Hot Hot Jazz

Bill hasn’t been feeling so great lately. I don’t know, it could have something to do with the open sewer lines throughout the city. And that means Junia, his girlfriend, is staying at home taking care of him. Kay and Pavani (the Australian doctor tandem) along with Yorst (the Dutch improv comedian) decided to take a trip out of Havana. That left me alone among the Yuma’s (rich tourists) that I knew. That mean the only person around to accompany me out was Yanet.

We decided to get together and decided to go to a little jazz café I’d heard good things about. It wasn’t quite the Buena Vista Social Club but it was bad, and by bad I mean really fucking good. Say what you want about Cuba but I haven’t heard a single bad note while I’ve been down here. These people got rhythm.

The weird thing about Cuban night life is that no Cuban can afford to enjoy it. That is unless of course some Yuma comes along and decided to treat them. Yanet is a musician herself and lives a very cush life by Cuban standards (she even has an iPod), but even she had never been inside this place. The music was hot as expected. Two great bands and a Lenny Kravitz look-alike and it all sounded soooo good. But after 2 hours and several mojitos we’d had enough.

We decided to take a walk down the Malcon (the seawall that protects Havana). It was a perfect Caribbean night. The Florida Strait was at peace, Orion’s belt hung directly over us, and Key West was a short 90 mile rickety raft ride to the north. But really we might have just as well been on another planet for all the difference it made.

She asked me what the heck I was doing in Cuba. Well I tried to explain to her that I just needed some time away from life to figure some stuff out. Work stopped being exciting for me and I was hoping bumming around for a while would help me figure out what was next. But it wasn’t just work, it was everything. Life was just…blech.

She told me about all the different ideas running through her head. Finding another band to join or maybe starting a hair salon or there was that idea about a selling designer clothes. But she lived in Cuba and none of that was possible without leaving her home.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had all the opportunity in the world and no passion to take advantage of it. She was full of passion, but as a Cuban had no hope. As we sat and watched the waves crash on the shore I told her that when I left the US I was really just hoping to have a couple nights like this.

Viva la Revolucion!

US – Cuban relations have been worsening lately. The war of words has been escalating. A Cuban terrorist escaped from prison in Venezuela and fled to the US seeking asylum, the US has been turning up pressure on Castro to release the political prisoners he’s holding and Castro is lambasting the US for incarcerating 5 Cuban heroes / spies depending on whose propaganda machine you believe.

But the hyperbole went into overdrive yesterday. Castro came on Cuban TV and announced a national day of protest. The US Intersection (we don’t have an embassy in Cuba, so instead we call our presence an intersection? Don’t ask me, I didn’t think it up) installed a 10 foot tall scrolling red-neon marque broadcasting messages of hope / propaganda (again depending on which perspective you decide to listen to).

Havana shut down for the day, Cubans from all the neighboring regions were brought in to participate in the march, at 5:00 AM the speakers started waking up everyone and calling them out to participate in denouncing this travesty. All this happened with 2 days of notice. I guess these communists are pretty damned organized.

I’d never been to an anti-US rally and I sure wasn’t going to pass on the chance. So Bill and I decided to head out and check out what was going on. I put on my Brazil soccer jersey (thanks Patrick!) and decided not to speak another word for the rest of the day. Hanging out with the 6-foot gringo probably didn’t help, but he’s still getting over his ailments so I knew he wasn’t going to last all day. Within an hour, Bill headed back home, but I trudged onward.

The crowd seemed mainly made up of students and die-hard communists. Plus anyone with a government job was required to attend. The Cuban news announced 1.4 million demonstrators showed up, but I lost count after about 375,000. Most of the Cubans I told afterwards that I went to the march looked at me like I was crazy. I guess they’ve seen enough marches and don’t really get excited by them anymore.

We marched about 5 km down the Malcon, the seawall that protects Havana, to the US Intersection. The crowd was at times lively and chanting, and other times just sitting around and waiting. I think that’s a popular pastime in Cuba. Everyone wanted their picture taken, Cubans sure do love cameras. Fidel made a speech and called George W. Bush a cockroach, even Elian Gonzalez was there (remember him?)

To me the strangest part of the whole thing was the fact that in order to protest the presence of the 10 foot-tall scrolling marque broadcasting messages that offended the Cuban sensibility, Castro decided to march the entire city by the building and show them exactly what he was talking about. The next day the biggest news in the city wasn’t the march, but what the marque at the US Intersection said…and for the days that followed, the propaganda spread like wild-fire.

Quotes of Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi were the talk of the town. The select parts of the Declaration of Human Rights (of which Cuba is a signatory) were broadcast. I think I’m starting to see the first signs of the crack in the wall, although it’s hard to know what the heck is going on here. But don’t let anyone say the US doesn’t know how to spread propaganda, maybe this whole exporting democracy thing isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Damn Steelers

The worst part of being in Havana, aside from the lack of personal freedoms, the decrepit state of the city, the moral decay and abject poverty was that I knew I wasn’t going to be able to watch the AFC Championship game. Unlike Colombia there is no concept of a sports bar in Cuba. I asked Bill three times if there was any way we could catch the game and each time he gave me the same answer, not bloody likely. Actually Bill didn’t say those words, and I couldn’t imagine them coming out of his mouth, but that’s beside the point.

But one of the times I was asking Bill was while a group of us was sitting around Queque’s living room. “I get all the channels, you can watch the game at my place” Yanet (pronounced Janet) said. Well I certainly wasn’t going to turn down such an offer from a young attractive blonde Cuban woman. Did I mention she speaks fluent English and has traveled all over the world performing as a singer / dancer in a well known Cuban salsa band?

That night I insisted Yanet join our little group of two Australian female doctors, the Dutch improv comedian, and Bill’s Cuban girlfriend for our nightly adventure out to the salsa clubs. We drank and laughed as usual and Yanet risked personal ridicule teaching me a couple steps on the dance floor. And at the end of the night she gave me her number and reminded me to call her tomorrow for the game. So far so good.

The next day Yanet went to what can only be described as inordinate lengths to satiate my desire for Futbol Americano. The setup was unreal, and another testament to the ingenuity of the human race. A satellite dish led to a rat’s nest of cables, which led into a pirated cable box, which led to a laptop with an impressive array of applications running in parallel, which led to the TV. She searched through 300 channels and had to reposition the dish (the sky is a pretty big place you know) to satisfy my craving. And more amazingly she sat and watched the entire game with me. I did my best to try to explain what was going on, but it wasn’t easy. You never appreciate what a crazy game football is until you try to explain it to someone who’s only ever heard of it before.

And in the end the Steelers beat the crap out of the Broncos. But for me, the game stopped being interesting around the middle of the 2nd quarter. She told me if there were anymore games I wanted to see to feel free to come over. I told her to be careful because I’d make up an excuse to come see her. Yes it’s true, I fall in love far too easily. I’ve always had that problem.

The human spirit is an amazing thing

Cubans seem to be suffering from a rather absurd version of the Stockholm Syndrome. I can’t imagine a collective group of people with less hope and opportunity in the world. It’s as if someone hit the pause button in 1964 and for the last 40 years things have been getting progressively worse.

Cuba didn’t open itself up to tourism until 1993 and only then because it was forced to since the Soviets would no longer be propping up their failed experiment in Communism, excuse me, I mean Socialism. They did go to all the effort of changing the billboards after all.

The average government job (the only legal jobs available) pays $15 a month. It costs an average of $65 a month to have a place to live and enough food not to starve. That basically means everyone is doing something illegal to get by. The lack of respect for the rule of law has led to an amazing decline in the morality of the country. Literally everyone in the country is a criminal as evidenced by the sheer fact that they are still alive. Stealing is no longer thought of as stealing, just what one needs to do in order to subsist.

Of course Cuba has got to be one of the safest places in the world. Violent crime is virtually unheard of. I guess that is one benefit of a police state. And when people are literally eating dog-food in order to keep from starving it’s good to know they’ve found a use for every extra dollar Fidel can get his hands on.

But through all of this, people actually seem rather happy. They have their amazing music and festive dance. They have cheap rum and great cigars. They have close-knit families and friends for life. And really not much more, but then again, does anybody really need anything else? The only ones really pissed off are the young men, they have absolutely nothing to look forward to except getting older.

The people generally don’t seem all that interested in the political situation, aside from the true believers, and there are of course several true believers. Everyone else is just mainly concerned about living their life. And that means making due with what you got. I’ve never seen a group of people who have provided better proof of the adage that necessity is the mother of all invention. The Cubans haven’t met a broken-down, rusted-out, junked piece of anything that they couldn’t get back to a “working” stage with a little hard work. And no, they don’t even have duct-tape to use to hold their crap together.

You Gotta admire the Guy

Fidel is a bastard no doubt. 47 years after the revolution and all I can see is that he has managed to prove that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Cuba is the biggest lie in the world next to North Korea, Havana is a broken-down, filthy toilet and people eat dog food to keep from starving. Although no one in Cuba will talk about it things have gotten amazingly bad since the Soviets stopped pumping 6 Billion dollars a year into the economy to prop up Cuba.

But it’s hard to argue with success. And amazingly enough I believe Fidel Castro is the longest serving head of state in the history of the world. What’s truly amazing is that he’s been doing this for so long and never had to deal with an uprising from his own people (no, the Bay of Pigs does not count). And I guess that’s because Fidel has pretty much written the book on how to hold on to power.

Step one, don’t be an egomaniac. This is no Saddam Hussien. There are no statues of Fidel that I’ve seen anywhere. His face isn’t on the currency, not much of anything is named after him. It’s all Che and Jose Martin. He stands behind those icons, and encourages the people to defend the revolution in their names.

Step two, let them eat cake. The people don’t need much, just enough to keep them satiated. He let the Pope visit and Catholicism subsist, he opened up the economy to tourism and allows the black-market to thrive. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep the peasants from revolting, and allows them to have hope for a better life. A man without hope is a scary thing indeed.

Step three, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. There are literally two policemen on every street corner. The Committee for the Defense of the Revolution has a presence everywhere. Brother is forced to spy on brother, if you’re not providing info you’ve obviously got something to hide.

Step four, trust no one. Anyone who has every played a significant role in the government in the past, no longer does, with the exception of Fidel’s brother Manuel, who runs the military. Anyone who has ever been too ambitious or too successful has disappeared.
Even Fidel’s apparent senility hasn’t really slowed him down. Yesterday there was a 45 minute speech mostly about the importance of rice cookers. It might have had something to do with the increasingly close relations with the Chinese, but Mad Cow Disease seems like a better explanation.

La Habana

As I waited in Panama for my flight to Havana it occured to me that I didn't really have any clue of what to expect. All I really knew about Cuba was that communism doesn't work, US foreign policy is crap and I like Fidel's beard. Bill had told me some stories to prepare me somewhat for this strange and exotic land, but I had no idea what we were going to do for 2 weeks.

But as long as I could manage to find Bill I knew he'd play tour-guide. He’s spent 1 year out of the last 5 living in Cuba, and I don’t know that there are too many US citizens that can say that. And after a very thorough personal interview and search of everything in my possession the Cuban authorities finally returned my passport and let me proceed out of the airport. It's that combination of having a Muslim name and having travelled through Colombia, I'm sure of it. Sigh, maybe changing my name to Zak Woodridge isn't such a bad idea after all.

The taxi driver actually found the address Bill gave me without any problem. I remembered hearing something about a Bed and Breakfast so when I arrived at a typical dilapidated Cuban household I was a little confused. But sure enough, Bill was there.

Within a few minutes I got the story. We were going to be staying with QueQue and his family, who run an illegal Hotel / Restaurant out of their house. Pretty much anything that might be of use to someone is illegal in Cuba I would soon learn. The room cost $15 a night, two excellent meals and all the coffee you could possibly drink added another $10. Turns out life in Cuba involves a delicate balance of coffee, rum, cigars and dancing.

After spending some time walking the streets, meeting some of Bill's friends and smoking my first Cuban cigar, I asked Bill, "So what are we going to do tonight?" Silly question, the same thing we do every night Pinky, go dancing! Bill, his Cuban girlfriend and the two lovely Australian doctors staying in the casa with us all headed out to the "nice" part of Havana. My salsa skills are non-existent, so this should be interesting.

one...two...three
One...Two...Three
One...Two...THREE
Shake...That...ASS!

Hey, I think I'm getting the hang off this! Between the three excellent teachers and lots of rum I think I managed to not stick out too much. Tomorrow, Bill has dance lessons lined up for me with his favorite teacher. This should be a fun two-weeks!

It's hard to say chau

I've been saying a lot of goodbyes lately and they haven't gotten any easier. This last set in Medellin were especially hard. Gabriel made me promise to stay in touch via e-mail and we trading some parting gifts. He gave me a CD of Colombian music and I gave him a US Dollar, which he seemed to be quite thrilled by.

Martha and I decided to say our goodbyes over a 1/2 litre of Ron Medellin de 3 Anos. I'm not sure if that made it harder or easier, but it was damn hard. Martha told me no matter if I find another girlfriend in Cuba or Rio or Seattle, just make sure I never forget about our time together. I assured her that wasn't possible.

Truth of the matter is I've spent my life running away from everyone I've ever loved and who's ever loved me. It's not that I've ever made a concious decision to do that, it's just I can't imagine any other alternative. I wonder if I'll ever made it back to Medellin?

Is it time to panic yet?

Colombia has been great. I´ll definatley be sad to leave this place. The people, the natural beauty, how cheap stuff is and oh by the way, did I mention the gorgeous women? But wednesday morning off to Havana it is. That´s where my problems start.

Dear reader, as you are no doubt aware, Cuba has severly strained relations with the United States for the last 40 years or so. That means, no banks, no ATMs, no credit cards, nothing. Basically Bill told me, bring a butt-load of cash with you, because if you run out while you´re in Cuba, you´re outta luck.

Ok, so I´m in Colombia...how do I get my hands on a couple thousand US dollars. Well I´ll just have my bank wire me the money, no biggie right? Uh...turns out international wire transfers take anywhere from 3 days to 3 weeks to complete and no one seems to be able to tell me exactly how long. That´s a problem because like always I waited till about a week advance to even start thinking about this.

My ATM card has a $300 per day limit on withdrawals. You know, I knew that would come back to screw me one of these days. And yes I can have them up the limit, I just need to fax over a form they send me with my signature, and wait until it´s processed. Nope that doesn´t help either.

Well I´ve seen the commercials and so have you. I´ll use Money Gram to wire money out of my bank account and into my grubby little hands. Crap, turns out neither they nor Western Union will process internet transactions intiated from outside one of their list of approved countries, and amazingly enough Colombia isn´t on that list.

So when you´re in times of trouble who do you call? Dad!?!? I need help, send money! Remember when I was 9 and you bought Rahil ¨Thriller¨on vinyl but wouldn´t buy me that cool red and black leather jacket with all the zippers. Yeah, neither do I. Love you, Kashif.

I love this country!

Yesterday I decided I wanted to see ¨The Chronicles of Narnia¨so I went over to the local Carefour. Think Wal-Mart on steroids. A huge retail store, food court, random other stores, heck they even have a Mazda dealership on site!

Unfortunately the version they were showing was the Spanish language dubbed one. Most places show the English movies with subtitles. Oh well...I could have struggled through it but instead I went shopping.

I needed some more toothpaste so I bought a tube for 1,000 pesos (about $0.50). Then I decided I was long due for a haircut, so I stopped into the salon. I got one of the better haircuts I´ve ever had, included a shampoo, a shave, the dude even trimmed my eyebrows and ears (ok, that might have been too much information but that ear-hair is really freaking me out!) Ran me 12,000 pesos (about $5). And of course you don´t tip for services in this country, excellent service is just expected.

By that time I was hungry. Of to the food court it was. I stopped at the parrilla and ordered a medium rare T-Bone and a 1/2 bottle of Chilean Cab, both of which were quite excellent. Cost about 20,000 pesos ($10). I do love 3rd-World exchange rates. I just can´t wait to get to Argentina to really take advantage of the still-somewhat strong US dollar.

I get by with a little help from my friends

Gabriel has turned out to be a Class-A good guy. We´ve been spending a lot of time hanging out at this families tienda. Me looking stupid while he waits on customers. He keeps feeding me juices and beer and cigarettes despite all my protestations and offers to pay. He did let me give him 5,000 pesos (about $2) because his bill for his eyeglasses was more than he expected.

He invited me out to his families finca for the holidays to celebrate with them, but of course I had other plans. And he calls me to check up on me and see what´s what. Yes still very stalker-like, but I think that´s just his overbearing personality. Martha abhors him, but mostly because I think she´s jealous. Colombian women are like that from what I´ve been able to gather.

But for some reason I´m still kinda cautious. I´ve been telling him how I wanted a Medellin National jersey for a while. So he found a friend and got me a deal on a knock-off jersey. Well at least he said it was a deal, I´d have absolutely no way to know. I´m sure there´s a happy middle ground between paranoid and naive, but I have no idea where it is. Neither one of them seem like something I´d like to be. But I think most of us have to lean to one side or another in this world.

Spanish is the Loving-Tongue

Spanish is a beautiful language. At least I think it is, seeing as I still don´t have a thorough grasp of it. I actually think being ambigiously ethnic like I am makes it a little more difficult for me. I´ve had lots of Colombians assume I was latino of some kind and therefore should have a grasp on the language. So they just start launching into their 1000 word a minute Spanish. A couple people even even stopped me on the streat to ask for directions. I tried to help one guy and he just started laughing and walked away. My white gringo friends have no such problem. No one is going to mistake them for anything but rich tourists from the US.

But all the damn conjugations! Someone told me (and for all I know it could be true) that there are 509 seperate regular verb conjugations in Spanish to memorize, and then you go on to the irregular verbs. English as a contrast has 9. Sure English has lots of exceptions to memorize, but you can get your point across without knowing all those.

All those verb conjugations in different tenses mean that the usage of nouns is almost optional in this language. So when you´re talking with a local, unless you know and can recall all the conjugations rapidly your chances of figuring out what´s going on are slim. Sure I can identify the verb, but who the hell knows who is the noun of the sentance and what the objects are.

Then there´s the whole thing with the two seperate past tenses. I´m continually mixing up when I´m supposed to use the imperfect and the preterite. And whenever I ask someone why they used one instead of the other the answer is always...¨becuase it sounds funny otherwise¨ Gee thanks, that helps.

I guess the great benefit is that the Spanish language lets you convey complex ideas with only a few words. It really is far more poetic than English (at least I think it is). And I especially love how you can form new words by sticking direct and indirect objects onto verbs. Vamanos!

And the diminutive is pretty damn cool. Just by adding an -ita or -ito to a word changes the entire meaning. Right now becomes soon, a friend becomes an acquintance and a meal becomes a snack. Plus who doesn´t love being refered to as ¨mi papito¨?

My goal was to be fluent by time the my voyage was over. But now I don´t know if that´s going to happen. Learning a language is hard and I haven´t actually been studying at all like I thought I would. But I´ve been talking to everyone who will take the time to listen (and boy does it take time!). And I don´t even want to think about trying to learn Portugese in the month that I´ll be in Brazil. Maybe just enough to get by.

Colombian Road-Trips

Last weekend was another of the many holidays that Colombians celebrate. No I never did figure out the significance although it aparently had something to do with the Three-wise men. But a holiday is a holiday and a perfect excuse to head out of town.

Martha had previously told me about the Parque Nacional de Los Nevadas, the site of a catastrophic erruption of the Nevado del Ruiz in 1985. But today it´s one of the biggest tourist attractions in Colombia. I told her about Mt. St. Helens, but when I learned that 25,000 people perished in Colombia in 1985 it didn´t really seem like a fair comparison.

But this seemed as good a spot as any for a trip. We found a guided excursion that left from Manizales (a city about 4 hours away from Medellin by bus) at 7 AM Sunday morning. I protested the early morning to no avail. Besides how often do I get to trek up to the highest peak in Colombia and an active volcano? Vamonos!

We took a bus to Manizales Saturday. Bus trips in Colombia are definately an experience. The country side is so amazing I just wind up spending most of it starting out the window. We spent the night there enjoying the amazing festival that had taken over the city. Sunday morning bright and early we headed to meet the group. As usual I let Martha do all the talking. She´s the youngest of 8 children and not really used to playing translator and tour-guide but somehow we´ve got decided it´s a better alternative than me and my Spanish.

Martha got all the details squared away and as we were ready to leave I tried a phrase I´d heard her say a lot ¨mil gracias [a thousand thanks]¨ The organizer of the group just looked at me and asked ¨¿eres extranjero? [are you a foriegner?]¨ Uh yeah, I´m from the US. Oh turns out I have to pay an extra 8,000 pesos (about $3) because I´m not Colombian. I don´t know what suprised me more, that he could tell I was´t Colombian from two words, or that he thought I was Colombian before I opened my mouth.

But away we went. A group of 8 of us packed into a little micro-bus and off to the mountain we headed. The trip out of Manizales was beautiful, this is the coffee growing region of Colombia and the natural beauty continues to take my breath away.

Before I visited Colombia everyone I knew thought I was crazy. Didn´t I know how dangerous it was?!?! Well the only times I´ve truly been afraid for my life in Colombia have been on the road, inside a vehicle with an internal combustion engine. The drive up through the Parque Nacional certainly was no exception. The route was quite congested with tourists from all over Colombia. And our driver was a typical Colombian, serving around blind corners, passing cars all on the left and the right, throwing that little mini-bus around like he was a Nascar dad. It was a different experience when driving up mountainous terrain with sheer-cliffs to either side.

And about half-way up the trail our mini-bus started to sputter and cough. That broke-down engine didn´t have no drive at all. But we all got out when necessary, the guys pushed, the ladies changed ¨Suve! Suve! Suve!¨which I think means if we don´t get up this mountain I want my money back! Everyonce in a while the mini-bus just wouldn´t have enough umph to make it up a hill and our driver would throw it in reverse, get a running start and forge on ahead. We only had one real close call where the mini-bus started to tip over a cliff. You should have seen how the group of us grabbed onto the mini-bus and pulled it back on the road.

No we didn´t make it all the way to the top, but 4700 meters ain´t bad. And most importantly for the Colombians on-board we made it to the snow. This is the only place in the country with snow and it was like watching kids on Christmas morning. I showed them how a good ole´gringo from Cleveland makes and throws snowballs. They caught on pretty fast. Of course the entire ride home they complained about how cold they were.

Afterwards we headed to a little resort with piped in water from the volcanic hot-springs. Nice contrast to the day. All in all, life could suck more.

Stranger in a strange land

I don´t know that I´ve ever actually been anywhere where I´ve felt at home. This world is a strange place, but leaving it doesn´t seem like such a good idea either. Maybe it was growing up as a minority of a minority (sure there are other Indian Muslims in the US, but nothing compared to the Hindus). Maybe it´s just second-child syndrome. Or like most other things I can probably find some way to blame my parents. But that all doesn´t really matter now does it.

I actually spent the majority of my childhood rebeling against those facts. I remember being in grade school and wishing I was white. Heck even being black would have been better than being the only Indian kid in school.

Eventually envy turned to bitterness. Not too long ago I was sitting around with friends and going off on one of my frequent rants on the evil white man, and my friend Jason called me out, ¨Dude, you´re as white as I am on the inside.¨ Ouch! That brought back all those memories in a hurry.

But maybe that´s why I feel so comfortable here. Here I obviously don´t fit in. Being ambigiously ethnic I might be able to pass for not a gringo, but as soon as I open my mouth the jig is up. But I don´t expect myself to belong here and neither does anyone else. No one has to understand me, I don´t have to try to fit in. I can just be myself, whoever that is.

And a little bit of better news

Aparently I wasn´t the only Cleveland Browns fan shocked and dismayed by the rumored firing of Phil Savage. No the Browns nation as it is apt to do from time to time took up arms in the form of cell phones, faxes and e-mails and let the ownership know what we collectively thought of this idea.

So instead of Phil Savage getting the axe, it fell to the man who was trying to oust him, team president John Collins.

I don´t know if my relationship with the Browns will ever be the same. Actually I do know. Of course it won´t, change is constant. We´re always evolving. While I might have hated them yesterday, I can´t imagine loving anyone else. How many things do you have in your life that you´ve cared about for more than 20 years? I don´t know if I know how to walk away from something like that.

Havana here I come!

It´s official. Bill is in Cuba, he´s got a reservation waiting for me at some Bed and Breakfast type place and he´s given me the green light. The tickets are booked, the flag is dropped. Havana baby! Jan 18th I fly outta Medellin through Panama and into the land of The Bearded One, hot jazz and beautiful beaches. I´ve only heard the stories, can´t wait to see it for myself.

Feliz Nuevo Ano

Martha and I have been spending a lot of time together lately. It’s actually worked out great. I get to do something other than hanging around with my gringo friends and have someone to show me around so I don’t feel like such a tourist. Plus of course we have a great time together. So when New Years rolled around I was invited to spend the night partying in style with the family.

So off to La Ceja it was, a beautiful little pueblo about an hour outside of Medellin. As soon as we arrived at the Martha’s sister’s house I realized what kind of fiesta this was going to be. I don’t think there is such a thing as an intimate family gathering in Colombia, and there was no chance this was going to be mistaken for one.

Within my first 15 minutes at the casa Martha’s brothers had somehow managed to get 3 shots of Aguardiente into me. Aguardiente, as I was to learn, is famous for the rate at which it kills brain-cells. It’s a locally produced drink derived from sugar-cane and my oh my does it go down easy. It’s never a good sign when everyone insists you chase every sip of a drink with a gulp of water.

The music and food started immediately. Whenever a CD finished a roar would go through the gathering as if someone had commited a capital offense. The Colombians do love their music. For the next few hours more and more family kept joining the festivities. Aunts, cousins, brothers and sisters, everyone was invited.

The laughs and drinks seemed like they would never stop. The entire family worked hard to make me feel like I had some idea what was going on, and as the Aguardiente went down I’m convinced my Spanish got better and better. I even got a chance to teach the family the traditional gringo New Year´s Eve greeting.

Pretty soon the party spilled out into the street. Seems like this is a standard part of every Colombian get together. First the speakers went outside. Then we emptied a bag of charcoal, built a fire and started cooking. Everyone seems to get a kick out of making the gringo pitch in and lend a hand. So of course I had to oblige.

The Aguardiente kept flowing. I lost count after the 6th liter. “Mas guaro!” became the theme of the night. The party went on and on. The food and drink last until the wee hours, and of course so did the dancing. Funny thing about that Aguardiente, not only did it help my Spanish but by the end of the night I was almost convinced I could dance.

What more can I say. I spent the night sleeping next to Martha’s brother in the front seat of his jeep. And amazingly enough, even with the snores resonating in the car, it was one of the best nights of sleep I’ve ever had. Everyone else found a bed, chair or space on the floor to crash. The next day was painful, but a pleasant reminder of the good times we had just shared. Life could definitely suck more.