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You never know quite what you’re going to get when you Couchsurf, and in my latest CS stay, I really wasn’t sure what to expect as I was to stay with the parents of a member of CS and not the CSer himself.
A couple of weeks ago, I’d written to Alexander in Cartagena seeking a couch, and he’d responded that although he was studying in Germany, he was sure his parents would love to have me. His mother was waiting for my call.
And so it was that I ended up in la casa de Gloria y Albero, the best people I’ve met in Colombia–and, in fact, maybe in all of South America, with a few exceptions.
The sweet, happy couple welcomed me into their home, the first morning following an overnight bus ride from Medellin, invited me to join them for el almuerzo (pescado frito, patacones, cerveza y gaseosa), and told me repeatedly that I was a part of their family during my stay. “Como una hija (like a daughter),” they said.
One day, Albero and I biked fifteen kilometers to Playa Blanca (where we met two vacationing Italian couples), a beach with blue, clear waters (much unlike the grey tones of Cartagena’s sea) and straw huts offering accommodations in hammocks and plates of fresh fish and arroz con coco, cold beer, and the opportunity to enjoy the freedom of doing not much at all.
And then after enjoying several days of Gloria and Albero’s hospitality (cafe tinto in the afternoons, ensalada de fruta one afternoon, almuerzos deliciosas, desayunos), and Spanish lessons (they corrected me often, and I embraced the corrections, intent upon learning the right way of speaking and not just speaking to be understood mas o menos), I said that I would like to prepare an almuerzo on my final day with them, and I said that I wanted to make pescado frito y patacone (a type of platano that is cooked in oil and then smashed and sprinkled with salt and lime juice before meeting the oil again) and a salad. The latter I had covered, but for the former two, I’d need Gloria’s assistance.
Gloria readily agreeing, we set out for la pescaderia en la manana (she said it was best to go in the morning, very early), and on our way we passed fish vendor after fish vendor, scraping scales, chopping heads off, calling out to potential buyers. But Gloria advised me that buying from these vendors was not a good idea, and she pointed out the pelicans that hovered above, waiting for a chance to descend. She always, she informed me, went to the same pescaderia, and so on we walked, past Colombianos selling papayas and yucas and bananas, past breakfast stands where I smelled fresh fried things like arepas con huevos (two maize tortillas filled with an egg and deep-fried to a golden perfection) and buneulos, another deep-fried delicious treat.
We hadn’t eaten yet, Gloria nor I. But when I suggested arepas con huevos, she made a little face, and I could see that eating in the market was not her thing (in spite of the fact that she enjoyed living with Albero simply, as she herself had told me, not having the taste for the expensive and often pretentious way of doing things). But the market in Cartagena was the most disorganized, dirty market in the whole country, she’d shared.
“Pero, siempre como en los mercados y nunca estoy enferma (But, I always eat in the markets, and I’m never sick),” I said, and after buying the fish, Gloria agreed to meet my desire and said that we would look for arepas con huevos. She walked past a couple of kiosks that looked acceptable to me and finally stopped at one, still looking skeptical but willing.
Moments later, as we walked through the disorganized, chaotic market with our bag of fish and a small bag of limes, Gloria confirmed what my taste buds were shouting, “Esta rico. Mmmm. Frescita y caliente.”
“Si, con carne!” I said.
Gloria and I cooked together and when Albero came home for lunch, he was pleased with our efforts, and I was happy to hear Gloria tell him about the arepas, even going so far as to recommend that he go the following morning!
Later, when I wanted to go to the market again to purchase fruit for my trip to Taganga, a small fishing village full of backpackers and, therefore, over-priced food, Gloria steered me in the direction of a grocery store. Because she needed cafe, I dutifully went, but as I found no fruit to my liking, I arrived back at the house, announcing that in the morning before my trip, I was going to go to the market.
By this time, Gloria was smiling, Albero was wanting to hear what I thought of the market, and I was hoping to explain clearly the pleasure I derive from my market visits.
Sure, we have farmers’ markets back in NYC, grand, open-air spaces touting fresh fruits and vegetables, homemade pies and breads and cakes, flowers and crafts too, but there’s nothing that can compare to the markets of South America. Nada.
And while in some places, notably Cartagena where the tourists all attach themselves to the old city and where I saw not a single extranjero in the market, I must call upon my courage to face the intense stares, the murmurs of appreciation (“Ah, mami. Mona. Que linda! Ay, hermosa), and the lingering glances of desire I meet as I walk purposefully looking for something to eat or searching for the fruit stand that has everything I want, it’s all worth it to experience the local flavor.
I should note that I am keen on heeding the advice of locals who steer me away from places that they consider unsafe (as in Pisco, Peru, where I was practically forbidden to go to the market by myself), but as Gloria’s reasons for directing me away from the market didn’t involve issues of security, I felt comfortable going on my own, satisfied in knowing that I was seeing the real Cartagena and not just the stuff in the movies or the guidebooks.
And in the end, after our arepa experience, I think Gloria was happy to have had a little taste of the Cartagena market as well. And maybe she’ll return and take a chance on another arepa.
I hope so.
There’s an obvious advantage to meeting the local people when you’re traveling. You get to step out of and away from the often-structured traveler’s trail and experience life as, well, as the locals live it.
And this is exactly what happened last week in Salento, Colombia when my new friend, Andres, invited me to a party at a finca (coffee farm), a party he said that only happens once a month. Well, then.
We returned to my hostel, gathered my other new friends, foreigners like me, and squeezed into an old Jeep for a precarious twenty minute ride. Because I had a somewhat-prized seat in the front, I couldn’t tell how many people we had hanging on for the ride, but later I learned that we maxed out at thirteen.
We had roadies for the road and no clear idea of how we’d be getting back into town, though Andres had assured me that we would, indeed, be getting back in town. I was all for roughing it (had been doing some variation of that for the past nine months, after all) but the thought of being stranded on some farm far from the center of town with no promise of a place to sleep wasn’t sitting well with me.
A smart guy, Andres had sold the fiesta to me as one of drinking, dancing, and hanging out someplace cool, doing something different and unique, but he had gotten the attention of the boys when he described the cockfights.
And it is the latter that was, it seemed, the draw of the finca party, the entertainment, the main event.
No matter. I mainly ignored the actual fighting and proceeded to make friends with the other partygoers, at least the partygoers who were willing to steer their eyes away from the matches and attempt to understand my imperfect Spanish among the riotous cheering surrounding us.
I met a couple of Colombian military and persuaded them to let me touch their guns.
I became fascinated with the ten-year-old Colombian boy who I felt was up way past his bedtime, all for the sake of watching two roosters demolish each other.
When I objected to what was going on in the ring– ”No me gusta…” I told Andres (when he asked me what I thought) though in English to my fellow travelers, I had a whole lot more to say–I received a short speech (from my US buddies) on how this was obviously a Colombian tradition and should be respected even if I didn’t agree with it. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wasn’t making a scene; in fact, I was having a grand old time. I was just more interested in mingling than gambling.
In the end, it was Andres, the Colombian, who was ready to leave the party before the rest of us. We talked him into staying for an extra hour, but then, as transportation back to town was scarce, we had to listen to reason and stake our spots in the overcrowded jeep. It’s a small miracle we all made it back unharmed, this time with Andres on the roof and countless bodies standing and holding on, while I once again occupied a spot in the front.
The next day, when the new hostel arrivals asked me what I’d been doing in Salento and I explained about the party on the finca, their eyes grew rounder and they inquired about how they could find their way into a finca. I had to tell them that they’d be hanging around Salento a long time if they wanted to drink beer on a finca and watch cocks fight.
But who’s to say what other chevere (cool) thing they might fall into if they fell in with a local.
Was it worth it?
I asked this question again and again. Every time I met someone who’d been to the Galapagos Islands off of mainland Ecuador, I sought an answer to the question.
They all said yes, urging me to go, then telling me in no uncertain terms to just do it.
But when I asked how it was worth it, no one really had any answers. None that satisfied me anyway.
So I wasn’t convinced. I did some googling but came up with nothing that led me any closer to making a decision on this costly trip.
In the end, emergency cash in hand–lots and lots of emergency cash in hand– (as I still don’t have a debit card), I booked a flight to the islands and set out about finding a last-minute boat tour.
In spite of the fact that my boat tour defied most of the guidebooks’ try-to-avoid suggestions (for it was an overlapping boat tour that employed freelance guides, there was a fuel stop, a change of cooks, captains, guides, and group), I had an absolute ball.
Even though everywhere I looked, my eyes encountered far grander, luxurious boats, er yachts, I grew to love my little boat, Rumba. (And not just because, as the only female among 14 guys, the crew began calling me La Reina (the queen)…)
So there was no hot water. Or barely any water to shower with at all. So the cabins were teeny, tiny spaces with no air-conditioning. So the only indoor common area was crowded and basic. So there was no bar but only a cooler full of beer.
There was food, good food, and plenty of it. Our cook for the better part of the trip, George, made magic in the galley kitchen. One evening he turned out a torta de banana so fabulous, I had seconds–twice! We ate fresh fish for lunch everyday, salads of pickled onions, avocado, sweet tomatoes.
We snorkled at least once a day, and I swam with sharks and sea lions and couldn’t count the number of manta rays I saw swimming about.
We watched penguins mate in the water, passed by blue-footed boobies, Galapagos doves, and land iguana that seemed less than impressed with our human presence.
On Isabela, before my boat trip began, I visited the tortoise-breeding center, walked the length of the beach until I reached La Playita, and noticing not a single (human) soul, went skinny-dipping in the middle of the afternoon.
On the last day of the boat tour, the morning activity involved a walk on Floreana Island, where Post Office Bay is. It’s been a long tradition on the islands for visitors to leave unstamped letters and/or postcards in a wooden mail box, and as tourists leave their letters (hoping for hand-delivery, one day!), they can also take postcards to hand-deliver. As our group looked through the addresses, I gleefully pocketed postcards addressed to places in Queens, Amherst, NY (where my parents live!), and Boston. I can’t wait to return and personally deliver the mail to completely unsuspecting people.
In closing, was it worth it?
Without a doubt.
But really, it’s just one of those things you’ll have to see for yourself.
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