Mayor Mario

Our tradition of ending the day with some brews was in jeopardy. Nate’s keen eye had noticed the troops clad in green enter the small town of Montenegro’s main square from the far end. But I didn’t realize what was happening until officers surrounded the dimly lit plaza, a handful of them approaching the three of us as we sat on the church steps. We weren’t the only group seated together across the expanse of the steps across the plaza’s west side. But having two 6’4 frames on either side of me is probably why they sent upwards of five or six guys our way. Normally, simply being a gringo and feigning ignorance can get you out of a lot of uncomfortable situations. But since these boots and semiautomatics were likely looking for evidence of drug trade or human trafficking – activities that have been rampant in this area of Colombia for years and unfortunately sought out by some foreigners for their affordability abroad – Steve, Nate and I still received a lovely pat down and questioning. You aren’t supposed to drink in public either. But I wasn’t overly concerned about that since it was just a beer or two and we were definitely not the only offenders. Still, even after the policemen left us to complete our nightly ritual, part of me felt like we dodged a bullet as we saw them take a few other guys from their perch on the steps back to their white police vans.

           

Every year the seniors at Colegio San Benito take a trip to some part of Colombia as a sort of last hurrah before graduation. For my American readers, the timing would be similar to the Spring Break of our school systems. Accompanied by a few teachers, these seniors were also graced with some gringo presence as this year’s crop of BVC volunteers and I tagged along. This year, we all crammed on a bus and made our way to El Eje Cafetero where most of the country’s coffee is produced.


Each day of the week gave us something new. We spent our first day at the Parque del Café, balancing out the theme park area of roller coasters, bumper boats, and log chutes with the museums and mini play about the history of coffee in Colombia. The next day brought us to Panaca, essentially a glorified zoo that had different shows that included various domesticated animals. Coming from Stearns County, it felt awkward hearing people go nuts for goats and cows getting walked around the yard. But hey, we got Nate to be a volunteer for the milking race.

Big Nate in a milk-off against a student.

Because the highlights of Panaca are the shows that take place every hour or so at different sites all through the park, the crowds are essentially the same. So after the presenter of the cow show found out there were some gringos in tow – something I’m sure rarely happens because a foreign tourist likely wouldn’t spend money and time watching domesticated animals all day – the other presenters later in the day knew we were in the crowd somewhere as well. Naturally, we got a sufficient heckling during each show for the rest of the day.

Tweedle dee and dum of Panaca.

Our last two full days with the kids were spent riding horses through the picturesque misty mountains of Salento and then a day at a subpar waterpark. But like most travels, the memorable moments were not the big tours or breathtaking vistas, but the conversations had, the different helados tried and judged, and the unapologetic staring from Colombians as they saw how tall my two companions were.

Riding horses through Salento

The most memorable event of our stay in Montenegro would have to be when we met Mario, which brings us back to our church stoop. We find our three gringos enjoying their last evening in the small town, the moonlight glinting off their cans of Club Colombia beer. After four nights, we felt like regulars. The faces in the crowds that occupied the local taverns adjacent to the main square seemed not to wonder anymore who we were but rather how long we’d be staying. From our position at the top step, right in front of the gate entrance to the church, we were given a front seat to the late night happenings of this town. We had watched the same crew of kids play soccer night after night between two mammoth trees the plaza was built around and had heard the same boisterous laughter coming from the evidently most popular bar on a corner to our left. Considering that it was late on a Monday evening, there were a surprising number of people out and about. I recognized one particular trio of girls who had sat conspicuously close to us the night before. It was impossible for Nate and Steve to miss them too, since they were walking up the steps straight towards us, much like the police officers had done earlier in the week.

After pleasantries were exchanged, the girl on the left said to me, “Manuela just wanted to meet you,” gesturing to the girl in the middle with dark, curly hair. “To say hi.” With what I’m sure came across as the utmost confidence and charm I replied, “Hi. Now we’ve met.” And just when you think things couldn’t get any better, we all heard a rough voice yell in near perfect English, “Hey! Who are those guys??” We look past the girls down the steps to a short, sturdy man with a large dog on a short leash glaring up at us.

Trying to figure out what the hell we just got ourselves into, we spattered out something that I’m sure once again effectively relayed our confidence. The man rescued us from our blathering as his face broke into a huge grin and said, “Na I’m just kidding, Manuela’s my daughter!” Sure, that improved our situation. The girls soon hurried away to join the group of cronies they had come from, undoubtedly as a dare to see if they would go talk to the gringos. This left us three sitting ducks as the man climbed the stairs and stood right in front of our plaza view.

Montenegro main square, church steps and all.

“Hi guys, I’m Mario,” he said with a huge smile and extended hand. Not quite convinced that he wasn’t going to sick his dog on us, we introduced ourselves. So that’s your daughter huh? “Yeah, she’s just back from school in the states. She’s seventeen.” As if the nail already wasn’t already in the coffin on those chances.

“Oh, really. Cool. So how did your English get so good?” It should be noted here that while some superheroes wear capes, others are just really good at changing the subject.

The bait was taken hook, line, sinker, bobber, the whole works as Mario then streamed into his life story. He began listing U.S. states and other countries in Latin America and Europe. When we asked why he travelled to all these places he replied, “No, these are all places I’ve lived and worked.” Maybe it was the lingering fear from him yelling at us earlier that made me consider a change of underwear talking, but my mind instantly jumped to mercenary. “I’ve lived in lots of places and worked lots of jobs, but now I’m in the banana business.”

Euphemism? Not at all. It turns out Mario was a businessman. After ‘working lots of jobs’ around the world he found fortune in Colombia, primarily from buying cheap land and offering cheap wages to banana pickers. “I think planting a tree is the smartest thing someone can do,” he told us, figuratively high fiving the environmentalist in me. “Because in five years that banana tree starts to make me thousands of dollars every year!” Environmentalist shudders.

So, why Montenegro? “Oh, I grew up here! My uncle owns those shops on the right, my cousins just sold the bar straight ahead, and I went to high school with Tato,” he proudly motioned to the popular bar on the left whose sign read Fondo de Tato. “I’m also good friends with the mayor. Yeah everyone around here knows me, everyone knows Mario.” Well, I’m glad it just looked like we were hitting on the daughter of the guy everyone in town knows. 

 “But the problem with small towns like this is that people think they aren’t going anywhere, so the moms take care of the kids, the dads drink, and the kids get into gangs and sell drugs. No one wants to work.” An outlook that I’m sure could not have been improved if he paid his workers more than Colombian minimum wages. The pot proceeded to call the kettle black when Mario said, “Hey, guys. I want to go talk to Tato. Let’s get drunk tonight!”

Now, throughout our conversation with this guy, my mind rocked back and forth between wanting to talk to this guy for hours about his life experiences and feeling that tingling on my neck that we should probably get the hell out of here. Then Mario offered to buy the beer.

After knocking a few back, people who knew Mario appeared out of the woodwork. Soon we were a group sitting in chairs outside the bar, facing the plaza. Biker gangs started to show up, and I wondered how long it would be before police swept through the area again. I noticed Mario deep in conversation with some other people who had showed up, and used that as our opportunity to bid farewell. “Oh, you guys got to get up early tomorrow? Oh well, we’ll see you tomorrow then!” Uhh, sure! As we ducked through the plaza’s trees back to our hostel, I wondered who this Mario guy actually was. Mafia boss? Actually the mayor?  If you’re really curious, he could always use help in the banana fields!

Not on the church steps here. But this is essentially the scene.

Spanish word of the day: If you made it this far in this post, chances are you're already the kind of person that knows that Spanish is not spoken the same from country to country. For example, the verb joder in Colombia means something along the lines of "to mess up" while in Central America it carries a much stronger connotation (hint, it involves replacing "mess" with another word). So, something like se jodio el pie means "he messed up his foot" or estamos jodidos would mean "we're screwed."

Song in my head lately: Like any good emo song from the 2000s, Play Crack the Sky by Brand New will always remind me of high school dances and sharing headphones in Prep's "Fishbowl" lounge. This song has nothing to do with our trip. But like I've said before, you can't choose what song gets in your head.

Yes, we look like we crapped our pants. But, more
importantly, check out the lady behind me.