A Crash Course in Colombian Culture

I had a few incidents this week that together served as a kind of introduction to Colombian culture. I choose to interpret them as the country welcoming me into its loving arms. I choose to believe this because otherwise I would have to face the fact that I am a clueless tourist that should have known better.

Last weekend I was at the beach with my friends Kate (from England) and Michael (Australia). We had taken a taxi to this peninsula right outside the city that had miles of fairly nice beaches, with countless restaurants and makeshift tents dotting the coast as far as the eye could see. We had an amazing meal of a local fish served with fried plantains (the ubiquitous culinary accompaniment in these parts) and rice I think.

While we were eating, the usual assortment of trinket-sellers, massage-ladies, and general beggars made their way by our table, each one offering their service, product, or sad story with little enthusiasm and leaving with even less. By this point I'm trained to automatically say "gracias," look down, and shake my head any time someone approaches me, which is a little awkward at work sometimes but hey what can you do.

Well after a couple dozen of these along comes a group of three little boys, running and jumping and having a grand ol' time. After a few minutes one of them asks if they can have the rest of my plantains, which I steadfastly refuse, as they are my favorite.

That's about when the boys' plan for vengeance went into action.

At first they picked up my sarong (they're really masculine here, ok?), which is Buddha-themed (zip it), and started cleaning the sand off it. Kate pointed out that they were performing a valuable service and maybe I should give them a plantain. But I remained firm in my refusal.

Soon the kids are playing with the sarong, letting it flap in the wind and hiding under it, running and rolling in the sand. The wind is strong, filling it like a sail and sticking it to their faces as they laugh and yell. How cute.

Next thing I know they're walking by with a two thousand peso bill and a huge grin. The buggers had taken off with it and auctioned it down the beach for a couple thousands pesos (about a dollar) in the two seconds I wasn't looking.

When I realize this, I taddle-tale on them with the restaurant owner, who runs after them and grabs one by the arm, who instantly starts crying and protesting his innocence, and commands the other to go buy back the item, which he does promptly.

The next day, I left the hotel in the late afternoon to print and mail my graduation application for SDSU. I was directed to a local copy place, which when I entered turned out to be a super-modern and efficient business, with everyone busy and working, in contrast to most Colombian businesses which seem to be designed to keep out foreigners.

A respectable-looking middle-aged man called my attention and asked me what I needed, and I explained that I just needed to print and mail a pdf from my usb drive. He printed my document and was in the middle of explaining how to get to the local post office when his eyes went wide, he let out a small gasp, and staggered back, grabbing the shoulders of his two colleagues sitting at his sides.

There was no doubt in my mind the man was having a heart attack.

But as usual, I was mistaken. I turned around to see a moderately pretty woman at the counter behind me, a woman whose distinguishing feature lay in the southern hemisphere of her curvy body, a feature whose roundness and fullness was being fully appreciated by the three attendants before me.

What ensued was like something from an SNL skit.

One of the men put his hands up in front of him and moved them in a squeezing, circular motion, which I at first thought was an attempt to get a laugh until he ignored our chuckles and continued the movement with a straight face and a trance-like stare.

Another man crossed himself and made a painful grimace, muttering hallelujah's and prayers of thanksgiving under his breath like he was seeing the Virgin Mary before him. Apparently he was the religious one.

The third man, the one who was originally helping me, slowly brought his hands up (very) wide into a cupping shape, and then, realizing what his hands were involuntarily doing, started shaking his head with his mouth and jaw loose, like someone trying to shake off the effects of a powerful drug. Apparently he was the married one.

This went on for a good minute or two, during which I had absolutely no idea what to do. I chuckled nervously and stared intently at my form, pretending like I was double-checking it or something. Eventually the three of them finished their adulation and, as if nothing had happend, returned to giving me directions.

The third thing that happened in my culture clash hat-trick was today.

I packed up my stuff from the hotel and hailed a taxi to take me to the hostel that I was transferring to (cheaper). I made sure to show the driver the address and negotiate the price before getting in or putting my bags in (that was another lesson).

During the 10 minute ride, the driver asked me where I was from (I said Brazil) and tried out his miscellanous Portuguese phrases on me. He didn't know exactly where the address was and it took him a few extra minutes to find it. He jokingly said that the price should be 10,000 instead of the agreed-upon 5,000 because of all the unplanned driving he was having to do, to which I unhesitatingly replied that that was not my problem. The man laughed and said nothing.

We finally found the place I was looking for and my driver jumped out of the car and got my very large and heavy backpack out of the backseat, putting it on the doorstep of my new hostel, which I thought was a nice (and unusual) service. I hopped out the other side and gave him a 10,000 bill, saying as I handed it over, "do you have a 5,000?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem."

Can you see where this is going?

The guy got in the driver's seat and pulled out a wad of bills, shuffling through it to find my change. He handed me a 2,000 and, as I waited for the rest, there was an awkward pause, and the instant I met his eyes I understood that there would be no more change.

I started to protest what by this point I knew was inevitable, and he made a vague statement about extra driving while speeding away down the street. For the record, I kicked the side of his car as he accelerated as a point of honor.

Lessons learned: never underestimate: 1) the craftiness of young, hungry boys 2) the outspoken Hispanic appreciation for the female caboose and 3) taxi drivers' preoccupation with fuel consumption.