First Impressions…

First Impressions…

I wrote this when I arrived in Colombia for the first time in 2008.

She is surrounded by a sea of faces, greeting friends and relatives. She is not sure where to look or who to smile to. Before she knows she is embraced by a number of smiling people, this must be them. Her luggage is carried to the small bus by the only person not to greet her and they all get in.

Her beloved is excitedly speaking in an unfamiliar language. She understands the odd word, London, something about flying and something about home. She is desperate to sleep but at the same time she wants to look out the window at the unfamiliar landscape. Outside there is only a humid darkness.

The man who didn’t greet her puts on the stereo. Songs unknown to her join their little bus. They tell stories of lovers, broken hearts and the bottle; all in a language she does not speak.

They leave the town behind and their surroundings become even darker. The little bus is climbing up narrow mountain-roads only to then steeply travel back down again.

Mountains of Colombia…

She can hear the noise of the jungle; insects, birds and the whistling wind. It sounds different from any noise she has ever heard as it blends in with the music. Suddenly a mosquito and a dragonfly fly in through the open window of the bus.

They sit down on her shoulder; ‘Hey bonita,’ they say in unison.

‘Have you ever visited this place before?’ the mosquito asks. He winks at her.

‘No,’ she responds.

‘Then let us tell you the history of our country.’ The mosquito and his dragonfly friend begin telling her of the arrival of the Conquistadors, how the land was taken from the people and how the violent struggle continued. ‘The participants may have changed,’ say the mosquito, ‘but the motives are pretty similar… power and greed.’ ‘Yeah, but sometimes its fairness and equality,’ the dragonfly chips in. They then tell her of the journey of the coffee bean, the imperialist banana trade and also of the people and their traditions. ‘And don’t forget Marquez…,’ says the mosquito.

As they are speaking to her she looks out the window, in the darkness she sees the indigenous fighting the conquistadors, she sees the people fighting for their land, she hears the music about lovers, broken hearts and the bottle. She smells the coffee and the colourful jungle surrounding her.

The bus turns a corner and there it is, the village. Little lights flicker like fireflies, lighting up the dark jungle. The man who didn’t greet her hoots the horn of the bus to signal their arrival. The Saint standing at the side of the road waves in reply. ‘Hello,’ he says, looking through the window. ‘Welcome to the village.’

Finally they arrive. The door of the house opens up straight into the street and she finds herself looking into what seems to be a magical flower shop. ‘Hola, mi hija,’ an old man says. ‘Hello, my daughter,’ and finally she understands.

Welcome!