My first year in Colombia was filled with self-doubt. I didn't know what I wanted; the only thing that kept me in one place at that time was my boyfriend, who I was to marry a couple of years later, my rock, my stability, my anchor. (Figure that now, 45 years later I still use the same formula in my relationships :). It works fine for me, I suppose.
At one time we even went and filled an application to emigrate to Canada, but they didn't want us there. I guess they had already too many young college dropouts already without us engrossing the numbers.
I was learning the language, but not fast enough, because I thought (and Fabian heartily agreed) that it would be good if we spoke English to each other. He had been studying to become an English teacher at ILCA (Instituto Linguistico Colombo Americano) at the Colombo after dropping out from university as industrial engineer at the Universidad Tecnologiga de Pereira. Back in Cali from rainy, noisy party town Pereira he had dated a couple of gringas and got interested in becoming an English teacher. He spoke fairly good English at the time we met, but needed more practice with his woulds and shoulds so it became a lot "I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail, yes I would....."
But yes, I was picking up the language slowly but surely, at work and shopping (Fabian would not go in the women's clothing store to help me buy underwear ...), visiting his parents at San Fernando. and that first Christmas in Cali, when my brother went on a hunting safari with his new friends (Colombians) to the llanos and shot a farmer's prized breeding pig; I was abandoned and miserable in the apartment in Juanambú. We had moved from the three-bedroom flat behind Sears where you could hear the winds wailing like folks was out there dying ....
Christmas Eve 1970 I was alone in that tiny flat and I wasn't a happy camper. Alone, the very first time, at Christmas, very far away from home and feeling lonely and homesick, I accepted happily to spend that Christmas at my boyfriend's house with his parents and family in San Fernando. That was my first sancocho de gallina (I hated it), my first arroz con leche (it was ok) my first dulce desamargado (weird) but where was the pig? I learned to smile politely and say ....si gracias, muy rico, just not that hungry....
Getting to like the food was an ordeal. I lost a lot of weight, got amoebas from drinking tap water and missed my salt herring and boiled potatoes to no end. Fabian visited me every day after work and brought me a different tropical fruit. I liked the veggies, but not platanos, not for a long time. I liked the chicken, but not that Colombian passion of cooking everything, even the scrambled eggs, with lots of onion and tomato. I liked to visit the produce market and pick my own fruit and vegetables but I was still living in Juanambú with my brother and did actually very little cooking. That winter (I would still call that time of the year winter, Artie was dating a lot of local girls, often from poor barrios, and I was going steady with Fabián, eating out a lot, struggling with my Spanish and my amoebas. I was getting up very early in the morning and catching a bus to Yumbo on Calle 15 at 5 a.m. to be on time at the parrochial school I was teaching English.
Cali in those days was like a big town, the traffic was slower, people walked a lot, especially in the north of the town where I lived, the buses were always crowded and in bad shape, there were street kids, gamines, beggars and garbage pickers all over the place. I learned how to pick my way on the sidewalks downtown not to stumble on people lying there with festering wounds and flies buzzing around. I also learned how to look the other way, just like my fellow Colombians did. It's incredible how adaptable a young person is. I had never seen a beggar or street person before or somebody who had so serious medical problems that were not being taken care of. I gave money to everybody who asked, until I was rebuked severely and told not to do it.
II
1971 was a lovely year, I was 23 and a blonde gringa in a city where foreigners were not so common and looked like everybody wanted to be my friend. I was working from 4 to 6 hours a day, making just enough money to get by. I got treated for my amoebas, finally, and with the returning health my life was good. My brother started dating his students from the Colombo, among them was a pretty paisa girl (actually from Caldas, I think) Adela R. that he eventually married and took to live in the States with him. I was a good friend with Adela, a friendship that survived long past their divorce.
That year we also went to Juanchaco and Ladrilleros on Easter break, made trips to Silvia and Popayán with the Vegas in the dear old Guanabana (Chevy Bel-Air -54) and were part of the sports event that Cali still remembers, the Panamerican Games.
