to do it because it gives the people who clean, an occupation. But the public cleaners only clean certain parts and the rest of the rubbish mounts up and clogs drainways, and lines the bottom of the bays and chokes wildlife and is stuffed amongst piles of rocks on the beach. But I am going to do what I can to try and change some of these attitudes.

And I've got time to do it. Although we're still in the honeymoon phase Cartagena, I really believe we have a future, and I plan to dedicate myself to making it work with you (sorry Mum). 

So, thank you Cartagena for an amazing year. Thank you for giving me a place in the world. Here's hoping things just keep getting better.

And can we maybe do something about the boyfriend, please?

Where the streets have no name

Actually, a more accurate (although decidedly un-catchy) title would be; Where the Streets Have Numbers Instead of Names or Really Random Names That Hint At an Amusing and Interesting Backstory, or Both. 

See,  directions can be difficult in Cartagena.

Type a destination into the modern wonder that is google maps, and the pin will point you to a neatly numbered calle (street) that seems to sequentially follow the numbered street beside it and precede the numbered street on the other side. 

Simple, right?

Sorry, no. The thing is, in Cartagena's Centro District, NOBODY uses the numbers. Instead there are colourful names like Calle de Tripita y Media (Street of Tripe and a Half), or Tumbamuertas (Street of the Fall Down Dead). These are the names people who live here actually use. They appear on the floral lettered wall plaques of polished marble on every corner. On hotel stationary. Sometimes they even appear on maps. And the myths and stories that gave birth to them are passed down through the generations and shared with a few lucky tourists.



Intrigued by what made the dead fall down? This particular name apparently dates from the 1800s, when the rickety carts carrying plague victims, dropped the unfortunate corpses due to the street's poorly maintained bumps and potholes. 

A particularly generous vendor who always dished out an extra half serve of tripe could be found in the Getsemani street named Tripita y Media. The alternative explanation is the lady selling the tripe always did so wearing only her socks. An interesting combination.

Yesterday I was told the origins of my street, Calle de San Antonio. San Antonio is usually identified as the patron saint of lost articles and people. Hmm.. perhaps given my general hopelessness in this area I should keep him on speed-dial? Although considering I have lost about 6 phones since I got here, speed-dial might not be the best approach. Anyway.. a young woman who lived on this street was particularly distraught with the fact there was a boyfriend missing from her life. Wisened women who knew all about these things told her she should ofcourse pray to San Antonio to find her a boyfriend. She did as they instructed, purchasing a weighty statue and praying to the saint morning and night. But after months and months of unanswered prayers, the girl became so frustrated she cursed San Antonio and threw the statue out her window in disgust. This was shortly followed by the anguished screams of pain from the poor sod who was whacked in the head by the hurtling hunk of sainthood. Ofcourse the girl, apologising profusely, was obliged to tend to the stranger's wounds. And ofcourse, dot. dot. dot. they fell in love. San Antonio coming through with the goods. Awwwww...

The first street I lived in here was called Calle de las Chancletas (street of thongs/flip-flops). There's the street of bitterness. The street of ladies.The street of the bomb - particularly controversial among historians who have been unable to determine exactly what bomb the name refers to. The streets have been named and renamed. Each time, reflecting the emergence of a new local legend, another plot twist in the film-like history of this slave-built, pirate-plagued, king-coveted city.

In the "new" city of Bocagrande, most often described to me as a dirtier version of Miami, the numbers are actually used in practice as well as theory. It's clearer. More organised. But in reality, so much less fun. Yes, you can determine very easily how far away Calle 22 is, if you are currently eating icecream on Calle 25. But there is no way I would have discovered that I simply have to start pegging pietists onto the street and true love will be mine.

So when you holiday in Cartagena, give Google Maps a vacation too. Find a local and ask for directions. And while you are at it, get yourself a snooze-free history lesson.

Mercado Bazurto

Dirty smelling sprawling mess.

Pretty much everything you will ever read about the infamous people's market in Cartagena will reference the above description. There will also probably be some kind of mention of the thieves and pickpockets it allegedly harbours. It is all true. But if you discount Mercado Bazurto based only upon what you read, you are missing a place that is also incredibly vibrant; filled with coloured foodstuffs, the energy of frenetic commerce, the inherent warmth of the Costeno people and the widest smiles you will ever see. You'll also be skipping one of my most favourite places in Cartagena.

Yes it is dirty. The street gunge that seeps between your unprotected thonged* toes is a less-than-hygienic combination of mud, decomposing rubbish and fish juices. A misplaced step and your foot will be plunged into a pool of it, splashing the brown gunk in an attractive splattering up the back of your calves.

And my, does it ever sprawl. Unlike other Latin American markets I have been to with their more or less ordered zones (ie separate sections for shoes, meat, electronics etc), the Bazurto's floor plan defies rhyme or reason. Legumes lie next to lingerie. Fresh(ish) fish are displayed alongside fake flowers. There's also plenty to rate highly on the gore factor scale; like grey entrails and eyeballs freshly plucked from unfortunate cows.

Gory photo thanks to R Caplin.

The smell is what locals will complain to you about the most. Look. It's definitely not roses. But somehow I find the almost tangibly thick smell, kind of visceral. Like I am giving my nostrils a workout, in the same way as a bracing swim or arduous hike makes your body feel used and useful. And when you do catch the whiff of something pleasant, like the sweetened tang of freshly squeezed passionfruit pulp, your appreciation is heightened and your taste buds swell instantaneously.

Being tall and blonde, I often describe myself as high-vis here at the best of times. In the Mercado I swear it feels as though I have a neon sign pointing at me that flashes and screams GRINGA while the song Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport is playing and monkeys cycle around me on miniature bicycles. Which is to say, I definitely do not blend in. But I like it. Got distracted buying Bolis (frozen fruit ice-blocks)? No problem! Look slightly lost and 4 or 5 people who have been clocking your every move will be ready to tell you exactly which way your friend went. Hmm.. where can I buy Cilantro? Again, volunteers everywhere to lead you directly to a vendor and to help you bargain a good price. There's the usual hissing, bonitas, “beautiful eyes” etc, in fact the frequency is actually cranked up here, but it's nothing if not good for the ego. And as soon as you require any help or information, the lewdness is quickly replaced by a genuine desire to help out.

I like to arrive early - before the traffic dust has settled on the produce, negating its freshness. Recently I've taken to getting the supplies for a simple ceviche. Fresh Corbina (white fish), cilantro, onions, limes, chilis and tomatoes. The whole lot, including the 2 giant fish (filleted while you wait) will cost less than $7. Sweaty, fatigued, I will then pull up a stool at one of the many outdoor eating spots for a hearty corriente (daily meal). A pile of coconut rice, fish/chicken/pork, fried platano or banana, lentils and salad, with a giant bowl of satisfying soup to start. It also comes with a glass of the revered panela. This is basically a cordial-like drink made from cane sugar. I continually make the mistake of telling them I don't like it. Woah! It's like I have spat all over the Colombian flag, so closely tied is this drink to their national identity. “But it's so delicious!”, they insist. I joke with the owners and share smiles with my fellow diners. I smile at the faded pornographic pin-ups of big busted women, lovingly pasted into place (and completely without irony) above the painted wall sign declaring “Todos gracias a Dios” - Everything thanks to God.

Then it's back on a bus, with their pimped up gilded curtains and travelling buskers, to the slightly less pungent world of Centro Cartagena. You've spent less, got more and got better.

When speaking to locals, they are genuinely amazed that I love the market so much. They talk of it being a dangerous, bad-smelling eyesore.

Sadly the government agrees:- council has recently decided that the Mercado Bazurto must relocate to a new home further out within 3 years time. Apparently the well-to-do consider this sprawling mess something of a blight on the beauty and safety of the walled city and want to keep it far from tourists and business. This is actually the second time the market has been moved. Previously it was right in the centre, near the current home of the convention centre. The rumours abound as to why it was moved at that time. Whether it was the result of some underhanded play by supermarket chain Olimpica or the result of the unhygienic tangle becoming too much to tolerate so close to the city walls is uncertain. Either way, the market has again offended the powers that be and is being pushed further out. How awful?! Cities need markets. And I think Cartagena, more than most, needs the colour and character of Bazurto to stave off the blandness and gentrification that threatens to deaden its personality and charm.

More than likely I will make the trek to the market even after it moves. And until then, I will continue to parade my gunge-splattered calves with pride, knowing I obtained the warpaint getting up close and personal with the real Cartagena.

*Australian glossary: apparently the rest of the world calls this type of footwear, flip flops

Blame it on the rain

Catchup post from May 19, 2012.

Rain.
Sheets, buckets, cats and dogs of rain. Rain submerging our feet, saturating our clothes, and flying from our head-tossed hair. Yup. The unexpected but undisputed star of my going away party was rain. And goddamn it gives good guest.

It wasn't really a going away, so much as a see you later. I was leaving my beloved Cartagena for 7 weeks of wedding (go LARK!), New York, San Diego, Mexico and Central America (more on that in other posts.. hopefully) but I was definitely coming back. Still, many of the friends I had made over my 3 months of living here would be taking off while I was away, so I figured a last-hurrah was more than called for. Plus, as many of you can attest, I really really love parties. 

Given I was not only sharing a room, but a bed too.. I totally did not have a home environment suitable for party. Also, most of my friends, like me, were totally broke, which kindof excluded traditional venues. So I got creative and decided to have a proper Costeno street party. 

The preparations, in themselves, made me fall in love with Getsemani anew. I began by canvassing the permission and advice of my neighbours. 

You will need decorations.
And food.
Definitely balloons.

Really? Picture proper grade 4 party planning. I'd previously attended the birthday party here of a 25 year old male complete with themed soccer cake, candles, balloons and signs.. so I wasn't totally taken by surprise. I acceded to the extend of purchasing some of that festive coloured bunting, but put my foot down at the cans of party foam (they really really love that stuff here).

But raising the coloured paper flag decorations necessitated the procuring of a ladder. I asked someone who led me to someone who led me to the smiling face of my leering neighbour. After 3 months of walking past this man on a daily basis as he eyed me lustily and called me "Precious" and "Queen" we had eventually reached something of a friendship. So now, he was excitedly issuing instructions to his son as we went to his house to get the ladder. He proudly showed me his house. How big it was. Its bathrooms. He proposed marriage. I did my head-shake, eye-roll "youuuuuu" laugh that you need to employ constantly here in order to decline advances without offence. Then I joined his two sons as we carried the enormous ladder through the backstreets of the barrio. 

Next thing I am on the near to highest rung of the ladder, with streams of kids jostling to hold the papered lengths, world-wise women cackling out directions and my leering neighbour holding the base of the ladder for support (and more than likely, looking up my skirt). I took a mental photograph of this crazy scene for future reference and then continued to finish the job. Decorations in place, the beers were passed around, backs were patted and the ladder was returned.

Another neighbour, Nelson, then came and insisted I inspect the sound equipment. Picture speakers that are too big to fit inside a doorway. He proceeded to explain the very important process of song selection: 3 salsa, 3 reggaeton, 1 vallenato, 1 Rhianna. Repeat.

The gossipy, here they say Chismoso, neighbours were already abuzz with news of my party. What time? 10pm. Can we come? Yes! Yes! Everyone is invited! I felt so happy and appreciative of my barrio and the way it just comes together to help and support each other. Even embracing the non-Spanish-speaking gringa. I was on a heart-swell high (yes, this happens to me a lot here) and had my silly big grin on all afternoon.

Ok.. the party itself.  By now I was long use to having an all-covering layer of sweat as my constant daily companion.. but tonight, the humidity was something else. The sweat pooled on my upper lip, backs of knees, arm crevices and small of the back almost instantly upon my exiting the shower.   So as my friends gathered, the rum was passed around and dancing sweat was added to the general environmental sweat.. I started to silently hope the imminent rain would hurry the heck up. We drank. My amazing friend from Brazil, (miss you Vini!) sang the team song for my afl club the Brisbane Lions, which he had learned in my honour. We talked. We reminisced. We made promises to keep in touch. And ofcourse, we danced. Some of the neighbours joined in. Most continued playing their games of cards or ludo. Then, about 20 minutes shy of midnight, the skies opened up and poured down its heat-quenching relief. 

And that's when the fun really started.

There's a reason rain features so prominently in music video clips and cheesy dance movies. All that rain-licked skin, the glistening bodies and the clinging clothes makes for some seriously sexy scenes. Add in copious quantities of hot latino blood, and things were positively sizzling.

The music blared, the street was packed with writhing bodies and the water kept rising. We kicked off our shoes (ahem, thongs) and stomped and splashed theatrically in time with the beat. It kept raining til 3am and we kept dancing. Everyone ecstatic in this shared moment of recklessness and extreme fun. This night definitely is included in one of my best ever.

The party was such a hit, the venue and theme has since been borrowed by other party makers. although when I asked someone after one of them they told me sadly.. "It was pretty good.. except.. it didn't rain". Its fame spread to Panama where I heard it spoken of in hostels with great reverence. And then, on my return 7 weeks later, strangers were calling after me and giving me a thumbs up. Kristy! Despedida! Chevere!

So I guess this story snapshot shows that Cartagena is the type of place where when you throw a party, the whole barrio throws the party with you. It is the type of place where pervy neighbours end up being your greatest ally. And it is the type of place where they make limonada from lemons and really frickin amazing parties from rain.

I HATE MOSQUITOES

Generally speaking I don't tend to or like to use the word hate. There seems to be enough negativity in the world and by the time I have crystalised any thoughts surrounding something that may be irking me, the bad vibes have passed and I'm already skipping after another butterfly.

But I really, really hate mosquitoes.

I've been sitting at a computer doing data entry for the past few days and have had the unfortunate opportunity to observe these prehistoric vampires closely as they continually suck both my blood and my will to keep working. I am staying in a place that is situated close to a river that I haven't learned the name of yet. And my gosh there are a LOT of mosquitoes. And the mosquitoes here in Colombia are a superbreed of mosquitoes. They make Australian mosquitoes look so dumb and unenterprising in comparison. 

For starters, they are silent. 

Many the Australian summer night I spent lying in bed, hot and sticky, listening to the sole mosquito in the room buzz around.. waiting for it to finally pause.. before SMACK! A mix of delight and morbid curiosity on my face as I surveyed its squished corpse to ascertain exactly how much of my blood the expired tyrant had helped itself to. I developed a pretty good strike rate. Sometimes, on the occasions I'd left my window open past dusk, the following morning my pillow would be decorated with brown and red smears after a night of employing the pillow-whacked-into-the-ceiling technique. Did anyone else do this?!

But key to any of my success was the fact that the mosquitoes made noise. You could always tell where they were.The Colombian mosquitoes are like silent assassins. I never know when they will strike. In fact I can barely feel it even while they have their needle tweeter stuck in me. If not for the angry red lump that later forms, it would be the perfect crime.

Then there's the fact that these mosquitoes don't follow any regular flight pattern. Their movements are completely unpredictable. They will be right there in front of me and still they manage to escape my death clap, leaving me looking clumsy and bewildered. 

Finally, and most frighteningly, they remain utterly undeterred by my usually impenetrable armour of Tropical Strength Aerogard. Seriously. I think their evolution is fairly scary. 

OK. Phew. I feel better now that's out. I'm sorry for wasting the time of anyone who bothered to read this post thinking it would eventually move onto something interesting or relevant. Nope. It was all about mosquitoes. And how I hate them.

BUT on the positive side (Ha! I can't help myself) this is seriously the only negative thing I really have to say after 3 + months living in Cartagena. And also, it wasn't really something I noticed while living in Getsemani or Marbella.. so it might just be a location thing.

So, in conclusion. I hate mosquitoes. But I hate them everywhere, not just in Cartagena. And I grudgingly respect the fact that the mosquitoes here are smarter opponents than I am accustomed to and I am probably just being a bad loser.

Ooh look! A butterfly!

Take me out to the balllllgaaaaame.

It started with a seemingly innocent and not unfamiliar question. 

Are you American?

"No.. soy Australiana"...[ Pause for wide-eyed disbelief] "Sii... Muy lejos!" (Very far).

He insisted. But.. do you play baseball? 

Well.. when I was a child I played softball. He agreed it was the same thing and started talking excitedly with the others.

It was Wednesday night. I was in the Plaza Trinidad Getsemani, watching the old-timers labour over their chessboards and occasionally getting flogged royally by whichever of their number decided to take pity on me and give me a go.

But now something else had piqued their interest: my supposed proficiency in baseball. Another hour of heated discussion and it was decided. I would be joining one of the local women's baseball teams. I was ushered off with vague instructions that I would be playing on Sunday at 4pm.

I didn't know where, who with, what or much else. I needn't have worried. The entire neighbourhood knew everything on my behalf. For the next few days as I walked the street, the usual greetings were modified to include a mimed baseball swing and a thumbs up. Then on the appointed day, I was walking home after a meeting at about 3pm and a skinny kid with an enormous smile came running up to me.. talking quickly and grabbing my hand. I needed to come play baseball NOW.

I quickly shoved on what I thought was baseball-appropriate attire and tried to keep pace with my new friend as he weaved in and out of the backstreets. As we ran, I received the excited calls of good luck from my neighbours. The kid led me to the team captain who explained (eventually) that I would also need a photo for the registration card. Woah. This was official. Paperwork completed, I was dragged (literally) by three girls to meet the coach. 

I started to get a bit nervous. I mean, the last time I had held a bat was when I was ten years old. Ten. And now there was a building crowd and a coach and an entire neighbourhood cheering me on. 

The coach took me through some warm ups. Catching. Fielding. Batting. I cost the team 4 balls as I belted them over the buildings. Oops. Coach seemed happy though. As I completed the drills I noticed a couple of the old-timers from the Plaza watching my progress from the side and nodding conspiratorially amongst themselves. 

Then the drills stopped, there was more rapid discussion in indecipherable Costeno Spanish and I was dragged off once again. This time it was to the house of one of my teammates (picture a city shack, 6 people sharing a double bed, clothes strung throughout the ceiling and a lot of happy semi-clad children) to get my uniform which was, appropriately enough, an incredibly bright pink tshirt. Awesome.

I was ready to play.

So the venue. I found a photo that someone else took over a year ago through a google search. This is it. 

But when I arrived in my bright pink tshirt, the wall was filled with supporters. Standing room only filled. And standing is dangerous because a home run is whenever you hit the ball over the wall. Some had signs. Some had noisemakers. The wall you see in the photo is centuries old (like 16th?)  and I think you'll agree it makes a pretty impressive backdrop for a first-time baseball game. Home base is actually on the other side of the road now. And the streets are filled with hotdog and hamburger vendors. The photo also doesn't show the music. I mean it can't. But the music was blaring! Contagious wiggle-your-bum salsa, hip-grinding reggaeton, sing-out-your-soul vallenato. I joined my teammates at the side of the diamond and waited. There was a game still in progress and I witnessed one of the most Colombian scenes ever. Bases loaded, scores locked and still the tubby guy on third base couldn't help himself from dancing when his favourite song came on. Classic.

So the game itself was pretty straightforward. I batted fourth and managed to equip myself fairly ably, hitting the first ball I faced and making it to first base. Our next 2 players struck out, but then curvaceous Catalina hit a cracker and I sprinted for home. Unbeknownst to me I had accumulated something of a fanclub, and as I pounded into homebase, they erupted into a stirring chant of "GRINGA GRINGA GRINGA!!!". My teammates surrounded me, hugged me, high-fived me. It's been a long time since I have felt such a profound sense of accomplishment. 

Then it was three out, change sides. In the field we kept the other team to a single run also but they were noticeably better than us. Next time at bat I repeated my first-ball, first-hit effort and made it to first. But we were three out before I could make it home. The crowd shouted instructions throughout the game. And this crazy crazy fanatic who I think was aligned to our team, was forcibly removed on two occasions for screaming at the umpire.The final score was 3-1 to the other team. And unfortunately my teammates didn't accept the loss graciously. The game ended with them shouting at the umpire something I still don't understand and storming off to gossip amongst themselves and leaving me bewildered and shaking hands with the girls of the other team.

It was crazy, colourful, manic and I loved every minute of it.

So.. putting on my tour guide hat now.. If you are in Cartagena on a Sunday you must must must get yourself along to a ball game. Buy a hotdog con todos (with everything), a beer or kola roman from the local store, plonk yourself down on the wall and soak up a non-touristy but totally delicious chunk of Cartagena flavour. And look out for a tall blonde girl on second base who can't help herself from dancing between batters.

Today was a good day

When you never have a bad day, you start to wonder if you possess the necessary depth and perspective to recognise a really great day. Without the troughs can I truly appreciate the peaks? It's ok. I can. Today was a great day.

It started with a morning run along Manga Bay. The sunlight hit the water in the most delightful fashion, rows of white yachts lined up invitingly, other runners smiled at me with minimal ogling, I ran into (yes, literally) a friend and had one of those fantastic symbiotic exchanges.. you know those moments when you just get each other and what is happening without having to talk about it? I love those moments. As I ran back over the bridge to Getsemani and rounded the corner that led to Plaza Trinidad I had one of those heart-swell moments as the local traders and vendors waved to me.. I even felt affectionate towards my elderly pervert neighbour who greets me leeringly everytime I walk past (a minimum of 5 times a day). I live here! Amongst these bright yellow and blue and green painted buildings. In this neighbourhood where there is a radio permanently plugged in on every street, pumping out music you can't help but smile to. With these street dogs that I have named and assigned backstories to. With the guy selling cold coconuts and the other guy shouting out "Aguacate"! With the carrot juice man in top to toe orange. HAPPY.

Back to my house for breakfast with the birds.. literally dozens of finches, cockatiels and budgies singing and squawking their little chests out while I ate my porridge.. my crazy anorexic dog running around my feet, looking for attention, then darting off timidly when he got it. My 20 year old housemate singing Vallenato. The radio station with the corny announcer screaming sporadically "Tropicana Style Mon Niiiiiiinyoooooo!!" and my housemates giggling as I do a perfect impersonation. SO HAPPY.

I get to work, where I receive confirmation from a friend of my boss, that I am to meet the director of a movie being shot here with the view to me being cast as an extra. This would involve travelling to a gorgeous island for what would essentially be an all-expenses paid holiday. The movie is the sequel to the highest-grossing Colombian movie of all-time. A comedy.. kindof along the lines of National Lampoon's, starring John Leguizamo.  I still don't know if I will do it or not because it cuts things fine re:attending Leah and Mark's wedding (which I am mega-excited about by the way). But still. Pretty darn cool.

So then, my Boss tells me that some american food channel is doing a show on street food and want to interview me. Squeal! So next thing I'm eating fried pig and discussing the joys of hot-oil rendered fat on camera. Yay yay yay! We hang about eating and talking about eating and getting filmed eating. Dream job material, seriously.  At one point, someone in the crowd that had gathered to watch starts singing a little ditty. We were actually eating Arepas con queso.. those mounds of white, cheesy, buttery goodness I'd written about here. So anyway, the song was basically along the lines of "Oh! Arepa with cheese.. I want to give you a little kiss! Mwah mwah!" And because whenever I'm eating I'm happy and because when I'm happy I do a little happy dance and because he was singing.. I start dancing along.. and then some people in the crowd start cheering their support and then two guys in the crowd start shouting at each other and I don't know what they are saying but my boss explains they are kindof fighting over me. And I find the whole thing pretty amusing. But THEN my boss explains to me that in this song: Arepas con queso that he was singing and that I was dancing along to happily, the arepa with cheese they are referring to is ACTUALLY the lady's cha cha.. and THAT'S what he wants to give a kiss to. So the fact that I was wiggling along happily to it and calling out occasional "eso!'s" was kind of hilarious.

Also entertaining.. the fact that the local expert for the Cartagena-leg of the street-food series was local restauranteur Juan. This is the photo that my boss showed me of Juan before I went to meet him. So ofcourse this was what I was picturing whenever Juan asked me a question.

After this mega cool day of pretending I was a star of network food, I went a-calling for clients for the website AND managed to sign up one of my fave fave places here.. appropriately enough, a gelato store. Whee! 


There were other things.. a Michael Jackson dance lesson I publicly provided to my Boss' 5 year old son, a chess-game in the plaza with the grizzled stalwarts of the barrio, an email from one of my best friends, ice cream, yoga, a perfectly ripe avocado.. but I think I've gloated enough and I'm sure I'm inviting some kind of retributory wrath. 


I'll just conclude with one word and know you will understand: YAY!!!