La Gran Colombia – Part I: Hasta Medellin

This post will be the first in a series describing my brief trip to Colombia to compete as an invited elite athlete in the Media Maratón de Flores in Medellín, and a short two days in Cartagena on the coast. Stay tuned for the next edition.

Colombia has a bad rap. Before I left, people invariably told me one of two things about Ecuador’s neighbor to the North. (1) The country is very dangerous; or, (2) the women are incredibly beautiful. I’ve met Colombians; I’ve met plenty of people (both gringos and latinos) who have traveled there; I have lots of experience living and traveling in South America. It couldn’t be that different, could it?

Part I: Hasta Medellin

The first difference I notice is the color. As my plane drops and jolts through a giant marshmallow, the white of the clouds matches that of my knuckles. Please, let us make it through this cloud. Please, don’t let us crash into the side of a giant mountain. My usual thoughts as I fly into any Andean city. After that seemingly infinite time, the white curtains finally part and I am blown away by the intensity of the vivid green mountainous landscape (startlingly near) outside my window. Within an instant, we are inches above the bright green tree-tops and spattering of crop fields and houses. Where is this giant, sprawling metropolis?

Disembarking from the plane, I follow the procession of weary travelers to immigration. Looking around, I notice something unfamiliar – I’m the only gringo (or American) in the line. Where are all the Aussie back-packers? British gap-yearers? German mountaineers? Where is everyone?

One by one, the lot of us are stamped, welcomed, and herded into the next room, where I am greeted by a Colombian military police officer in full camo (which is remarkably ineffective in the sterile, white airport). The officer has with him an automatic rifle and enormous German Shepard, who contentedly sniffs my butt while his master gropes at my body.

“Buena muscula,” he says. Nice muscles.

“Um.”

I can’t tell if he’s hitting on me or just surprised, but either way I smile and nod, pick up my backpack full of running clothes, my shopping bag carrying my dinner – in which his canine companion already appears more interested than finding any contraband – and walk out of the secure zone into the bustling airport lobby.

Before exiting the airport, I stop at the casa de cambio, where I can change my US dollars (accepted in Ecuador) to the confusing and disorienting, albeit colorful, Colombian Peso. In line, a man behind me asks – in Spanish – if I’m running the maratón. I look down at my outfit – neon green training shoes, black track pants, and my black STRIVE track jacket – I guess it’s fairly obvious.

“I am,” I answer. “Y usted?”

“Yo también!” he replies. “Cuantos kilómetros?”  Which distance?

Quickly, I realize that Juan – my new friend – and I are both running the same race – the 21km media maratón, half marathon. He asks if I’m heading into the city to pick up my chip and race packet (I am) and asks if I know how to get there (kind of). Giving him directions the best I can, I wish him good luck and, with my shiny new Pesos in hand,  hop on the first bus I see heading downtown, the airport fading behind as we disappear into the verdant green forests.

The bus creaks and groans as the industrial airport terrain melds into a lush, green paradise. Beautiful, modern houses fly by in a blur as we careen through the bright afternoon sun. I strike up a conversation with the man sitting next to me, traveling back from a week of vacation on the coast with his wife and young daughter. Like Juan, he also seems extremely friendly, helpful, and genuinely interested in me and why I was visiting his country.

Medellin’s airport is – like Quito’s – located about 30 miles outside of the city itself, which explained why we had landed in what appeared to be the middle of the jungle. After chatting for a half hour or so, my new friend, Jesus, points out the opposite window and I look out to see that the city had snuck up on me and lay waiting below.

Again, the color of the city strikes me first. Medellin’s northern residential sector – that first glimpse – is built mainly from brick, in a soft, pinkish red which contrasts beautifully with the green of the tropical forests around it.  We plunge down a steep, switch-backing road through the jungly forests until the palm trees and ferns succumb to the brick houses and iron fences of the outer edge of the city.

We drive until reaching the city center, where Jesus (and his family) walk with me a few blocks, just so that they’d be sure I’d find the right metro stop. I bid farewell and gracias to Jesus and continue on my own into the parading chaos of downtown Medellin.

What I find, as I walk the several blocks to the metro, is a neighborhood that appeared to be teleported from New York City or Boston into what I expected Medellin to be.  The streets are crowded with people – more diverse than I’m used to in South America – and lined with trees, shops, and modern cars. I follow the steps up to the metro, pay the 1800 pesos (how much is that, again?), and walk into the cool, air-conditioned sky-tram.

The tram carries me to my stop – actually one stop farther than I needed to go – and with the help of a few more friendly Colombians, I make my way back up to the convention center where thousands of soon-to-be-maratonistas (marathoners) are streaming in and out of the race expo. I pick up my number and neon-yellow t-shirt, and snake my way through the labyrinth of advertisements with fit, serious-faced South Americans in short-shorts and sponsored booths giving away free Gatorade powder and protein bars, until finally arriving at the exit. As I’m about to walk out, I hear a voice calling my name.

“Andrés! Andrés! Que pasó?”

I turn to see Juan, the Ecuadorian man I’d met in the casa de cambio. I greet him warmly and before we leave the giant expo, he asks if he can take a picture with me in front of the giant Maratón banner.

We chat and walk out together as he tells me all about his running accomplishments and what races he’s planning to run. As we part ways, I tell him I’ll look for him at the finish line and we can meet up for a run when we got back to Quito.

Feeling great about my new friendship with Juan and ready for another, I hop into a cab and head to El Poblado, the neighborhood where I’ll be staying. This is the first time I’d be using a site called “Couch-Surfing,” where people offer to host/guide people for the simple joy of company. I’d heard of it and had met tons of people who had used it, but had never actually taken the plunge myself. CS relies on a system of basic trust and references for hosts and guests after “surfing,” so that people know that a host isn’t a kidnapper and a surfer isn’t going to steal all your valuables in the middle of the night. Still, the first time always makes me a bit nervous.

And so, after some navigational troubles on the part of my (possibly drunk?) taxi driver, we pull into a large parking lot at the foot of several enormous, modern apartment buildings.  I pay the driver – finally getting used to the new currency – and take the elevator up to the lucky 13^th floor and knock on the door of room 1306, where a young Hispanic man answers the door.

“Fabricio?” I ask.

“No, yo soy su primo. Fabri!” he replies. No I’m his cousin.

In the doorway suddenly appears a man in his late-20s, a few inches shorter than me, sporting an enormous, tooth-and-gummy smile.

“Come on in!” he greets me, warmly.

Fabricio – or Fabri – it turns out, is also from Quito. He had moved to Medellin to study for his MBA here in the city, though – as I would quickly find out – he really chose Medellin for another reason.

“Has visto las chicas?” He asks me as soon as we were sitting down in his swanky, modern living room. Have you seen the girls yet?

Fabri assures me that at least one of my preconceptions of Colombia – that it’s home to many beautiful women – is certainly true. In fact, he’s so adamant that after my pre-race pasta dinner, he insists on taking me for a stroll around the enormous upscale shopping mall across the street. Fabri is  a perfect host – extremely talkative, bright, and knowledgeable of his newfound neighborhood. He assures me that, at least here, Colombia is as safe as anywhere else.

As we get back to the apartment, I feel a tiny twinge of disappointment that I have to get up at 4am the next morning to race. I want to spend more time with my fun, Ecuadorian-turned-Colombian host. But, I’m glad I’d taken the plunge. With Fabri my brief time in Medellin is nothing like a stay in a usual backpacker’s hostel – so much more than saving $10.  I feel I’ve truly met someone, even in just the few hours I’ve been staying there.

As I go to bed that night, I think about all the people I’d met that day, about Fabri and Juan and Jesus. I had to put myself out there to meet these people; I had to step outside of my comfort zone, whether it was simply starting a conversation on the bus or staying over in a stranger’s apartment. For now, though, I’m so glad that took that road less traveled. And I can’t wait to see where it takes me.

Stay tuned for La Gran Colombia Part II