Colombia 6

This afternoon at ten to six, local time, I woke up from a nap of less than one hour.  I didn't know where I was, nor what day it is.  I had to lie still for a minute in order to figure out that
 I am in my friend's apartment in Colombia, and the date.   I have never felt so disoriented.  This hasn't been my easiest or most enjoyable day in Colombia.  Here I will explain, Gentle Reader:

Today I went for rather a long walk to a neighbouring town, Mosquera.  I think it might have taken me just a bit over an hour, and I was walking along the highway.  Not a pleasant route, given the traffic, and the huge trucks that sometimes seemed ready to take me out, but I  arrived there okay, nonetheless.

It was a cloudy day, and as I was getting close to the town a little bit of rain began to spit.  Nothing serious, and even though I don't have an umbrella, I wasn't really bothered about it.  I soon arrived at the lovely and clean looking central plaza.  It is larger and better appointed than the one in Madrid.  The church was open so I stopped in for a couple of minutes.  Nothing special, really, with thick greenish coloured Corinthian columns, the tops covered in gold.  The founding Roman Catholics here, a few centuries ago, likely believed that God likes ostentation.  Who knew?

I stopped in a cafe nearby where I mostly worked on a drawing and tried to eavesdrop on Spanish conversations, but no one was seated that close to me.  A bit later I was given the cheque, and to my bewilderment, I was charged in American dollars, in this case one dollar for a cup of coffee.  Less than half what we pay in Vancouver.  I still felt a bit flustered and annoyed because, in these countries, if you are visibly caucasian, you are assumed to be an American, or you're American until proven innocent.  So, I explained to the staff (they were all wearing medical masks, probably under orders from their employers, given the coronavirus panic), that having white skin doesn't automatically make me American, any more than looking like Latinas makes any of them Mexican.  We were all fortunately good humoured about it, and I also mentioned how during the current administration, there are a number of Canadians who are not very fond of things American these days.

I tried to walk toward a shopping mall where Alonso and I visited on my first trip with him to Mosquera, but there was this enormous swarm of hundreds of local school kids in blue and grey uniforms completely mobbing the sidewalks on their lunch break, so I turned back.  It was also starting to rain rather harder, so I went into a bakery cafe for a cold drink and piece of cake where I continued to work on my art while waiting for the rain to stop. One of those humble establishments you see all over Colombia, and absolutely groaning with the most incredible looking baked goods, bread, buns, cookies, cakes, squares, and everything and more than you could ask or imagine.  I sat by the window.  The staff were super nice.  And they charged me in Colombian pesos.

On my way back to the highway, the sidewalk was blocked by a lineup into a place I couldn't quite identify.  Some of them were young black men, tall, muscular and with quite an intimidating vibe. I politely said excuse me in Spanish, and thanked them with a muy amable, or that's very kind, and one of them said to the other regarding me, Argentino, or Argentinian, given that Argentinians tend to be mostly white.  I replied, Canadiense, qué habla bien español, or Canadian who speaks good Spanish.  They looked at me poker faced, and I sensed some hostility, and was quite glad to get away.  I often get nervous in situations where race is a factor, because I know how justifiably pissed people of colour often are at white people, but I still don't like feeling like a target or an available skapegoat for venting their hostility.  I was glad to get away.  but this and other encounters today really help remind me of what a visible target I am in this area.  Especially given that I haven't seen anyone who doesn't seem Colombian in the entre week and a day I have been here.  Not complaining, by the way, just sayin', Gentle Reader.

I decided to walk back to Madrid.  There is an interesting local road that turns off the highway.  I was kind of sick of the traffic, so I checked it out.  It was pretty rural with fields and cows and dotted with houses and soon there were more houses and stores and stuff, all in the old Colombian style.  I could tell by a mountain and later by other landmarks that this route would still take me home.  I got growled at by a dog, then went into a butcher shop to buy some of the local cheese, and had a pleasant chat in Spanish with the kid who was serving me.  Like many in this area, it looks like it's family run and owned, and they appear to live upstairs.

As I walked on, I could tell by other landmarks that I was going  in the right direction.  This is always for me a gratifying experience when I travel, this learning on my own efforts and risk, to find my way around.   Even if I do get lost and nervous, or maybe even scared for a while.  I decided to go to the big mall in Madrid to finish my shopping at the supermarked there.  On my way I was almost attacked by an off leash pit bull cross in a work yard.  The people there were completely ignoring what was happening, so as I got away I gave them supreme shit in Spanish, ordering them to tie up their dog, and they should be ashamed of themselves and that they were utter imbeciles.  They didn't seem to care, really.  Because I am so clearly an outsider and their little doggy was must doing its job.

When I got back from the mall I was still shaken from the ordeal with the dog, and I think also with some of the weird racial undercurrents that were  happening to me today.  This could be why I felt disoriented upon waking from my nap.  I'm feeling a lot better now, and expecting there will be more interesting news to report in the coming days.  Ta-ta, darlings.