Colombia, Week 2: Mom and Dad's Visit

Despite an even greater number of stories to tell and thoughts to communicate during each of these past two weeks compared to my first, I was unable to write after my second week because I had the privilege of spending the entire weekend with Mom and Dad. Recounting some of our shared adventures, therefore, seems like a natural emphasis for this post.

Dad was called to serve in the Cali, Colombia mission in the late 1970s. Because of issues in obtaining a visa, he was initially kept longer than anticipated in Provo's Missionary Training Center and then began his mission in a small town in Texas with a large Spanish-speaking population with no concrete date for his Colombia departure. He did eventually make it to Colombia, however, and spent four months of his mission in Medellín in 1979. Because of the violence that gripped the country in the 1980s and '90s after his departure, in large part due to the establishment of Pablo Escobar's Medellín cocaine cartel, Dad had not returned to Colombia in almost 40 years until the weekend that we spent together. Given the momentous experience that it represented, it was one of the richest weekends of my life.

I have numerous memories from my childhood hearing stories about Dad's mission that he would tell to entertain us. I remember hearing about rooftop showers with only cold water. I remember hearing about culinary adventures involving chicken soup with the chicken claw sticking out of the bowl and a different delicacy dish made of cow brain, both of which Dad politely choked down. I remember hearing about the fantastic companions Dad had, like Elder Scofield, and the less-than-stellar, like the one who served Dad a can of old beans that gave him horrendous gastroenteritis or the one who was chasing a lizard around the back of the house when the family responded to the knocks on the door. Because of what Colombia meant to Dad, it has always stood out to me, and over the years, I've let Colombian news and famous figures accumulate somewhere in the back of my mind as a result, whether it was reading Gabriel García Márquez in literature classes or appreciating new hits by Shakira more than others by Latin artists. Dad's story-telling left an indelible impression.

¡Postobón!

The time with Mom and Dad in Medellín last weekend was brief and intense in the best way.  The best parts, for me, were hearing all of the extra stories that Dad shared about his time here once his memory was jogged by being back in this special place. He remembered the "Postobón gaseosa," these delicious, sugary sodas popular here in Medellín, and we drank one all three days we were together. He remembered the street vendors always shouting "a la órden," something akin to "at your service," as they try to sell you everything from candy to clothes. Because Dad is the most meticulous record-keeper and note-taker that any of us know, he had addresses written of his prior homes while serving in Medellín, so we went to visit both on Saturday. One has been razed, sadly, a governmental healthcare building now erected in its stead. The other, in a neighborhood called Villa Hermosa up on the low face of the mountain, stands intact. We visited both on Saturday, and it was so meaningful to have such a sharper vision of what parts of Dad's mission looked like as a result.

Dad's former home in Villa Hermosa

On Saturday, we also took Medellín's metrocable, essentially a funicular, up past the horrendously impoverished shantytowns of northeastern Medellín to a nature reserve called Parque Arví. The views were stunning as we arrived, both for the vantage point allowing us to see almost the entire Aburrá Valley where Medellín rests and also for the rows upon rows of houses with inadequate tin roofs, dirt roads bereft of vehicles, and trash scattered about over whom the metrocable lifted us. After walking around Parque Arví, we took a rickety bus that sped along a curving, one-lane highway up to a small town called Santa Elena where supposedly the flower farms and their farmers can be found preparing for the large flower festival set to take place the following day (more below). We did not find the flowers. We did, however, find hoards of happy and perhaps a little borrachos Colombians along with dozens of peaceful, adorable, quite funny stray dogs who would peacefully congregate around and even nap on anyone seated who didn't shoo them away. We stopped underneath a small tent to buy some lunch at one point amidst the overwhelming crowds, noise, and grill smoke. We asked for these famous "gaseosas" to drink, but all they had was a 1.5 liter bottle, which we agreed to buy. We then asked for lunch, and all they had were meat-heavy arepas, which are cornmeal-based, thick tortillas. Mom being a vegetarian, we asked if we could just have them without meat, to which the waiter told us he had the solution: he would bring mom's with pechuga de pollo, chicken breast! We tried our hardest to hold back laughter. We specified that we didn't want chicken, either. The guy looked at us like we were crazy and ascertained that we just wanted tortillas and potatoes. We agreed and ended up each being served probably two enormous potatoes' worth of steamed potato and a flavorless tortilla. Each bite was a painful, masticatory act of politeness and face-saving--there was no pleasure in the endeavor as we each took down pounds of flavorless tuber. We all laughed our guts out thinking about the glycemic index of our carbohydrate-exclusive, bland-as-raw-tofu meal that we drowned in liters of sugary soda. Suffice it to say, by that evening we were all feeling starving and awful and simply devoured the expensive, more balanced meal that Mom and Dad bought us that night. 

Yes, folks. Everything in this meal was on the white-yellow color spectrum. 

On Sunday morning, we went to the same chapel that Dad helped to dedicate in 1980. Though Dad didn't know anyone there specifically, he was only one degree removed from almost everyone we spoke with. Many people came up to us, as Colombians are very open, gregarious folk and especially notice new faces when they are gringos like us, and people truly lit up when Dad told them that he had been here for the dedication almost 40 years ago. It was beautiful to watch Dad and these people establish the friends and acquaintances they had in common or to see members' faces light up when they heard what Dad had done here. It was unforgettable seeing how strong these bonds are, regardless of the social or geographic distance between the US and Colombia, thanks to the service Dad performed there decades ago.

Once a year, Medellín celebrates its "Feria de las Flores," or flower festival. It just so happened that the culminating event, the desfile (or march), was Sunday afternoon. Mom, Dad, and I traveled towards the action and were able to see the stunning silletas, which are large, wooden circular frames absolutely covered in flowers of every type, often in the form of something significant. (A poor description, no doubt, but we will let each picture be worth a thousand worthier words.) People wear these heavy silletas on their backs like backpacks, even old, frail-appearing campesinos who nearly collapse under the unwieldy weight but who proudly display their creations notwithstanding. We were so close to the creations that it smelled like the roses in a refrigerated flower shop out on the street. It was such a magical experience to be witnessing Medellín's once yearly festival with Mom and Dad that I got goosebumps.

Translation: "When you carry your water, you don't spill a drop." This entire thing is made of flowers, believe it or not. 

Mom and Dad had to leave on Sunday night after the flower festival, and their absence left a hole in my heart that it took a few good hours of useless lounging and crying to recover from. Our time together was unforgettably rich and meant so much to me.

I will write again soon about everything else that has been happening in my life.