Paradise City (Part 3)

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Joy Contagion

The Medellín River runs through the center of the city. Near one of the primary bridges that crosses it, there is a cluster of parks and pathways that run alongside. Every year, for most of the month of December – and well into January – a spectacular array of Christmas lights known as Los Alumbrados is on display along the river. Hundreds of luminous, plantlike fixtures rise up out of the water. Dozens of scenes are constructed featuring animatronic figures that move around. Each season brings a completely different display than that of the year before, and an entire industry has grown up around the world-famous event.

A small crowd of us from the hostel spend an hour or so walking around and looking at all the different light displays. Streams of families, couples, and gaggles of friends wander up and down the river and take in the lights. Small groups of musicians have gathered here and there to perform Christmas carols, traditional ballads, and – in one case – "Winds of Change" on an array of Andean flutes.

The air is super-saturated with a high-voltage cheer that crackles off of every available surface. If Medellín is a happy city, a joyous city, it is only intensified in this place in this moment. The dynamos driving this pervasive charge are obviously the children. Mesmerized by wonder, they gaze and point at the animated figures – animals, windmills, clowns, made dazzling by the mere addition of thousands upon thousands of little pinpoints of colorful light and a few servo motors.

Later, we make our way to the end of the park to where the concert will be held. An enormous open space has been cleared for standing room only – a long promenade that runs along the river. At the end – far, far off in the distance – the elevated stage where Juanes will soon perform stands invisible to the likes of me and probably most everyone around me. At the mouth of this space, several barricades have been placed to keep people out. Four or five armed soldiers stand atop steel barrels behind the barricades and observe the crowd – ready for anything. They are letting a trickle of people through a narrow opening in the metallic force field. We wonder how long this will take. There are quite a few people here, and they are all jonesing to get in and get as close to the stage as possible.

After about ten minutes, an emotional transformer blows. The anticipation has grown to unsustainable levels, and everyone – gringos included – can sense that familiar buzz that a show is about to begin. A cluster of young men rush the barricades and move them out of the way . With this, a roar of approval erupts and waves of humanity rush forward and toward the stage.

This is momentarily terrifying. This is the sort of thing that can become vicious and bloody. I hold my breath and wait for the sounds of shots or bones being crushed underfoot. But the flood of humanity continues – boldly but not recklessly. The soldiers stand and watch. We involuntarily move forward with the hordes and are pushed closer to the action. The undulating roar of voices is not malicious – it is celebratory, humorous, alive.

This city was once a war zone. But Pablo Escobar is dead. There are problems, there is poverty, and there will be more monsters. But Pablo is dead, and Medellín is forever nascent.

Our small band of travelers begins to disintegrate in the overwhelming flow of bodies. The Swede is the first to go. He was last seen somewhere outside the barricades, standing on a small patch of grass with his hands shoved into the pockets of his faded jeans. A tiny toddler girl clung to her mother's hand and gazed straight up in respectful wonder at the grey-haired giant. He, in turn, gave her his faint, perpetual smile.

Once inside, we begin to lose compadres one by one. The Chilean here, a Kiwi there, they begin to peel away like electrons stripped from an unstable atom.

All that remain in the end are Corey, Mike, and myself. We manage to stick together, and weather the current until the crowd finally settles into a satisfactory stasis and the concert begins.

We remain in the crowd for a little over an hour. The music is ok, but mostly we stay for the sake of watching so many people. Eventually it becomes clear that we won't be getting any closer to the stage. Someone suggests that we make our way back out and go find a bar and have a few drinks. No one protests.

It takes us a good ten minutes to squirm our way through the jostling mass of people – each of us eventually dropping out of the crowd and onto the concrete like an impromptu live birth. We stumble along for several paces shoulder to shoulder until our senses of personal space reset themselves to their normal American bubble fortresses and we drift apart.

We go on in silence for a while, listening to the concert ring in our ears. A few blocks away from the river, Corey looks down a long, narrow side street and points out a small cluster of bars at the far end. We turn onto the road.

We soon realize that the long street has deposited us into a small cul-de-sac about a block behind the concert stage. Three or four bars are packed with crowds that spill over into the street. From here, we can hear the music just as well as we could before. Juanes finishes performing "La Camisa Negra" and the audience beyond the stage erupts in cheers.

"This is perfect," I say grinning to Mike and Corey.

Nearby, a few Colombian guys in their mid-30's stand drinking from plastic cups. One of them – the taller of the two in a plaid shirt – looks up and addresses me in Spanish.

"Where are you guys from?"
"The US," I say.
"Ah, cool."

He notices Mike looking from bar to bar trying to decide which we should enter.

"Forget it, man. They're totally packed."

The man's friend, a younger guy in an Adidas shirt steps over and produces a few plastic cups from a satchel slung over his shoulder and offers them to us.

"Here," he says, "we have some extras."
"Yeah," says the other. "We've got some aguardiente, too."

Aguardiente is a general Spanish term for any local "firewater". In South America, this is typically distilled sugarcane liquors and, in the case of Colombia, is given the flavor of anise. It's no cachaça, but it kicks.

We protest politely, we don't want to impose. But the guy in the Adidas shirt just shoves the plastic cups into our hands.

"No, please, have some. We were waiting on some friends, but it doesn't look like they're going to make it. Probably got stuck in the crowd."

The taller man clinches his cup between his teeth and rummages in the satchel to pull out what looks like a Hi-C juice box. He frees the little bendy-straw from its plastic holster, shoves it into the top of the box, and hands it to Corey – grinning over his cup.

You can buy aguardiente in a bottle, but little cardboard boxes are the norm. Seriously.

Corey relents and accepts the box with a smile of surrender.

"Ok, thanks. We'll get the next round."
"Yeah, no worries," the man says, removing the cup from his mouth. "There's plenty to go around."

Corey hands me the juice box and I carefully aim the straw, squeeze gently, and send a stream of Colombian firewater into my cup. I then pass the box over to Mike.

"Dude. If we could get these things into high school vending machines back home, we'd be freaking millionaires."
"Right?" he laughs.

The two men refill their own chalices and all five click together in cheers and saludos. The clink of real glasses would be better than the dull clap of polypropylene cups, but it'll do.

We drink and converse. The two Colombians are – in short – fantastic individuals. Within no time at all and long before alcohol has anything to do with it, we are story-sharing, back-slapping, and belly-laughing.

Pride is a tricky thing, it comes in all forms.

Americans, for example, have a pride based largely on GDP and a veritable canon of meaningless catch phrases and symbols. That's about it.

Brazilian pride reads more like the Guinness Book of World Records rather than a manifesto on national identity – always on about the largest this, fastest that, most successful such and such. I think it must somehow be related to their hyperactive sex drive.

The Peruvians' pride often centers (rightfully so) around their cuisine and curiously borders on wistful nostalgia even when a plate of the stuff is right under their noses. The British identity is fueled by high civility – binge drinking not withstanding. The Germans have their efficiency, the Japanese their honor, and the French their – well – being French. And quite frankly I've not the vocabulary nor clinical training required to cover the exasperating complexities of Spanish pride.

Despite all the disparate idiosyncrasies, most peoples display a common enthusiasm to share their cultures with the outside world. This can be an introduction to food, exchange of language, explanation of politics or religion, or any number of ways to welcome someone to a culture. This is great, and we should all keep it up. But pay close attention, there is something else. The percentages vary from person to person, but in the best of cases this interchange is about 95%!s(MISSING)haring and 5%!<(MISSING)i>correction. It is very subtle, but there is often a small component of lecture – a "tsk tsk" to your own way of life. This is where pride spills over into ethnocentricity and arrogance. It isn't a major problem, just a little irritating.

I've only been in Colombia for a few weeks now, so I'm no expert. But as far as I can tell, people here don't display that thin edge of condescension. They are genuinely welcoming and, in return, are interested in you and where you come from. It is very refreshing.

But maybe I've just been lucky. And right now all three of us are lucky to be hanging out with these two guys.

By the third round of drinks, the concert ends with a modest display of fireworks overhead. Streams of people begin leaving, but we decide to stick around to wait out the rush and have a few more drinks.

Eventually the bars announce last call, and it is time to leave. There isn't much for the Americans and Colombians to do but to wish each other a Merry Christmas amid handshakes and embraces, and partake in the sweet sorrow of parting.

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With a final beer in hand, we begin to make our way back toward the hostel – following the road that runs along the elevated metro for several blocks before deciding to turn down a side street to get away from the irritating bright lights embedded in the belly of the great concrete transit beast.

Half a block later, two soldiers step out from the shadows and block our way. They have their rifles in hand, pointed at the ground. Our conversation ceases in time with our paces.

"Hello. Do you speak Spanish?"

We do.

"Where are you guys going?" asks the soldier.

We look down at our beers that blatantly thumb a nose at open-container laws. I feel my stature shrink by a few centimeters.

"Oh. Ummm sorry," one of us says. I honestly don't know who. Perhaps it was me, my brain is running overtime trying to discern if this is going to be a bribery situation, a citation situation, or something worse. And am I drunk? I don't think so. But am I? Are the others?

The three of us simultaneously hold the bottles of beer a little forward and down – a curiously well-synchronized and instinctive sign of capitulation to the well-armed authority figures.

The same soldier – clearly the one in charge – looks down at the beers as if seeing them for the first time. He shakes his head and waggles dismissive fingertips in the air.

"Nooo, no." he says. "We just need to know where you're going."

We explain where we are staying.

"Ok.," he says after a moment of consideration. "Look, would you mind just following the metro that way? Once you get about six or seven blocks up you can turn there."

We agree. ¿Como no?

"It's just that there have been some problems in this neighborhood lately. It's not particularly dangerous, but I would personally feel a lot more comfortable if you avoided these few streets.

We agree. No problem.

"Ok. Is there anything we can help you with?" You know how to get back ok?"

Help? Us? We assure him that we know where we're going.

"Ok, guys. Have a good evening," he gestures to the beers and smiles. "And have a good time. Merry Christmas"

We thank them and they turn to continue their street patrol.

I think of all the stories Corey and others have told me of the corrupt and vicious military in Venezuela next door. I remember the hostile border police I had to deal with back in Ecuador. So many places where the primary purpose of soldiers is to protect the regime or indeed their own interests. In Medellín, it seems, the military protects the people.

We head back to the main street and turn toward home – guided by the lights of the city's Overground.

Another Departure

Seven hours later, I awake in the top bunk in the hostel. I seem to be licking my lips a lot. Chapped. What? In Medellín? The weather here makes San Diego look like a Siberian gulag. There hasn't been a chapped pair of lips here since –

My eyes tear open in alarm. I bring a hand up to feel my lips. Not chapped. Blistered, swollen. Itchy.

The mango. I had to have the goddamn mango.

I close my eyes and concentrate on my body. More itching. Where is it. Groin.

"Son of a...bitch!" I hiss.
"Che cosa?"

From the bottom bunk – the Italian guy from Sardinia tapping out a text message on his phone. Beep beep beep beep.

"Nada," I moan, and slide off the bunk and onto the cold tile floor.

In the bathroom, I inspect my lips in the mirror. Only a little puffy. And really not itching very much. All in all, it could have been far worse.

I sigh.

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Two hours later, I finally – finally – make it to the Antioquia museum. Botero rocks, if you're ever in the area, I highly recommend you drop in.

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Seven hours later, I stand in the common room of the hostel surrounded by Mike, Corey, and five or six of the others. They are all about to go out to a club. I am not. I have to get up at the crack of dawn and catch a long bus trip up to the northern coast. I am cheerfully urged not to leave – to stick around for another week. I blush and insist that I would love to. But I have plans for Christmas and someone is waiting for me up there. I receive hugs, handshakes, and Facebook invites. The Swede, who has said all of ten words in the past several days just widens his smile more than usual and gives me a friendly clap on the shoulder.

I am getting tired of this. I'm tired of making good friends only to move on and have to start over. It leaves you strangely hollow inside. And there's nothing you can do about it. You can stay, but then one of them will have to leave. We're all leaving, eventually.

But in this case, the very reason I want to stay is the reason I need to go. I'm not off to visit ruins or scale a mountain. There really is someone waiting for me in Taganga. And after all, if my options for spending Christmas are limited to staying here in Medellín with good friends or going up to Taganga to see good friends, well, then, I can't really complain.

But still, sleep comes slowly and is unrestful.

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Comments

[Burt]

pride
I love the discourse on the various forms of national pride. It comes in so many flavors.