Medellin, etc.

Monday November 24, 2008

I’ve been in this mountain city of Medellin for six days and have gained about 14-18, or some other amount of mid to high-teens even numbered pounds. The sole reason is Abuela, my adopted Grandma who has been feeding the fat kid in me like I was one of her own, but first a little background info:

Medellin is situated pretty high in the mountains but not Peru high. I would put us around 2040 meters at a rough estimate. We were told by Julio that Casa finca is about 2600m and that is a fair bit higher than we are here, but I digress. Barnes and I have been taken in by the Caballeros here in Medellin. The family that we met through CouchSurfing (note: this is not a new sport that requires all participants to obtain a sofa on wheels) has been treating us like perpetually hungry (we are) members of the family who they haven’t seen in a while: aka the royal treatment. In an apartment shared most importantly with their grandma who seems to do nothing more than cook delicious meals 24/7, my life over the past few days has caused me to reconsider ever leaving Colombia, or even Medellin for that matter. My typical day has looked like this: sleep in, get called roughly to the table in Spanish by Abuela who has a hot breakfast ready of fried or scrambled eggs, toast, croissants or other pastries, cheese that is either on the side or melted on the arepa, and a nice large cup of hot cocoa to top it all off made not from a powder but from a brick of pure dark chocolate. At this point I would be content to go back to bed and sleep the day and night away waiting for tomorrow’s breakfast, but there are two more meals to eat of assorted delicacies and various improvisations on the Antioquian (Colombian province) style. And when I say 24/7 I mean it. Right now Abuela is peeling some vegetable and has a large plate of raw meat sitting on the counter no doubt waiting until it is baked, fried or stewed into the perfect dish that we will consume with polite but barely restrained panic as the smells and sounds of the cooking process cause me to drool on my shirt.

However, I don’t go to bed, I prepare myself for whatever adventures Valeria and Julianna (my sisters) have planned for us. Suffice to say I’ve been giving a solid effort to regaining the weight that has mysteriously disappeared over the past two months and enjoying the mountain air around the city. Yesterday we went to the farm the family is building high in the mountain outside of the city and enjoyed a few beers around an open fireplace in the brick chalet of a home that Julio (papa) is building. The cool dark green forest surrounding the property and the encompassing vista of wilderness that became a private extraordinary showing of stars and the company of 2 large German Sheppards and a Chocolate Lab was more than enough to make me want to use up the rest of my 60 day tourist visa right there, if not longer, to finish my coffee of course.

Other pass times have included salsa lessons, many conversations in my new language Spanglish, stuffing ourselves with Empanadas, tours of the girls universities, and of course my favourite of all, the Saturday night football game. Imagine that the G8 summit is returning to Seattle and the National Guard is called in along with every cop in the city and the riot police in order to stop the protests that are inevitably going to ensue with the “peaceful protesters”. Well multiply that by a thousand and give them all automatic assault rifles or pump action shot guns with the ammunition clearly displayed across the chest or shoulder for either easy access or intimidation, probably both. These guys are in large groups that I might venture to call gangs and are either starting steely eyed at sweatered individuals on the street, searching the young boys and men for projectiles and other WMDs they might be bringing into the game, or joking with each other and swinging their huge guns around like small boys with a couple of sticks. The whole thing is a rather comical display to an outsider but after a while the thought sunk in that perhaps there was a reason for these precautions: people die at these games. But that was more of a pro than a con in the attraction towards the event category.

Naturally the game progressed with the crowd’s energy and animosity or jubilance ebbing and flowing like the tide. Medellin opened the scoring with a fantastic cross from the left side which caused a minor earthquake as the people jumped in unison around the stadium and the bands blared away with victory songs. I was as intoxicated with the spirit of the game as the rest of them but my spirits came crashing down and I found myself screaming expletives at the referees about the virtue of their mother in Spanish as a penalty was awarded in our own 18 yard box bringing the other side even at one a piece via an easily scored free kick. At that point the emotion of the crowd could be described as sorrowful, melancholic, enraged and murderous. However, Medellin fought on bravely and in the last 5 minutes a sloppy cross found its way onto the boot of our striker who was stopped at short range by the goalie not once, not twice, but three times! It was unbelievably unlucky, until a defender touched the ball with his hand and gave our side a penalty kick.

After we scored that goal the game was in the bag. Tears came to the eyes and weathered faces of the hardened blue collar workers surrounding me as we embraced in a long line and danced and sang ourselves hoarse. I cried tears of unashamed joy in what can only be described as a deeply religious experience. With a 2-1 victory, countless rolls of single ply Charmin or perhaps Downy littering the field no one was going to get murdered by the mob tonight. Instead we left the stadium and received countless handshakes and heavy pats on the back from speechless and starry eyed men, the intoxicating spirit of sweet victory glowing in their eyes. Our progress was impeded by the many rapid conversations that had to be translated for us as men of all ages wanted to touch Barnes and ask what the two tall gringos thought of their beloved team. Of course the only answer was that it was the most passionate team we’d ever seen which for the time was true enough, and a good thing too. I had visions of an SNL en Espanol skit running through my head that was something like the jolly table of Bears fans headed by Chris Farley and the bloody mayhem that would ensue if someone came into the frame and said ‘Bears suck”, not pretty. Anyhow, Abuelita has interrupted my story by bringing me a steaming hot cup of coffee unbidden so I must go and enjoy it. It is with sadness and some regret that I will board the bus tonight headed, once again, furthur south.