My eyes still stinging from the goop that had found
its way down the side of my face after a ripe, red comet had smacked me upside
the head, I glanced too long at another tomato lofted through the air before
getting one right to the chest. Having grown up on the battlefields of
Minnesota snowball fights, I should have known better. To hell with it, I’m
goin’ in! But no sooner had I dropped my hands from covering the important
northern and southern regions of my body to run towards the mountain of ammo
than a red bullet hit me square in the neck. Shit, that hurt!! It was like a
paintball, but four times the size. I dove into the fray, only to be pushed
into the browning, red muck and covered in unseasoned pasta sauce bombs. I
managed to roll/swim/crawl out of the way before a couple of hoodlums threw a
poor lady into the pile, no doubt having found her in the crowd of onlookers
and shouted, “Limpia!” at her before looking to add some color to the white
shirt she was wearing. I finally slipped out of the warzone with a handful of
ammunition alongside my newfound Dutch teammate, himself letting loose what I
could only imagine were equivalent obscenities in his own language reflecting
his pain and surprise at how crazy this tomato fight turned out to be.
 |
| Tomatoes. Lots of them. |
Some time ago, I asked my friend, Steve, if he was
doing anything over the next two weekends. Thanks to the close relationship
between church and state here in Colombia, we get more than a handful of long
weekends to celebrate religious holidays. Seeing as I’m headed home(!!) in a
couple of weeks, I wanted to take advantage of some extra travel opportunities
before taking a break from this beautiful country. Steve said I should come
with him and some friends to a small town in the north, Sutamarchan, for La
Tomatina, the annual tomato festival; the sort of thing that only happens in
small towns and few others know about it.
The Saturday after witnessing the U.S. get trounced
by my new home in the Copa America opening soccer rounds (an evening which
provided its fair share of finding a sketchy unnamed bar where we were just
told to “knock on the gray metal door to get in,” but turned out to be this
random gringo haven), I found myself on a bus with two fellow Americans, two
Brits, a Dutch dude, and an Ozzie, on our way to middle-of-nowhere Colombia, a
designation used here as a term of endearment for places where everyone
is insanely nice and you can get everything you need from one store (Loso’s
anyone?).
Once settled in the countryside finca we rented we
happened across three ladies traveling together whom we soon found went to the
same university Steve had gone to back stateside. The coincidence grew when
they discovered they all used to frequent the same bar. Small world, folks. We
convinced them to join us at the finca to make our rates even cheaper (I paid
$15 for two nights) and commenced the festivities, meaning we went to the only
shanty store in the countryside to buy their only product: crates of beer.
After shootin’ the shit, playing some games, and finding out one of the girls
is actually from Minneapolis, we headed into town to enjoy the carnival
festivities before catching the cattle truck back home. Though, our weekend
driver couldn’t leave town because he had too much to drink. So while he slept in
his truck, we ended up needing taxis to make the haul back out to the boonies.
 |
| The original crew in our weekend transportation: Steve, JJ, Dani, Kev, Sarah, Brendan,and Jordan |
Sunday started out with yet another showcase of
Colombian generosity. With a crate of eggs ready to scramble in the morning (or
poach, in the Brits’ case), we ventured to our mini hodunk country store to see
if they sold butter so we wouldn’t ruin the pans. Upon hearing our request, the
little old lady at the store said, “Oh you’re making eggs? Well, we don’t sell
anything else here [besides beer], but let me see what I’ve got [in my personal fridge].” When I made
it back to our kitchen, I had my hands full of tomatoes, onions, and garlic,
with a mug of oil hanging precariously from my pinky.
During the free-for-all that was the tomato fight
later that day I came to terms with how much bullshit there is in Hollywood war
scenes. William Wallace catching an arrow with his shield before turning around
to decapitate an Englishman behind him? Bullshit. Legolas, in between arrow
loosening, uses an arrow to stab an orc behind him without even looking? Elvish
bullshit. Leonidas dancing around, twirling his weapon and killing numerous
Persians? Probably-killed-a-teammate-or-two bullshit. The point is I had never
been more paranoid or aware of my surroundings in my life. When juicy red
shrapnel is flying everywhere, there’s no way to avoid it while also attempting
to attack. None were spared; men were thrown into the pile and trampled, women
were pelted left and right, children had tomatoes crushed over their head and
smeared over them. It was a terrifying scene. That everyone loved. If a
bystander was carried into the fray, they hardly resisted. Everyone understood
the risks of attending a tomato fight. The occasional sandal would fly into the
air amongst the tomatoes, and I thought of how there’s no way an event like
this would fly in the States.
The after party for Sunday was much like that of
Saturday, you just have to add a handful of arepas and empanadas, a pocketful
of free beers – courtesy of friendly Colombians towards the ladies in our crew
who simply gave them to us, and a few hundred people, and you have a pretty
rockin’ evening. Things really got interesting when they asked for volunteers
to go up on stage and dance with the band. I was watching the two brave souls
up there dancing away when I saw one of our group talking to the guy next to
the stairs to get up on stage. I looked up on stage, glanced at our crew, and
thought to myself, Well, shit, I’ll never
be here again, and gathered the preverbal Rohirrim. No less than thirty
seconds later, I found myself front and center on a stage dancing in front of a
few hundred Colombians.
 |
| Not even going to try to get everyone's name here. |
Returning from an adventure often makes me feel like
Bilbo Baggins. The echoes of my keys opening my door rattle through the long
haul of the guesthouse, I set my dirty backpack down in a room I meant to clean
before leaving, an overly dramatic sigh escapes me as I open the curtains and
wonder when my next journey will begin. As I begin to convince myself that this
weekend did indeed happen, I can’t hold back from feeling that this was the
most fun I’ve had in a while. But as I explain this to friends, I realize that I'm saying this at least a couple times a month now. It makes me wonder if it’s as simple as Colombians
knowing how to have more fun than their American counterparts to the north. My
sixth graders like to write yolo
whenever they get a chance to write on the whiteboard, and while I wouldn’t
bring myself to make that reference more than once, I do think life is too short to worry about getting
drilled in the face with a tomato.
I have to admit I was a bit weirded out by all the
English happening around me. My English practice here is limited to short chats
with Devon and any Skype conversations with friends and family back home. So
when I was thrust into a nearly all English atmosphere – like Saturday night
hanging out around the finca – I was a little taken aback, often not knowing
what to say. It was as if I’d had a temporary lapse in how JJ acts in English.
Spanish speaking JJ is a little quieter; I tend to listen more, trying to
absorb as much Spanish as I can while also avoiding unnecessary attention from
those who might not take kindly to a loud gringo, which is most likely English JJ. And that’s the other thing:
we are loud. On our bus to
Sutamarchan on Saturday, my eyes caught on the screen of a girl’s phone who was
sitting in front of me (creepin’, but my gaze only stayed because the first
word I saw was extranjeros – “foreigners”).
She started out her message with something like, “I don’t get it. Recently,
I’ve been seeing more foreigners in Colombia, and on this bus there are more
white people than Colombians.” She was writing to a friend about how much we
were talking and how loud our laughs were. But she concluded her novelesque
message almost proudly. “I don’t know what it is that’s making them come here
more, but maybe they’re finally starting to see the beauty that we’ve seen all
our lives.” Well, strange girl who’s private message I read the entirety of on
a bus, you’re right on many counts. First, we are loud. Our laughs boom, and we
often try to talk over one on another in an effort to be heard. And yes, we
enjoy exploring your country because it’s incredible. Not just the scenery with
the vast mountain ranges or the peaceful towns where you can while away the day chatting with a neighbor. But also the warm wind blowing off the coasts into
the hearts of Costeños, the singsong Spanish of the Paisas, or the gentle pride
of the Bogotanos. But this is one gringo who’s not looking to change any of
that.
 |
| Seconds after, I'm certain we got ambushed. |
Spanish word of the day: For some reason - I have yet to look for the linguistic roots - Colombians' slang word for "kid" is chino or china. It's also what they use to refer to a Chinese man or woman, so I'm unsure of where the derogatority began on that one.
Song in my head lately: Of Monsters and Men is always good when you need things to slow down. We Sink is one such option. There are always a lot of subtle musical tweaks to OMAM's songs, so try to listen with good headphones as speakers don't necessarily transmit subtleties.
