These pictures were taken the final day of my stay in Colombia after meeting the guard of the family that I was staying with. That is why he looks a little more happy than the first night I met him. Now, without further adieu, here is my story…
You know that jittery feeling you got when you were five years old descending the stairs on Christmas morning? Not the uncontrollable excitement when you realized Santa made it rain on your stocking, but rather that feeling of anxiety from the uncertainty of what the stocking held. When I was dropped into Medellin, I instantly experienced the familiar feeling of anxiety – only this time it wasn’t the stocking, it was an address. Here I was, late at night, a lone White Ranger on the streets of Colombia, standing with my backpack (which contained my Mac Laptop) and bag, and all I had was the address of my Colombian step mom’s brother’s girlfriend’s friend – a lady whose name I didn’t know.
Flagging down the first taxi driver I saw, I piled in all my shit and handed him the address. Now, I’d like to say that when you get into a cab with a native driver who is sure to know how to take you to your destination, you can normally relax and let your mind imagine what that holiday stocking holds. However, when he asked me in Spanish if I knew how to get there, with a look on his face like you just told a five-year-old that Santa isn’t real – I wasn’t quite reassured. Even better, my man had Tourettes and kept shaking behind the wheel in fits of epilepsy. The first time he looked over at me with a blood curdling gnarl, I thought he was pissed, but then I realized the gnarls were just periodic outbreaks of his Tourettes. I sensed I was in trouble, but somehow we got close and the driver officially said we found it.
“Veinte mil pesos.” he said, as I handed him the bill, equivalent to $10, but he instantly turned it down. We argued in Spanish about the money’s legitimacy, but he assured me that my pesos were fake. I was like fuck, that’s the last of my cash and it’s counterfeit. After I scrounged up small bills from every pocket that existed on me, I had close to the amount and gave it to him. The cab driver cut his losses, took the money, and sped off. As all this was going down, I noticed my phone screen had cracked and I couldn’t see half of the screen. Now I was on the streets again with all my stuff, but this time there was a building guard nearby who was holding a shotgun the size of my leg. How do you explain to an armed man at 11pm at night, in Spanish, that you’re new here, you don’t know where you are, you don’t know the lady you’re supposed to be staying with, and you can’t get a hold of her because you’re phone is jacked, and oh, sir, could you please help me with all this stuff? I’m thinking if the guard has a huge rifle with slugs exposed on his belt, that this is probably not the part of town for a gringo with a nice laptop to be in. So I sure hoped to God that this was the building.
Somehow, with some miracle, it was the building! As frightening as the guard was with that gun, he managed to look at me like the kindhearted Santa I was searching for all along. Finally, following our encounter, I got to open my stocking and it contained all the beauty and the magic of Medellin. To see more pics of my amazing stay in Colombia, click here.
Jen Chinn’s interpretation of Patrick Liberty’s description of the night of the 25th of January.