If you have been following along geographically, you are correct in noticing Cartagena is a hell of a long way from Mendoza. Mendoza is at the bottom of South America and Cartagena is at the top. 7,000 kilometers separate the two and that’s pretty much why I had to go. As I sat with the idea of having an unscheduled week in which I could go anywhere else in Argentina, it occurred to me that in reality I can go anywhere in South America, and so what kept bubbling up for me was the desire to see Cartagena, Colombia before I leave the continent.
But there is more to it. I needed a dose of the Afro-Caribbean heart of Colombia before I eventually leave the continent. I am not overly sensitive; I’ve got pretty thick skin, but I do admit to being hyper-aware of the world around me, and there was something about my blackness in the context of Chile, and sometimes Argentina, that just wasn’t working right. There are always almost imperceptible moments that are packed with meaning, and questions, and accusations, that not everyone is aware of, but I have walked the streets of this Mother Earth too many decades to not catch, read, and interpret the flicker of eyes cast towards me and the unconsciously slight squint, or aversion that occurs second after second, moment to moment, all day, everyday in any given village, town or city I pass through. And so I started noticing these moments with increased frequency in the little towns of southern Chile.
Ironically, I also passed by this graffiti in Puerto Natales, Chile, which had me laughing so hard I actually turned around and went back to take a photo.
That aside, I kept perceiving these fractional moments of hostility, never overt, as I locked eyes with passers by. It was not until I arrived in Valaparaiso and Santiago that it all clicked into place. In these cities I saw thousands of black folks over the course of a couple days. I then found out that Haitian immigrants have been migrating to Chile over the past 6-8 years and what I was perceiving was the result of the tension this migration has created between the cultures. So no, I am not crazy . . .
And I decided to go Cartagena where the folks look like me — and they let me know it. The walled city is stunning, but what I really got a kick out of was the street sellers, who I would refuse to buy anything from, and who would always place their forearm next to mine and proclaim, “You family!”. And I would still refuse to buy anything, but we would both laugh, and life would still be good.
About the cover photo with the ladies. They sell the opportunity to take a photo with them in traditional dress, which I also declined. But when I passed by again with a gelato in my hand, the woman who is shooting a salty look in the photo (not at me!) asked me (in Spanish) where her gelato was.
I responded (in Spanish) that maybe tomorrow I would get her one. To which she pointed to the shop a few doors up and said, “Why? The shop is right there”. I laughed because she had a point, so I said sure let’s go get you one. To which she took to mean her two friends as well, which became a third friend by the time we reached the door of the shop. I was in hysterics as their gelatos began to include sprinkles, chocolate syrup and anything else on offer. When I tried to explain in my lame Spanish that chocolate syrup defeats the purpose of good gelato, they made it clear I was the one defeating the purpose. They agreed that I deserved a photo. So when we were arranging ourselves, Ms. Salty-Look called out to me, ‘negro’, to come stand next to her. Negro with a short ‘e’ as used in Spanish, not long ‘e’ as in English. When I reacted with wide-eyed surprise she laughed and stuck her forearm next to mine and said, ‘You family”.
Her salty look is at a tourist off to the side trying to take a sneaky photo of us without paying — or at least buying some gelato.
Love it Terence.
Thank you Cate, my faithful reader!!!!