Colombia begins: the heart and soul of Salsa

We decided to change our flights out of Costa Rica due to time and expense, and so as we made our way across the border into Colombia, we knew this would be the last country of our trip. But first, we had a two day trip across the border to contend with.

Is this the biggest avocado in the world?!

Border crossings have offered lots of imaginative twists to our South American travels: multiple protests, road blockades, disdain from Argentinian officials and even a (albeit minor) bus crash.

So naturally, crossing through what is fondly known as “bandit territory” had us interested and slightly nervous as to what would happen on our final crossing. We’d heard whisperings and tales of hijackings and robberies (even by the Colombian police!).

Thankfully, the only twist to this two-day journey was the insane amount of armed police and military that we saw on our way, armed with huge weapons.

Even in the most seemingly remote places, there would be a few fully decked out soldiers on the side of the road, complete with large automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, or sometimes by their sides, with their fingers actually resting on the trigger. We made sure to give them our best “gringo” (foreigner) smile and be polite!

Pretty Popayán

We’d seen this all over South America, but this was the first we’d been frisked by one. Onto the bus came a soldier carrying a shotgun while he took ours and all the locals’ identification. Perfectly normal.

Then we all got asked to get off the bus, separate into men and women and I watched as Med got a full frisking and bag search by a man with a gun. Thankfully, I just had a bag search and few questions about our journey.

We made it, without being hijacked, robbed or arrested – high five for us!

We arrived into the pretty colonial town of Popayán, known as the “white city”, since all the buildings are painted alike. Popayán is surrounded by some really beautiful countryside; many a mountain, volcano and national park, but the town is quiet and we just relaxed after a two day journey.

We did manage to sample some of the local nightlife though, in the form of a dark, maroon bar serving up cheap drinks, music from collectible, Colombian LPs and heaps of entertainment from the sozzled, rosy-cheeked locals who perched on wobbly stools and musty chairs.

I loved it. This was the Colombia I had imagined: infectious Latino music, wafts of meat cooking on the street outside and tables oozing with empty beers and spirits.

There was only one thing missing: sizzling Salsa!

Cali is known as the salsa capital of the country, if not the world. (Salsa the dance form, not the dip!)
Cali is serenely surrounded by miles of sugar cane plantations, and sweeping landscapes, but its heart and soul is in complete contrast. It pulsates a unique and sassy energy, the energy of fiesta and homegrown Salsa.

Cali is also known for “medical tourism”, i.e., a lot of people come here to get plastic surgery. Certainly a lot of the locals have had boob jobs and I suspect bottom implants too. We’ve even heard that it’s a traditional present for a wealthy 16 year old to have a boob job in Colombia; Med and I now play a mean game of real or fake!

The city also has a dramatic history – much served up by the drug kingpins of the late eighties and early nineties. Today, change is happening and Cali has become a safer and happier place for everyone.

Med was less than thrilled to be there though, where two left feet just don’t cut it. But I was desperate to go to a real Colombian Salsa club and try and keep up with the locals who started dancing, as one guy put it, “en el vientre” (in the womb).

So a few of us took a class in our hostel, with Carlos (so far everyone seems to be called Carlos in Colombia!). As we learnt fast Salsa and special Cali salsa to the Latino music in the studio with a wall of mirrors, I felt like I should have brought my high heels and be-jewelled skirt! I came out of the class drenched in sweat, feeling like I really should have been born Colombian. This was too much fun.

We headed out with a big group of travellers and locals to Las Brisas, a notorious Salsa hotspot full of be best dancers in Cali. Wow!

The brightly and skimpy clad costumes on the dancers dazzled as they fiercely moved their bodies in time to the beat, legs stepped perfectly in sync with each other and moving so fast I felt dizzy. I was finally here, and totally out of my depth!

Las Brisas Salsa club

Thankfully, within our group we had a few Salsa teachers who refused to let us sit down for more than two minutes at a time. Rum and Aguardiente (Colombia’s national spirit, similar to Ouzo) were passed around and I danced until I couldn’t feel my feet!

At one point I even found myself at the front of some kind of line dance version of Salsa with a huge audience - you just get into the outrageously electric atmosphere and no one seems to care that you’ve only had one lesson.

Five days into Colombia and we were overwhelmed and enchanted by its people and soul. Despite the very recent, tumultuous history, Colombians are an unbelievably friendly bunch. We have been stopped by complete strangers just to say “Bienvenidos” (welcome) more in this country then in all other countries combined. The staring at our white skin and fair locks continues with renewed vigour here, but at least they are most likely to do it with a smile or a “Buenos” (the short form of "Buenos dias" - good day.

I’ve fallen in love with this country, and am so excited about our last month of being "viajeros" (travellers).

At home in Chile

After a weekend of feasts and fiestas, moving in day had arrived.

During my two weeks of studying at Escuela Bellavista, I had arranged to move into a homestay with a lady named Angelica. I had never even clapped eyes on her, but I had her name, an address, and a terribly vague print out from Google Maps. Oh, and I also knew she spoke no English. Deep end, preparing to jump...splash!

I walked past another beautiful Catholic church in Providencia, down a leafy, sun-chinked street and stood outside what I hoped was the right apartment block. The traffic from the main street was forgotten as I said "hola" to the man selling flowers in black buckets on the side of the road, opposite.

Angelica wasn't home, but thankfully Megan - from Australia and also a student a Escuela Bellavista - was there to welcome me to the apartment and show me the ropes. The apartment was so homely, inspired by shelves full of meaningful trinkets, mismatched furniture and fabrics and a well-loved kitchen stacked with gem-coloured, glass bottles and old, rusting biscuit tins holding newly-purchased food.

Then there was my room, adorned with dusty rosary beads, a broken television set, brown and orange-striped sheets and a wooden bookcase full of forgotten treasures from past guests and old friends. As I put away my backpack under one of the beds and closed a drawer full of my clothes, I realised this was the closest thing to home I had experienced in seven months.

There were plenty of charming quirks to remind me I was so very far from home though: last minute invitations to evening meals at 11pm; numerous failed attempts to light the boiler with a match; coming home at 4am to find the Angelica and her nephew moving furniture;

misunderstandings followed by exaggerated hand gestures similar to those used by children's television presenters; and much laughter, sometimes with me, usually at me.

Breakfast was always an entertaining start to my day. Just like my grandparents do, Angelica set up the breakfast table the evening before, with two table clothes (one being the 'nice' one for the day, the other on top to catch crumbs and spills), and various old tins and jars. Every day we had pan (bread), with mantequilla (butter) and mermelada (jam). On some days there was also pate and jamón, and on one day we even had tuna, a prickly pear cactus fruit full of small pips.

But everyday, without fail, there was powdered milk for tea and coffee. I never got the hang of this, always swallowing bland lumps of milk powder as I sipped my tea. Still, it was a gesture of kindness as Angelica sat with us (Megan, Claudia (from Brazil) and I) and suffered our varying levels of bad Spanish.

That moment of peace and universal etiquette was quickly destroyed as we all then flung ourselves into various pockets of the apartment to get to school/work and then yell "hasta leugo!" or "buenas dias!" as the front door slammed.

Megan and I would then walk through the park to Escuela Bellavista, Claudia always on Brazilian time and trailing 15 minutes behind. At just 9.30am, couples, young and old, would be locked in passionate embraces on every street corner and park bench. Santiago is one of the most sexually charged cities I have ever seen. But also one of the friendliest.

Angelica is a very warm and welcoming woman who works hard to keep her modest apartment near the city centre and provide for her family.

Her son, Carlos (with his own 1 year old, gorgeous Nicolas), would come and go and spoke good English so understood my initial, broken attempts at conversation. I felt at home here but also like I was living in an almost silent world in the apartment, except for chats with lovely Megan who understood what it felt like to be living on the "outside".

I arrived with almost no Spanish at all, which made my first outing to tango lessons with Angelica, Claudia and Megan an intimidating yet, in many ways, highly motivating experience. I understood very little and it was only my ability to quickly pick up dance steps that saved me.

The dance hall was bursting with men and women speaking in a thick, Chileno trill, all dressed elegantly in what I imagine to be their Sunday best. Flutters of conversations drifted by me, settling on me in much the same as wet snow settles on warm pavements. Whoever says you can just 'be' in a country and learn the language is telling fibs, or has never heard the mumblings of Chilenos at a tango lesson.

I had many people teaching me to tango that night - proving it doesn't just take two to tango, more like seven. Most of them barely reached my chin (many Chilenos are quite short, except those with German heritage) and so the next day I had back pain from where I had awkwardly tried to make myself shorter and, therefore, a better dance partner.

On another evening, I also accompanied Angelica to a traditional, Chileno dance hall for tango, salsa (which I thankfully had danced before) and a whole collection of other dances I was equally clueless about. Various people got me up for a spin around the dance floor - I was grateful that the band was too loud to hear what anyone was saying as I was sure I wouldn't understand them if I could.

Still, I enjoyed my first tango experiences and felt even more motivated to grasp the language; I wanted to turn those evanescent, snow-like drifts of conversation into sturdy, grinning snowmen.