Everything Works Out

Even though I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, I was hesitant to pull it out. A former colleague of mine had once been robbed by a taxista, and I wasn’t eager to have my driver know I’d brought my iPhone with me. “Where are you, man?” It was Andres, reminding me it was 7:50, and our overnight bus left at 8. “Eh, do you think you could try to get to the terminal by 8?” I asked the driver, knowing chances were low. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” my driver responds as he pulls onto the shoulder and speeds past traffic. But even with Colombian Jason Statham as my driver, I hopped out of the cab five minutes after 8. I called Andres as we frantically tried to find each other in the Friday evening crowds also bussing out of the city. Together we scrambled to the exit, printed our tickets, and burst out the door. It was 8:20, and our bus hadn’t left yet. Simply glad to have not missed our bus, I didn’t bother putting my bag in the bodega down below. I shoved the cookies and juice I’d bought under the seat with my backpack and promptly fell asleep. In travelling Colombia and the rest of South America, I’ve found that things just tend to work out. Heavy traffic? Late for the bus? No problem, the travel gods will pity you and not let the bus leave. Everything works out.

            Twelve hours in and out of sleep later, and Andres taps me on the shoulder to let me know we’d arrived. I reach under me for my backpack and pull out a dripping green bag that smells like apples. Turns out, I had smashed my backpack under me with the force of a thousand apple juicers and ended up carrying it out in front of me like a parent with their infant’s diaper. Everything works out.

Buga behind us, neslted in the Cauca Valley.

I had met Andres in the gym, since more socializing happens in the gym than actual gym-ing. Steve and I started going regularly a few months back. And since Steve tends to speak as if he’s trying to be heard over a wind tunnel – probably from having to yell down so short Colombians can hear him – we usually get some stares and Whereareyoufroms here in an area of the city that’s void of foreigners. We’ve also gotten some job offers in young people willing to pay for private tutoring to improve their English. Due to the fact that there are no foreigners and little wealth in this area, we were surprised when this morenito dude started talking to us in English. I’ve always enjoyed how a barrio within a Latin American city can often feel like its own town with the same faces seen each day. So it was more of a coincidence than a surprise when we found out that Andres is a cousin of one of the math teachers at San Benito, Lina. A look of doubt must have crossed my face because Andres quickly elaborated that his side of the family was from Colombia’s west coast, a city near Cali called Buga. I blurted out that Cali was one of my remaining travel destinations here in Colombia. Admitting that he had been wanting to return home for some time, he immediately invited me to his house over the next long weekend. Everything was beginning to work out.

 

Bogota to Buga, 8 hours unless you're on a bus.

Buga. Say booger with a Jamaican accent and you’ve got it. Say it three times and try to mock scare a baby (abugabugabugabu!). All crockery aside, Buga is one of the most pleasant towns in Colombia that I’ve visited. The climate is an agreeable hot, with constant breezes blowing through the Cauca valley where the pueblo sits. A quick ten-minute scooter ride around with Andres proved that there seemed to be no sketchy areas of town, and every corner is accessible within a ten to twenty minute walk.

Poolside with Andres, Mariana, Daniel, and Antonio.

We were met at the door by Andres’ parents, Gloria and Antonio, his little brother Daniel, and cousin Mariana. At their heels yapped three white toy poodles, one for each child of the house (Andres’ sister, Andrea, lives with him in Bogota, but had to work over the weekend). As is customary, the Colombians pulled out all the stops for their guest and made me feel as if I was as a part of the family as Andres. My backpack was quickly thrown into the washing machine along with half its contents, breakfast was served, and cold beers were retrieved (when asked, I may or may not have translated and explained the phrase it’s five o’clock somewhere). But if you’ve ever had the pleasure, nay, honor, of riding an overnight bus in Colombia, you know you never actually got any decent sleep. So after some food and socializing, long naps were in order and taken advantage of. Everything was working out. 

What followed was a pleasant family weekend filled with eating, dancing, drinking, pool playing and swimming, hiking, and general Colombianing. For such a short visit, I managed to learn quite a few things.

Colombian hospitability is second to none

Bus terminal with Mariana and Gloria.

If you’ve been keeping up with these less than half-assed posts, this probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. Time after time, Colombians and their families have gone all out to make me feel at home, an emotion that has been all too easy to experience with people as generous, thoughtful, open, and hilarious as most Colombians are. Here in Buga, the Castillo’s took that calling card to a whole new level. While it was a homecoming weekend for Andres, it became a marathon of “JJ, have you tried this?” 

Chinos with cholados

Each region of Colombia has its own foods and drinks, so as we ambled through town, I was quickly filled with cholados (large cups of sliced fruits sticking out Iron Throne-style from a sweet, slushy, cornucopia of sugar), Luladas (a slushy with bits of lulo, a goopy green citrus fruit) and chontaduro (a sweet potato textured, dry squash flavored fruit). Even the taxi drivers were in on the hospitality gig, often chatty with recommendations. Hell, I’ll even count the remark an older, toothless lady called out to Andres, his brother, and I as we crossed the street: “Uyy, que muchachos tan rrrricos!”

Popular tourism isn’t everything

Giant white Jesus.

Thinking we were going to spend more time in nearby Cali, salsa capital of the world and vibrant west coast city, my tourism research unfortunately didn’t uncover much more other than your usual city attractions such as main plaza, museum, zoo, and botanical garden. What I did find was a rather impressive mirador looking over the city with a huge Christ the Redeemer statue, the Rio de Janeiro’s statue’s little Jesus brother. But when I expressed interest in going, the family wasn’t sure what it was, what it was called, or where to go. And even when we did make to Cali, only taxi drivers and some police officers knew how to get there. After taking an Uber up, we took some pictures and ate some ice cream before promptly returning to the bus station back to Buga. It turns out Cali is known for salsa dancing and that’s about it. When questioned about what there is to do in Cali, almost everyone replied with a simple, “rumba,” or party with dancing. But after hiking with Andres’ family and doing what they would do, I was reminded that it’s always better to find out what the locals do rather than what a travel guide book or blog would recommend.

Distance often ruins a good relationship

Again, really no surprise here. So, if you’re into brevity, feel free to skip this paragraph, this blog, all the way to the red X button on your Internet browser. Our first full day in town, Andres and I decided to meet up with an old friend of his for some drinks. When I asked how Andres and Natalia had met, I was given a rather hesitant and abashed “Well, we used to date. For eight years.” And just like that, yours truly was set on a different axis, the official third wheel. The night from then on was spent observing how although Andres moving to Bogota seemed to have closed the door on them both, these two clearly still liked each other. But pity me not! For instead of feeling bored or left out, I felt like I had front row seats to a real life Romcom movie (though just like a romcom movie, enjoying it might have only been brought to you by alcohol).

It made me wonder if I had any relationships ended by distance. As I filed through the Ted Mosby list, I realized the answer was all of them. The reasons were varied: study abroad, graduate school, coming to Colombia, pursuing an acting career, living in a city farther away. Whatever the reason for their ending, I found that distance or its approach was the root cause. Now, obviously, you can make the case that perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be and distance simply forced me to step back and recognize that. But such chicken and egg arguments really just make me wish I were more into brevity. Right person wrong time? I guess that’s not really for me to decide. If it’s meant to be, with some hard work everything will work out. I hope it eventually does for Andres and Natalia, too.     

Just waltzing through some pastures.

Everything doesn’t always work out

But JJ, you’re contradicting a life motto of yours! Well, everyone’s a little hypocritical at some point. I should make it clear that in most cases I do in fact believe that things work out, but it’s not a new or old age obsession with the universe or your chakra or some Goldblum-esque life finds a way passivism. Life, your relationships, and your goals all require colossal amounts of hard work. And I think most who feel they’ve experienced any degree of success with either can agree. But I also believe that patience, flexibility, and acceptance are underrated. If I miss a bus, I’ll take the next one. If I get to a town without a hostel reservation, I’ll ask around until I find a place. If I don’t get this job, that’s fine, I’ll kick ass at one I do get later.

But what I do need to recognize is how privileged I am to be able to think that way. What if I can’t get the next bus because I don’t have enough money? What if no one helped me find a place to stay for a night because I wasn’t white and obviously foreign? What if I needed a job now to pay bills for me and my family but couldn’t get any decent one soon enough simply because of any number of discriminatory factors not included in the white, Christian, heterosexual, able-bodied male expectation? The point is, while everyone can work hard, not everyone has the same spectrum of opportunities.

 My friend Andres learned English essentially on his own, with the desire to study it abroad, preferably through music. But to study abroad, a Colombian usually needs at least one of two things: 1) loads of money or 2) connections abroad, whether that’s extended family or a family friend. Unfortunately, Andres had, through no fault of his own, come up short on both accounts. Aware of this, he began working as a bank teller. Through hard work in both banking and English, he has now become the primary employee to work with foreign clients at his branch of Citibank.

But on our long bus ride back to Bogota, he expressed how exhausted he was, always working, in a big city that can often feel unkind, far away from family and friends, feeling like he was nowhere closer to his dreams than he was ten years ago as a senior in high school. As I sensed defeat and resignation in my friend’s heart, I couldn’t help but feel guilt in my own. Here I am, having travelled to a dozen countries, studied abroad, and currently living my dream. Meanwhile, a friend describes similar aspirations and I feel helpless. It’s a similar feeling to what I can sometimes experience teaching at San Benito, working with kids who are obviously incredibly intelligent and creative, but knowing that many will struggle to simply get out of their corner of the neighborhood.

In the case of Andres, I know how determined he is and I know how smart he is. In me, I hope he knows he now has a connection abroad. And I hope that I can find a way to help things work out for him just as he, his family, the monks, teachers, students, and countless other Colombians have for me.

 J.

Buga lookout tower.

Spanish word of the day: Phrase time again, and a twofer to boot! I was playing pool with Andres and his little brother, Daniel, at the bar one night. Daniel hadn’t been playing too well, but had just sunk two shots in a row, to which he said Se acabó el pasto which literally means the grass is finished or dead. Apparently that means something like “getting warmed up”. I guess it makes sense; grass would indeed die if it got too hot out. Another saying I found hilarious was when we were waiting for our bus back to Bogota, Andres got a call from his mom. No, we’re still waiting, sitting here planchando nalga. Planchar is the verb for ironing, like a dress shirt, while nalga is buttocks, or colloquially, buttcheek. Indeed, when waiting in uncomfortable, flat chairs, I guess you are ironing your butt.

Song in my head: We sprang for a nice bus back to Bogota. Taking advantage of my personal movie screen on the seatback in front of me, I managed to watch two films before falling asleep. One of them was Boyhood, the film that followed the main cast of actors for 12 years. An incredibly poignant and realistic view into American life, the film also features the song, Hero, by the band Family of the Year. Check out both movie and song.