The Roofs of San Fernando

On Saturday night, at about 7pm, I went downstairs to hang my laundry out to dry. As I pulled the wet clothes from the washer into the basket, Cali's celebrated evening breezes unceremoniously blew the back door to the house shut with a crash of finality.

"No."
"Way," I said out loud to myself, staring at the locked door.

I was the only one home. All six members of the family that live in and own the house (most of whom tend to be at home around 90% of the time) had just left to celebrate Biviana's birthday across town.

After a brief pause of disbelief, I carried on hanging my clothes up to dry and tried in vain to think of a way into the house. This is Colombia, so there are bars on all the windows making it impossible to enter that way. I absurdly considered trying to pick the lock with some wire hanging by the door. I kept my mental fingers crossed that my dear friend and housemate Corinna would miraculously come home from vacation a day early or Clara, who I tend to see about once a week because she has such a busy nursing schedule, might turn up. No such luck, and I didn't have any other ideas.

When the clothes were hung, I walked out into the dark yard to contemplate my predicament. I turned around, looked up at the house, and saw the light from my room illuminating the Tibetan prayer flags dangling in the open window. I gasped and thought, "I bet my house key is sitting right there on the desk inside my window."

My eyes scanned from the window, down along the first floor tile roof, to a place a few feet above the corrugated awning over the laundry drying area, and landed on a limb-y little tree that appeared to be suitable for climbing.

I had a plan.

Despite having given up rock climbing in favor of salsa dancing over a year ago, I still know how to stem and mantle and test holds and use tiny nobs for feet and such things, so I managed to hoist myself up through the tree without (much) fear. Once on top of the corrugated awning, I discovered that the tiles on the roof of the house were not fixed, so I crawled over them gingerly on all fours, breaking at least 1 or 2 on the way to my window where - Yes! - my key rested in easy reach on my desk.

The moment I grabbed the key, it suddenly occurred to me that a key for entering through the front door might not be particularly helpful for opening the back door. This realization stunned me for a moment, but all I could do was climb back down and find out. I tucked the key into my bra and headed for the ground.

Upon reaching the corrugated awning, I scrambled delicately across it to the brick wall that borders the property to see if there might be an easy way for me to reach the front of the house along the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. There wasn't, so I returned, and shimmied down the tree.

When I tried the key in the back door, I couldn't even get it in at first. Then, it suddenly slid home… but  it wouldn't turn. Darn!

Ok. Execute Self-Rescue Plan Part 2.

Reconnisance had already shown me that climbing forward on the wall would be difficult and probably not very fruitful. I needed to find my escape toward the back, where the top of the 10 foot wall surrounding the yard was flatter, and I wouldn't have to climb over more tile roofs. I wanted to get onto the wall via the little storage shelter built in the back corner of the yard, but this time there was no convenient tree that I could use. Instead, I found a heavy, ancient, metal exercise bike discarded long ago in this forgotten corner of the yard. I dragged it over to the bamboo post that would need to support my weight and went up with one foot on the seat, the other on the handlebars.

As I paused in the darkness to consider whether or not this semi-stable structure would hold my weight, the risk of getting injured, and the potential consequences of trespassing in the Colombian night across the roofs of unknown strangers, big white fireworks started to go off in the distance. I smiled and took it as an affirmation to carry on, so with a little hop, I landed my torso on top of the plastic roof.

Immediately, I realized there was no going back. My dangling legs could no longer reach the stationary bike, and the position I was in prevented me from being able to see below to find my way back down. I was committed to going up or nowhere. With the plastic roof popping and cracking underneath me, I pulled myself on top of it, somehow avoiding the protruding wires and nails all around me, and made it to the wall with flesh and spirit intact.

I walked carefully and occasionally crawled on all fours along the walls and edges of rooftops, passing by a few patios and open windows, hearing voices coming from several buildings, and wondering if I should call for help. I made my way out to the edge of the entire building cluster and realized I was about three stories up, now. I sat for a few minutes watching all the Saturday night activity going on in the park below before I decided to return and call down for help into a patio I had passed earlier.

"Alo? Alguien puede ayudarme?"

I was looking down into a small patio with nice tiles and landscaping, connected to a recently renovated building. The people inside heard me, and after a few moments a man in his 30s with longish wavy hair and a button down shirt came out and looked up.

I explained my situation to this person, who I determined right away to be a relaxed, kind soul. He immediately began to give me a gentle lecture about how risky it was for me to go crawling around on the rooftops of Cali at night and demonstrated the seriousness of it all by showing me that he had grabbed his handgun before coming out to see who was yelling from the roof. The lecture continued intermittently as he and his friend figured out how to get me down.

They brought out a ladder, and nice man number two climbed up onto the sturdy roof of a storage area in the patio below. Wavy hair passed the ladder up to him. He brought it over to my wall and climbed up to meet me. Standing on the very top step of the ladder he told me to put my arms around his neck. That did not seem like the world's greatest idea, so after a little negotiation, I got him to step down and just help me to get my feet onto the ladder.

I was back on solid ground pretty quickly, listening giddily to the rest of wavy hair's lecture about how the police run the building between my house and their office, and how most people have guns in their homes, and if you're on someone else's property they have the right to shoot you, and how I was lucky they were in the office because it's rare for them at such a late hour on a Saturday, etc. I nodded and did my best to look contrite while inside I was glowing with the glee of escape!

They let me out their front door, and I walked home to my front door, key in hand, savoring the secret of the adventure as I passed through the Saturday night streets.

Divided Heart

Last Sunday, on the bus to Pance, I turned to my best friend, Sita, who left England 8 years ago and has lived abroad, all over the world, ever since, and I asked her, "Do you ever get over the pain of living in multiple cultures?"

She replied directly, "Naw, mate. Never."

As we spoke, I looked out the bus windows toward the hazy blue mountains in the distance, feeling comfortably at home in the landscape. I'd been mulling over the unstable romantic relationship I'm involved in while at the same time acknowledging the fact that I love it here, when suddenly I realized that the slow, churning, dull stab of pain in my gut was the presence of two loves struggling with one another.

My dear Spanish friend Paloma came for a visit a couple months ago. She lives and works in Brussels, Belgium where the offices of the European Union are located. Her words to describe the situation we're in were equally blunt: "Once you go ex-pat, you're fucked."

I ended up here due to a heart-expanding experience of love. I dropped everything in my life: my job, my yoga classes, my house, and most traumatically, my partner of 10 years, because a romantic Mexican man swept me off my feet and loved me so much that my free sprit was irrepressibly reborn.

Even as I fell in love with Vlady, I didn't fall out of love with any part of my past, and I realized deeply and powerfully how vast and capable and inclusive our hearts can be. Love lifted me out of Santa Cruz and, over the last year and a half, lead me to Joshua Tree, Hawaii, Santa Fe, Panamá, Colombia, and yes, back to Baja Sur, Mexico. Everywhere I go, I freely tie my heart to the place and to the people I'm with.

Now, my heart is strewn across the world, and I feel a bit unhinged by all the distance.

Meanwhile, Cali is a big city. It's dense and urban and full of relentless energy. It's noisy and difficult to settle down enough to really connect with people or with the moment. I've never lived anywhere like this before.

As a backpacker, I always avoided spending too much time in large cities due to the stresses of traffic, concrete, air pollution, noise pollution, and human density. About a month ago, I suddenly realized, not only am I surrounded by a huge city, but also, I'm surrounded almost entirely by city people. These are not the deeply laid back folks you find on beaches, in the mountains, and exploring the jungle when you travel to exotic countries. These are competitive, fashionable, talkative, technological, opinionated people who don't spend much time slowing down. Ever since that slow-to-dawn realization, I've enjoyed a fervent longing for the solace of quiet redwood trees and the sound of ocean waves.

Gratefully, I'm in touch with most of the Santa Cruz people I feel closest to, however there are five things about life in Santa Cruz that consistently plague me with longing.

• Nature - Particularly, the redwood forests and the ocean.
• Having a yoga teacher - I've been on my own here, teaching and practicing alone. It's difficult to maintain discipline and inspiration, but I'm doing it. Just barely.
• Upper body strength - I was a strong rock climber when I left Santa Cruz. Now, I'm constantly faced with the weakness of my arms and hands as I try to pick up heavy things that once would have been effortless for me to lift.
• Salsa by the Sea - Dancing in my home culture, outdoors, next to the beach, at sunset. Ahhh.
• Meeting Mosi - I left before Rachel brought Mosi into the world and have missed the profound transformations that have come with him. Ack. Sob! < clutches heart >

However, ironically, once I'm reunited with all these things, estaré a falta de the special aspects of life in Cali: communicating in Colombian Spanish, taking salsa lessons with Carlos, eating sancocho (Colombia has mastered the art of soup), dancing Cali-style salsa with Orlando, Alejandro, Carlos, Ricardo, Sergio, Javier, Wilber, Jazon... teaching yoga to people from all over the world, the cool, gentle breezes that come down off the mountains in the evenings, running my fingers through Renato's hair (soft, beautiful, black ringlets... swoon), and the sheer quantity of celebratory human energy that's always rippling through this place.

Typically, wherever I am, there's no one around who can truly share in the daydream of these other places. I hold my distant loves alone.

So Cali and Santa Cruz are wrestling with one another over my body, mind, and heart, and it's literally causing me physical pain. Not to mention that another part of my heart is waiting for me in Baja and that my heart vision for the future takes me to Israel, Europe, and beyond... suspira.

I've planned a 2 month trip back to the US with a short week in Baja Sur before I return for another semester of Spanish at the University here in Cali. Having this trip ahead of me triggers many emotions. Sometimes I feel done here. Other times, I can't imagine leaving. All the time, I feel like I'm getting older y que no quiero perder mi tiempo.

So, the last several days, I've been doing a lot of breathing and listening, feeling into the confusion in my body and in my heart, and giving my attention to the conflicts. Ultimately, I trust that love led me here, and that if I keep listening, love will continue to lead me where I need to go.

Rituals & Connections

One evening in Canoa, Ecuador, I watched fishermen returning to shore on a sturdy little motorboat, plying through the beach waves and onto the sand. Once they landed, two of the men carefully removed the outboard motor from the back, and one of them hoisted the obviously heavy engine up onto his shoulder. Then, at the end of his day, he gathered muscle and bone to calmly and carefully carry all that weight safely up the slope of sand as the rest of the crew, in a well-practiced sequence, rolled the boat across a pair logs to a resting point above the high tide line.

...

Ronald and me

One of my Caleño salsa teachers, Ronald Parra,
recently moved to Quito, Ecuador to work with Estudio Nacional de Baile, a dance school and professional performance team started by Caleños from the Swing Latino dance company in Cali, Colombia. When I visited Quito, Ronald took me to see the team training for the Cali salsa festival (coming up August 2nd-9th).

As we arrived, the team was refining the details of one section in the dance. Each couple practiced individually, then the director would run the whole group through that section together while he sang the music, then they would practice individually with his instruction, then run through it, etc.

After about half an hour, the director finally put on the music and they danced the whole performance, beginning to end.
Cali style.
At high altitude.
It was amazing.

Estudio Nacional de Baile - Quito, Ecuador

They nailed the routine until about 2/3 of the way through when, one by one, the dancers started falling apart. Steps started to falter. Couples stopped here and there to breathe then jump back in when they could. Once smiling faces began to show anguish and fatigue as  willpower struggled to move muscles and bones to the relentless rhythm. Voices rang out to encourage one other: "Venga! Venga!"

When the music ended, they all hit and held their marks for a moment. Then, in the silence that followed - I wish I had a video - each dancer turned soundlessly away from the dance floor, scattering in every direction, into postures of fatigue: hunched forward with hands on knees, faces lifted with hands pressed against sweaty foreheads, gasping breaths. Some sat on the floor, others gulped water, and all retreated into themselves to recover from the exhausting demands of the dance.

Eyes wide, I covered my face with my hands, deeply moved by the power, grace, and commitment of what I'd just witnessed.

...

Whether it's fishermen returning to shore at the end of the day or a group of dancers preparing a performance, some of the most beautiful and important things in life require teamwork, discipline, and a sense of responsibility to one another. I yearn for the meaningfulness of such connection and commitment in my own life.

I would like to join a dance team again some day. I miss tying into a rope and climbing up several hundred feet of rock with my life in my buddy's hands. I long for the powerful yet peaceful energy that arises in a room full of people, who've shown up week after week, year after year, to participate in the ritual of yoga together.

...

So, where do I find this type of connection in Cali?

Mostly, it's in little interpersonal things. It's in the silent communication I have with a friend when we cook together. I find it in salsa lessons, cooperating with my teacher to work out new moves. It's there in sweaty dances at the discoteca when my partners and I listen so deeply to the music and to one another that creative new movements begin to occur spontaneously. I feel it in the presence of people who, for some mysterious reason, bring out the Spanish speaker in me, and the language flows though my lips like water. I see it in the grateful faces of new yoga students from all over the world as they discover the practice with me here in Cali, Colombia. It's alive among the extranjero community as we help one another navigate the foreignness of living here. I even find it on Skype sometimes, when a dear friend from home reminds me that I have deep, meaningful connections with people all the time.

(He's right. I do.)

But Cali salsa clubs have their own special ritual that brings everyone together: At some point in the night, the dj switches the music from salsa to a short set of Musica del Pacifico and funky Colombian pop songs, and everyone line dances. This would seem silly to me in any other setting, but here, it turns a night of paired off couple dancing (that not everyone can participate in equally) into a unified, group experience of rhythm and movement that anyone can join. We sing along with the lyrics, follow a couple of folks at the front, and get all funky together. It's fun to join in, and it's equally fun to watch. Tourists always break out their cameras to capture it.

I loved this group dance the first time I saw it, and I still love it even though it's the same songs every time and the same repetitive steps. For me, this part of the night holds a deeper meaning: it's a sweet reminder of our togetherness and an expression of our equality. On the map of the world, this unique ritual pertains only to Cali (as far as I know), and it's another piece in the puzzle of my love for this city.

Recommitting to Cali

I've been away from Cali most of this month. I had mixed emotions about leaving, but now that I am nearing the end of my time away, I feel a renewed dedication to the city I've chosen for my home. After seeing more of Colombia and making a visit to Ecuador, it's clear that Cali is still the only place I want to be right now. I'm missing my friends there, I miss my dance partners, and I will be so happy to greet everyone again when I get back in less than a week.

When I return, I'll be starting fresh. I'm moving into a new house. A month after my return, I'll start a University level Spanish program. I have plans to begin attending the foremost salsa school in Cali, Swing Latino. And most importantly, I am returning with a year long student visa in my passport.

Colombia only allows tourists to visit the country for 180 days per calendar year. Beyond that, one must obtain another type of visa in order to remain in the country legally. My first 4 months in Colombia, I awoke every day not knowing how I was going to do this. I looked into visas based on income, student visas, business visas, work visas, volunteer visas, investment visas, temporary cultural visas... All proved elusive as I encountered hefty lawyer's fees, shrouds of bureaucratic & language barrier complexity, unanswered emails, difficult-to-meet requirements, and unhelpful people.

Finally, I contacted the expensive, private Universidad Santiago de Cali. My emails were replied to promptly. The wonderful Spanish teacher invited me to meet with her. She explained the program to me in perfectly understandable Spanish. The proper papers were provided. I took them with me to Bogotá. I now have a year long visa.

So, I will return to Cali unconcerned about the days ticking away on a steadily expiring visa, I will return to friends and familiar places, and I will return to the life of a student - a life in which I've always thrived. I look forward to it.

Cannibals in Texas and Other Plausible Things

It was one of those days on the Mio, the public transit bus system that carries me south to teach a yoga class every Thursday. The outbound journey was mellow today, but on the return trip, I declined to pack myself in like a sardine with, literally, hundreds of other people on any of the first four double buses (the E21, E31, or T31) stopping to release and absorb passengers like chemicals across a semi-permeable cell membrane.

While waiting for a fifth bus, a diminutive Caleña lady who appeared to be in her 50's started chatting with me, asking which buses went to Chiminangos and if I speak English and if I'm from Europe or North America and which part of the USA, etcetera.

All the normal questions cropped up: How long have you been here? Do you like Cali? How long will you stay?

Eventually, we got on an E21 bus together, and, while standing in the aisle, squished between college students, and desperately trying stay on my feet in the swaying bus, she shared with me that the one place in the USA she's afraid of is Texas because of all the cannibals.

Um...the what?

Cannibals. You know, people who eat people.

Now, every country has its own sayings and expressions, so my initial response was to nod calmly thinking this was a Colombian dicho (a "saying") meaning that people are competitive or prejudiced or something like that. However, I have been in Cali long enough to know that Caleños are capable of believing completely implausible things, so I decided to confirm. I asked, "Es un dicho, verdad?" and with fervor she replied, "No! Es real!"

omg.

Apparently, family members of hers living in the US told her that Texas is full of cannibals and specifically, she told me very seriously and sincerely, the Thompson family of Dallas, Texas (omg! omg!) is known for having buried the remains of hundreds of bodies under their homes.

Sometimes, I feel like the people here live in a parallel universe. This is just the latest example in a long list of incredible things Caleños swear are true. (In future editions: how reading on a bus will make you blind and how to stop the rain using kitchen cutlery. Seriously. Stay tuned...)

While grinning from ear to ear and trying not to laugh out loud, I decided to keep it to myself that I grew up in Dallas, Texas (well, technically in Plano, but close enough) and that my last name is Thompson. I guess if a conversation as coincidental as this one can happen on a crowded Mio bus in a city of 2.5 million people, anything is possible.

El Son de Cali

Sr. Caleño & namer of this blog, José M.

When thinking about starting this blog about living in Cali, Colombia, I asked friends for title ideas. One of my most Caleño of Caleño friends suggested al Son de Cali.

Being new to Cali and having only a semi-decent grasp of the Spanish language at the time, I had to look up the meaning of the word son in this context. As a noun, son refers to sound, specifically to the particular way something sounds, but it can also more generally mean the style or manner of something. It encompasses the sound, flavor, rhythm, and general feel of things, and when it comes to Cali, Colombia, life is full of son.

Salsa Competition, Aug 2012

Different styles of salsa are danced around the world, and Cali has a style all its own. Some styles are elegant and linear, others funky and circular; here in Cali, salsa is fast, and it swings. At the professional level, Salsa Caleña is high energy with fast footwork and acrobatic tricks. Among the people, the basic steps swing side to side with back steps and additional toe taps thrown in on the pauses. In the clubs, dancers sing along with the music whilst whirling around each other on the dance floor. Music and dancing provide the fundamental connection for people in this city, and that foundation influences everything.

The typical Caleño/a (person from Cali) is extroverted, talkative, happy, dances salsa (obvio!), loves Cali, loves being Colombian, likes to travel, and enjoys nature. Caleños flirt freely, laugh easily, tell stories about their lives, are helpful, wear colorful clothing, get excited about food, and kiss on the cheek to say hello and goodbye. Caleños are a party waiting to happen.

All over town, salsa music pours out the windows of passing taxis, homes, and storefronts. Salsa accompanies supermarket shopping experiences, days at the waterpark, and drifts down into our house from the neighbor's balcony on a daily basis. Add to this soundtrack, colorful, creative murals brightening walls and buildings all over town, cars, motorcycles, buses and taxis weaving around one another, their drivers ignoring lane demarcations and traffic signals while cutting one another off in a manner as fluid and certain as river water, and buses packed to the gills with passengers who board and disembark simultaneously at every stop. There is an organic, vibrant, primal hum to it all, but with an easy-going swing in the background that allows life to follow the flow of events rather than the ticking of time.

When I first arrived, I was acutely aware of my own incongruent rhythms of language and culture as I tried to adapt to the son of my new home: to the emotional cadence of the language, the bright energy of the people, the pulse of a big city, and the sultry movements of the dances (mostly salsa, but other latin styles as well). Now, el son de Cali is becoming more and more a part of me. I find myself flirting with whomever I'm talking to, regardless of my feelings for them, simply because the language I'm speaking happens to be Spanish. I get excited about arepas con queso for breakfast before I've even gotten out of bed in the morning. When riding in taxis or on the back of a motorcycle, just inches from the neighboring vehicle, I trust and enjoy the watery flow of traffic, gloriously freed from the inhibiting constraints of lanes.

Aside from the cultural immersion of learning to speak and understand Colombian Spanish, the touchstone of my adaptation to Cali has been studying Salsa Caleña, learning the professional dance from professional teachers. Recently, I've been astonished while dancing in clubs to find my feet flying in complex patterns I've never done before. The movements swirl spontaneously through my hips, matching my partner's lead with quick kicks, toe taps, and cha chas, even though I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing. As I trust my body's ability to move, my ear for the music, and my partner, something authentically Caleña comes through.

Ultimately, salsa me vuelve a bit more Caleña each day as I bring el Son de Cali from the dance floor to everything I do.

House on a Hill

I live near the top of a hill. Most of Cali stretches eastward onto the wide plains of the Valle de Cauca, but the barrios in the west are built up on the foothills of Los Farallones de Cali. Agricultural land stretches north and south of the city and the Cauca River makes the eastern border. I live in the artsy neighborhood of San Antonio, with colonial architecture, safe(r) streets, and a pretty little park where the mountains begin to rise out of the valley.

The view from el Parque de San Antonio, directly across the street from my front door, is pictured above in the "al Son de Cali" banner. On clear days, the ridge line of La Cordillera Central bordering the other side of the valley appears in the distance.

Weekend nights, people come from all over to eat in the restaurants, sell street food or jewelry, and spend time together enjoying the luscious Cali breezes that sweep through the park most evenings. Local folks run impromptu street parking businesses, stacking motorcycles in precarious "if one goes, they all go!" arrangements on the steep street. Our neighbor two houses over, Luís from Honduras, sells  colorful t-shirts depicting cars, robots, deer, Shiva, the Buddha, gigantic headphones, etc., while playing groovy reggae tunes to attract buyers. The park's small amphitheater hosts comedy shows and folk dancing. We can hear people laughing from inside the house.

View south from the upstairs terrace

Speaking of the house: It's two stories with separate entrances, 8 bedrooms, 3 kitchens,  3 bathrooms, a full house in the back, and a garden. The house, like most in San Antonio, is open air with terraces on the first floor opening to the sky. From the laundry terrace upstairs, we have another great view to the south.

"We" is a lot of us. La dueña de la casa, a flight attendant for Avianca, lives in the separate house at the back, and most of the rest of us are extranjeros. We have a retired English gentleman, the hilarious young German-Caleño couple, my salsa dancing friend Sita, the sisters from Wyoming, and the dread-locked, hula hooping, Southeast Asian-looking, actually German with a Chilean mother, Daniela. Silly Sam from England and quiet Arturo from France just joined us, as well.

Sombra de la Calle

The most important resident, however, is the house dog, Sombra. She's a medium sized, black lab-ish mix, with a floppy ear, a sweet spirit, and a nervous system that's a little out of control. Once a street dog, now that she has a home, she defends it from the constant threat of construction workers, house guests, cats, inaudible sounds, and little old ladies walking by outside on the street. She's not a biter, but her bark is fierce, and the hair along her spine stands up when she's agitated. It's really embarrassing sometimes, but we love her.

I teach yoga in the house two nights a week by donation. I never know whether I'll teach in Spanish or English (or both! ack!) until I see who shows up. English is always easier, of course, but I'm starting to be able to express the poetry of the practice in Spanish, too.

It's a great house. It's one of the most beautiful, biggest, and most comfortable in San Antonio, but despite the hot, daily, uphill pilgrimage of the homeward journey, it's not always a sweet sanctuary. At 36 years old, sharing a house with 10 people and all their vistors in a city full of extroverts can be a little overwhelming for this only child. So I am always seeking refuge: in my practice, in the garden out back, on the terrace upstairs, at a friend's house around the corner, and lately, in my own room, with the door shut, music turned up, dancing my heart out, and feeling free.