The Race – Cartagena de Indias
By Dr. Sarah Allen
Introduction:
From 2007-08, I worked as a U.S. Fulbright teacher in Barranquilla, Colombia. During my year, albeit difficult, I fell deeply in love with Colombia and its people. Its where I developed my passion to write and I wrote voraciously, spending hours a day writing email stories back home. I often went to the internet café when I finished teaching at 2 p.m. and wrote until my fingers ached and my eyes bled, long after everyone had gone to bed and the café closed.
This is one of my favorite stories of Colombia, though I have many, many more. It is about a 10 km race I ran in Cartagena, Colombia with my Fulbright friends, Rachel and Adriana. It also features Lesbia, the stocky, dark-skinned gym teacher and swim coach at the school where I taught. Ironically, Lesbia is a lesbian and had an intense crush on me and would often appear at random places where I was in the city and beyond, arguably this would be considered stalking. With her big, wide smile, insatiable joy, and contagious laughter, Lesbia was impossible not to like and eventually became one of my best friends and a main character in many of my stories. I even stayed with her when I returned to Colombia. Lesbia is one of the funniest, most colorful, most unique characters I have met in this world, and when one shines so brightly, she becomes a heroine, a legend, and according to my father (a writer himself), ‘a gift from the writing Gods.’
Thank you for reading.
November 12, 2007
Buenas tardes,
Sorry, it´s been awhile. No worries, I have not been kidnapped by the FARC, I have actually been so busy paseando here in Colombia, I haven´t had the chance to write. Also, my brand new HP computer from the US is on the blink, and let me tell you it´s a pain in the a-- to get any support in Colombia, so my computer time is limited. I am writing this from the internet cafe near my house. It is filled with people speaking or singing loudly and there are three different songs playing in the background, so it is quite noisy in this tiny little room of about 15x7 feet. A young woman sitting diagonally across from me is watching this Christian concert via internet singing in full vibrato, terribly off key,"Nuestro Señor Aleyluia." She keeps peeking over at me, smiling. After the twentieth time, I am properly annoyed and reposition my screen to block her view. This is Barranquilla. The Lonely Planet describes the city as:¨"A maze of concrete blocks and dusty streets... an industrial giant that now ranks as Colombia´s fourth largest city. There are few tourist attractions and little reason to visit unless you happen to be around during Barranquilla´s explosive four-day Carnaval." I couldn´t agree more, so it has been great to finally get out and enjoy the paradise that lies just beyond my doorstep.
The Race – Cartagena de Indias
Do you know the story about the big fish who got away? Well, let me tell you the story about the little monita (blonde) who lost her medal. I was working in Colombia, South America on a U.S. Fulbright Teacher Exchange, in Barranquilla, a city on the Caribbean coast. I was headed to the beautiful, historic city of Cartagena to run a 10-kilometer race with two other Fulbrighters working in Bogota, Adriana, a bubbly, fast-talking chick from Tijuana, and Rachel, the runaway bride, a girl from the Denver area, who loves running so much she plans to wed her fiancé during next year´s Las Vegas marathon. And a Colombia story is not complete without Lesbia, so she came along for the ride, too. Somehow, she discovered I was running this race and immediately changed her weekend plans, inventing that she was also going to Cartagena, camping with friends on a nearby island. This was of course was a lie, but I forcibly swallowed the spoonful of bullshit, allowing her to accompany on the ride there.
So there we sat Lesbia and I, Saturday morning, 7 a.m., watching vintage salsa videos in the back of El Paraiso, a minibus transport packed full with Colombians bursting bright with excitement at this early hour. We were going to Cartagena, one of Colombia's most beautiful and historic cities, and there was reason to be jovial. I settled into the ride, forgetting my place on the bus and the gnawing pit in my stomach as Lesbia encroached upon me singing the romantic salsa songs from the TV into my ear. I pressed my body to the wall and my forehead to the glass, letting my imagination carry me away as I melded into the landscape. The tall grasslands and isolated trees and shrubs reminded me of the African Savanna, and I envisioned a majestic lion rising up out of the field, when reality
pulled me back to a screeching halt. Our bus had stopped. I rose from my seat along with the other passengers to compete for a view through the windshield. It was not a lion blocking the road, but three young soldiers carrying automatic rifles who looked about fourteen years old. As is commonly the case, the highway had been closed due to a political demonstration and we were diverted along the adjoining road.
Cartagena had been underwater for the last month with major flooding, so this made for an adventurous ride. The road was mostly unpaved, dirt turned mud by weeks of heavy rains with portions that were completely washed away. We plowed through the mess and dodged potholes three feet deep as poor teenage boys shoveled in dirt to fill the gaps.
The Caribbean coast is one of the poorest regions in the country which was glaringly evident. Most houses were single-room adobe and wooden shacks with tin or palm-thatched roofs. People sat on their cement stoops looking out at mud-filled yards as dark-skinned children danced and played in the dirt of shadowed doorways. Most along this route were poor campesinos. Cows and horses grazed in the grass, so skinny and undernourished, flesh hung from protruding ribs and bones. And the driving was insane. There were no rules to the road here. At times we rode four vehicles abreast, men and boys stood hanging from the back of trucks, families of four traveled together on one motorcycle, mule carts carried fruits and supplies, and goats and donkeys plodded along steadily, holding their position in the road. An old maroon Chevy whizzed by bursting with green bananas, so full that bananas hung out all the windows and the trunk, bungeed shut to keep them from falling out. I barely made out the head of the miniature man inside, appearing even smaller amidst all those bananas. I was overwhelmed with sensation to be present in all of this, if only for a moment looking behind paned glass. It is a feeling I cannot describe or really understand, but it is the reason I live to travel. There is a freedom and vibrancy of life here that has long disappeared from the US and I love it.
Hours later we arrived at the gates of the main plaza of the colonial old city of Cartagena filled with thousands of people preparing for the race. There was a big stage with bands playing and a lively aerobics class with hundreds of participants shouting and cheering, imitating the exaggerated movements of the instructor. I was not registered for this race and kept trying to explain this to Lesbia. She told me everything was going to be alright, just be quiet, and most importantly, “Do not to speak Spanish!” She took me by the hand and pushed ahead through the registration line, yelling repeatedly while pointing to the top of my head, “Coming through! This is a professional athlete from the United Sates and her plane just landed!”
Amazingly, no one argued. They kindly let us through, watching me curiously. We made our way to the registration table and Lesbia repeated the story to the workers explaining that my mailed-in registration must have been lost or stolen. I did as instructed and remained completely silent. The whole table of workers gathered together in a circle, inspecting me from top to bottom, discussing in hushed whispers the plausibility of this fantastical tale. Minutes later I was handed a race number and we both received a race t-shirt. Lesbia flashed me a triumphant smile, gave me a big high five and said, “See, I told you not to speak any Spanish.” We continued to my hostel where my friends waited and she left saying she would be waiting for me at the end of the race with my medal.
The gun went off at 6:45 pm. and with 7,000 runners at the start, it was an all-out shoving match for the first mile. Runners flooded the walled city restrained by its narrow, winding streets. Fearing I might drown, I ran quickly, weaving back and forth with the current, fighting for calm in the wave of runners. My chest already hurt and I realized the danger of experiencing pain this early in the race. I found an open line and exhaled relief, slowing into a relaxed pace. My goal was to enjoy the experience and take in the sights and sounds of the old city, running the course slow and easy. I had even considered bringing my camera to take pictures. That idea died with the next breath when I found myself surrounded by a group of young Colombian Navy guys yelling, "Let´s go mona (blondie), stay with us!" All around me I could hear people shouting, "Vive, el ejército! (Long live the military!)", "Váyase mona! (Go blondie!)" and "Come on Wisconsin!" from the occasional foreigner who spotted my Tri Wisconsin triathlon jersey. I was a competitor at heart and could not refuse the challenge nor ignore the encouragement. I yelled back,“Vamos! (Let's go!)” It was time to race.
It was an incredible feeling to be cheered by Colombians and North Americans alike, running through the night on cobble stoned streets in the dimly lit ciudad amurallada (walled city) and outside the fortress along the oceanfront. I remembered my friends and family back home and thought about my time and place here on the coast of Colombia. I had experienced a tremendous amount within the last four months. With every step I inhaled the thick, salty air and absorbed the sounds of the ocean mixed with cheers in Spanish and English, and the beat of Caribbean music playing in the streets. At this moment I realized that Colombia had earned a permanent place in my heart, and it, too, had become my home. This feeling carried me through the oppressive heat, heavy air and dehydration that took its toll on me by the end.
Upon the last mile I felt my pace begin to slow, but the Navy boys wouldn´t let me drop. They kept shouting things like, "Come on mona, you are breathing like a girl... Don´t run like a girl, finish like a champion!" I wanted to yell back, "Well, I am a girl damnit, so excuse me while I kick your ass!" I had no breath to speak, so I just pushed harder. I ran so hard my blood boiled, pureeing my insides. I welcomed the pain, reminding myself this would all be over soon. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing and maintained a quick, efficient turnover of my steps. “Lighter, faster, stronger!” I repeated to myself. I reached for the power cord of my center connecting me to the roots of the ground and imagined the force of a geyser propelling my feet up and forward. This little Qi gong trick a friend taught me came in handy and I used it when I had nothing left. The finish line finally came to view, and I smiled with elation at the sight and sound of the announcer and hundreds of cheering fans. I dug my feet into the ground for the last final push. Pressure like a jackhammer reverberated through my lower body and into my jaw, demolishing all thought as I sprinted the last hundred yards to the finish line. In my peripheral I could see the Navy boys alongside me as we crossed together in a line of solidarity.
“La Mona!” they cheered and I felt their celebratory hugs and slaps. So dizzy and nauseous from running so hard for so long in the heat with no water, I keeled over in pain, unable to look or speak and return the favor of camaraderie that I wished upon them. I could not stand and remained doubled over as I was physically forced into a small corral. Completely confused, I wondered why I was trapped inside this locked pen. When I was finally able to stand and walk, I attempted to leave, but the race officials pushed me back and said, "You can´t go, you finished in fifth place! You get a prize!
I looked around and noticed the other top finishers around me were black Colombian women, all professional runners. The winner was a tiny woman about four feet tall and 85 pounds who happened to be four months pregnant. Being the only foreigner, people assumed I was a professional athlete here to run the race. I was showered with attention, photographed and interviewed, with a line of people waiting to talk to me. I saw my place on the podium shining in the spotlight upon the big stage and thought this must be a dream. Sure, I had run the race of my life and ran harder than ever before, but I was far from being a world-class athlete. At the same time I realized something like this would never happen again, so I basked in the moment of glory, waited for my friends to finish and we excitedly rushed back to our hostel to get the cameras.
Can you believe what had happened while we were gone? Apparently some gordita (chubby woman) brazenly claimed she was with the Colombian Running Convention and stole all the prizes! The entire plaza was empty except for the four-month pregnant winner who furiously screamed at the race directors saying that the same woman robbed them last year and no one did anything to stop her. I
received no prize and Lesbia wasn't even around to give me my medal! When I later told my friends and colleagues in Barranquilla this story, they just laughed and shook their heads and said, “It's Cartagena. Things like that always happen there.”
I had no reason to complain. I had not registered for the race and my primary reason for coming to Cartagena was to vacation. Rachel, Adrianna and I spent the remainder of the weekend exploring Cartagena, touring the beautiful islands, Islas de Rosario, and soaking in El Volcan Totumo, the famous mud volcano known for it's therapeutic qualities, and most notably for being able to magically float atop its hundreds of feet of mud. It was impossible to sink! This was a well-needed break from the rigors of school. It had been a few months since I had seen my colleagues, or any foreigners for that matter. It felt good to share the frustrations and challenges of working in Colombia. Apparently, the discipline is difficult in Bogota as well. Rachel lamented she has had full out riots in her fifth-grade classroom and some days she can´t even teach because the students are so out of control. Meanwhile Sam, our other colleague back in Cali has been off work for ten days. The administrators went on strike and locked themselves in their offices. He will not return to work until the following month. Strikes are common in public schools and teachers there work much less than those in the private schools. On the contrary, I just finished a grueling ten-hour day at Colegio San Jose, so busy, I didn't even eat lunch.
And Lesbia? I don't think she ever went camping. She called me at least ten times while in Cartagena and the people running the hostel told me she showed up several times looking for us when we were gone, waiting for over an hour. At the end of the weekend, she returned again. She was very excited about the race and declared we must have a private awards ceremony. She reached into her bag with a fistful of medals (I assume she stole from school) and placed one around each of our necks including herself. Lesbia and I said good bye to my friends Adrianna and Rachel and we left the hostel.
Once outside, Lesbia informed me that we would not be taking the bus home, but riding back with her friend Ana Maria instead. One our way to Ana's car we literally bumped into three cherry-cheeked lads fresh off the plane from London, assuming they could get by in Cartagena speaking the Queen's English. They were at wits end at their inability to find a hostel and one of the limeys was in desperate need of a toothbrush. I was an American speaking Spanish so they asked for my assistance. Lesbia offered them to get in the car and ride in the car with us. Though they seemed befuddled by this generous offer, they readily followed along and jumped in the backseat when Lesbia opened the door of Ana's tiny Mazda. She didn't even turn around to look, but just started the engine and zoomed away while Lesbia blasted the radio, blaring vallenato, the Latin-style accordion opera music she enjoyed so much. Lesbia loved foreigners as did most Colombians I knew. Giddy and nervous with excitement at the realization of having a car-load full of them, she fired question after question, shouting over the music, demanding I translate, but not allowing anyone time to respond as she sang along with her favorite singer Peter Manjarrez. These young men looked wholly perplexed and slightly frightened by this bizarre Colombian experience, but maintained polite conversation glancing back and forth at one another as if they were ready to jump out of the car at any moment. We accompanied them to a hostel and a pharmacy, helping them procure a secure night's rest and clean teeth, said, “Adiós”, and continued on our way.
On the ride back Ana sped along the highway, and at times the car would come to a screeching halt and jump up and down like a bucking bronco. I suddenly realized then the importance of learning to drive at a young age. Although Ana was 40 years old, she had just gotten her driver’s license which was typical of many Colombians. The taxes on cars doubled or tripled the price to that which we pay in the U.S. and many Colombians simply could not afford to drive.
As Ana and Lesbia chatted along this tumultuous ride, I could not help but notice the soft and intimate way they spoke to one another as if I wasn't even there. I suspected Lesbia was a lesbian, and though she seemed to be obsessed with me, none of this was confirmed. I was working in a Jesuit Catholic school and she would be fired if she were openly gay. When I asked her about camping and where she stayed the weekend. Ana Maria, a marimacho, the most masculine Colombian woman I had ever met, turned to me and spoke for the first time in English, slowly and painstakingly, in her deep, contralto voice, "Lesbia stayed with me. She is my girlfriend." I swallowed my gasp, feigning enthusiasm,"That's great!" Lesbia did not say a word and stared straight ahead. Ana Maria continued on telling me the detailed history of their relationship. I had been warned about Lesbia's dangerous obsession with me. According to my friends here, crimes of passion are a real thing in Colombia, something I had never considered a reality. Now I would be told I needed to be even more careful of this woman, the jealous girlfriend who might think that Lesbia me pone los cuernos conmigo (literally meaning, putting on horns, cheating) and come after me.
Until next time...The End
Are you still awake? It's 11:30 p.m. Time to go. The city is sleeping, including the man running the internet cafe. He's half laid out on the sofa of the front office with the lights off, snoring.
Buenas noches mis queridos. Sueña con los angelitos. (Good night my loved ones. Dream with angels)