A Traveler vs. a Tourist
Written by: Colin Friedkin
In the interest of transparency, I met Mayerly on Tinder. While the app may have a less than noble reputation, I view it, as well as Bumble, as a way to potentially meet local people wherever I may find myself on my travels. My most enriching travel experiences have been with the locals, and continue to be so. And so she was: Mayerly, 22, a Colombiana and a local of the suburb of Bello, just outside of Medellin.
Upon matching, I requested an Uber and made my way from Centro Historico, Medellin to Bello. Bello isn’t on the average tourists’ radar, and like many places I’ve visited within Colombia, is said to be “dangerous.” You know: someone who hasn’t actually visited the country firsthand heard from someone else who had a friend who went at some point and heard from watching or reading something that…the typical broken record of a baseless warning. I learned early on in my trip to completely ignore falsehoods like this. Colombia, and Colombians, are the most generous, beautiful, kind, selfless, and happy people I’ve ever met. So many months later, now mid-May of 2023, Colombia still has my heart.
Mayerly and I met at one of her favorite bars. While the name escapes me, I remember it for its cheesy Viking theme. Locals sat around long, heavy duty wooden tables sporting plastic Viking caps complete with two horns, all while sipping massive goblets of beer fit only for the most stereotypical of Nordic warrior. Silly? Extremely. Novel? Absolutely. Mayerly and I resisted the viking helmets, but said yes to the giant steins. With both hands, we uncomfortably sipped from our glasses, hands trembling from their weight while listening to Bad Bunny and other generic Reggaeton, just as I’m sure the Vikings had so many years before.
Mayerly: shy, proud, pretty, told me about her life growing up in Bello, me sharing stories of my previous month in Colombia. She sat tapping her manicured acrylics against her glass, deep in thought as she gazed at me with her big brown Bambi eyes and shared the financial plight of most Colombians, but also that she considered herself very lucky. She worked with her mother at their very own small salon doing hair and nails to carve out a modest yet honest living. The salon was located in the front of their home, with a door at the rear leading back to their private living space. This is not uncommon in Colombia. Soon, the conversation shifted towards Año Nuevo, as it was the night of December 30th, 2022.
Did I have any plans for New Years, she asked? “No,” I replied, my Spanish still very minimal at that point compared to now, six months and counting and six countries deep into South American travel. Of course I didn’t. I was alone in Colombia on what was originally a one-week trip to the country for my Thanksgiving Break as an elementary school teacher. I didn’t know anyone. The idea of going to some stupid club in Poblano with a bunch of other gringo tourists didn’t appeal to me in the least. I was in Colombia. I wanted to BE in Colombia. Without hesitation, and consistent with the culture and warmth of Colombian people as I’ve come to know them, she shared that her aunt was hosting a family party, should I like to tag along. A family party in the Andalusia barrio of Medellin: an opportunity and an experience that remains unlisted on TripAdvisor, Airbnb, etc. An opportunity to experience the New Year with some local people, in a local place, and as a traveler rather than a tourist. I couldn’t say no.
On New Year’s Eve at around 9pm, I took a Taxi from my hotel to Andalusia, winding up the steep and narrow streets to the barrio built into the hillside. The taxi whizzed deeper and deeper up into the neighborhood, past shirtless and shoeless teenagers riding past on motorcycles doing literal wheelies, lit up flashing speakers blasting cumbias viejos, and people of all age and appearances reveling in the street. Andalusia, one of several barrios of Medellin built vertically into the mountainside, city lights twinkling in the distance, is connected by an ingenious gondola network. Given the narrowness and steepness of the streets, going to and from downtown Medellin via gondola remains the transportation method of choice for most locals. Cars in Medellin are almost exclusively owned by UBER and taxi drivers, and motorcycles and scooters are the far more popular modes of private transport for urban Colombians. The public transportation in much of South America is reliable and seamless, but that’s a story for another time. Visiting this particular neighborhood, of course, would be considered a death wish by American Karen, who warns of Pablo Escobar waiting for my arrival, machete in hand, waiting to slash me to pieces. Even though he is most certainly dead, and very dead at that, for decades, remnants of his cartel and drug lord influence make Colombia, particularly Medellin extremely unsafe. No! Absolutely not. Never believe what you’ve heard, and experience this beautiful country for yourself.
The taxi dropped me off on what seemed like a near vertical street, Mayerly waving from an outdoor terrazzo, beckoning me over. The street rang with the pulse of loud music, the scents of street meat: asada, chorizo, chicharron, pollo sticky in the air, the plumes of of Asado smoke distorting her frame as if she was a mirage. I entered the ancient barbershop to find not only Mayerly, but her entire extended family sitting outside. I was the only gringo, and not just at the family party. It seemed I was the only Americano as far as the eye can see. I knew I had made the right choice in accepting the invitation.
From left to right, I made my way with introductions, meeting mom, brother, aunts and uncles, cousins, and even grandpa, who clutched my arm as tight as Seinfeld’s Uncle Leo, asking me in a thick Colombian accent, in Spanish of course, if I believed in our savior Jesus Cristo, and how I need to believe in order to be “saved.” Affirming him time and time again (I am not religious whatsoever, but when in Rome…) I was able to break free from his iron grip and make my way back to where the group sat on cheap plastic stools observing the scene on the street just outside of the terrace.
Aunt offered me an ice cold Aguila from the fridge she kept fully stocked for her barbershop patrons. She charged me full price, the equivalent of a whopping $.75, and told me, jokingly yet clearly with sincerity, that she’d like one as well. Of course! Buying a round for the family cost me less than one half pint at a San Diego brewery, and earned me acceptance and an even warmer welcome into their family circle. Sitting together on the terrace, shouting above the ridiculously loud cumbia music blasting from their own lit up massive speaker (it seems everyone was competing to play the loudest possible Los Angeles Azules or Los Mirlos song,) family members joked and laughed. A bottle of the traditional national liquor of Colombia, Aguardiente, was passed around along with a communal plastic shot glass. Worried about germs? Forget it. It’s a community here. Within a half hour, I was certainly tanked. Water isn’t such a popular choice in these parts, either.
As the Aguardiente flowed and bottle after bottle of Club Colombia, Aguila, and Costeña was polished off, the scene got rowdier and rowdier until finally, what appeared to be a life size scarecrow full of explosives was casually ignited in the middle of the street. The straw man burned with red hot intensity for nearly five minutes, what were clearly fireworks hidden within the pockets of its flannel shirt and jeans popping off like gunshots, expelling straw and explosive shrapnel into the streets next to small children, passerby’s, cars…nobody seeming the least bit concerned. At one point, the tire of a passing taxi ignited, but was quickly extinguished as the wheels spun, the car struggling to gain traction up the steep grade. I’m unclear if the taxi driver even noticed.
The evening was spent in a merry haze observing kids do shirtless, helmetless, and shoeless wheelies on dirt bikes up and down the street, dancing with aunts and uncles and cousins, and occasionally getting more religious-based interrogations from Seinfeld’s Colombian Grandpa Leo until he had one too many and slumped over in an antique barber chair, his loud snores only barely detectable over the sound of motos and cumbia, laughs, and shrieks.
Before I knew it, the sun was rising on the horizon, down below in the depths of downtown Medellin. When Colombians party, they REALLY party. I said my goodbyes, and was met with the most gracious of words and genuine welcome and gratitude. How su casa es mi casa, I was their brother, and I was more than welcome anytime. I feel privileged to have spent my New Years Eve with Mayerly and her beautiful family, and encourage you to find your own adventure. Forget what you’ve heard. What have YOU experienced? Your unique travel experiences are out there when you’re ready to seek them.
