Kidnapped. You’ll be kidnapped. Cartels will kidnap you. Coca and kidnapping, the druglord breakfast cereal. The prize inside the box is you, bound and gagged, wishing you’d gone to South Beach instead.
This is how Colombia perched in my mind—a clawing bird ready to imprison me in its bleak and powdery nest. Cocaine cocaine cocaine. My life worth less than a gram. I would never go to Colombia, would never want to go to Colombia. I want to see a hundred countries in my lifetime but not Colombia and her cohorts like Syria, Iraq, and Somalia. Those kinds of places.
I wouldn’t even go near Colombia. In Panama, where I was vacationing, even the rainforests that bordered Colombia were off limits because of the guerrillas and kidnappers lying in wait there like harpy eagles ready to snatch people away. I was not going in or even near Colombia.
Ever.
But sitting there in the small, air conditioned travel agency, I was getting frustrated. Panama’s famous Caribbean side beaches like Bocas del Toro were totally booked. So were the little islands off Nicaragua. Uruguay, which sounded exotic, was seven hours away by plane, and those flights were booked. My restless spirit bucked and whinnied—let’s go somewhere exciting! Oh Panama, you had a man with a plan—you are a beautiful bridled horse and I can drink your tap water with abandon!
I wasn’t away enough; does that make any sense? I was treading on treaded pathways, looking where eyes had long looked. There had to be some place else.
“Well,” Alba Ducreux, Ejecutiva de Ventas, said with the patience of the local saints. “There are a few seats left on the plane to Cartagena.”
Cartagena … it’s one of those words. Like a new spice or fruit. I was having an Eve moment; here was something tempting. What should I do? Yes! I booked my flight to Cartagena.
My fruit’s full name is actually Cartagena de Indies, to distinguish it from the other Cartagena. I found this out when I went back to my Panama hotel, Googled my fabled destination, and fell in love with the photos, photos from Spain. No, this Cartagena, my Cartagena, was of the Indies, so named because of that man who went looking for India and refused to ask for directions.
There was only one hotel room left, too, a suite for hundreds of dollars a night. Talk about a busy continent for the holidays—South and Central Americans were certainly on the move! At least I’d be going out in style. Isn’t that Tango Diva Rule Numero Uno?
The quick Copa Airlines flight was barely an hour, but I felt, as the plane edged its way along the coast, that I was moving far, far away. My poor family had gotten the email by now: “Slight change in plans … don’t be mad but I’m going to Cartagena, Colombia for a couple days. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call or write. Happy Holidays, Love, Stephanie.”
My friends had gotten emails, too. I pictured them cheering me on from our favorite bars in San Francisco—“Heh, heh, what do you think Stephanie’s doing right now in Colombia? Heh, heh. She must be partying her aaasssssss off!”
And here I was on a plane to Colombia not knowing whether my ass would be partying or languishing in some dusty militant’s basement.
But here was a clue. I kid you not: there was a guy in the customs line in front of me, amid the stern narcotico soldiers and drug sniffing dogs, wearing a Scarface t-shirt. A Scarface t-shirt. His companion had a bright, big American flag beach umbrella slung over her shoulder. And here I had been practicing my Canadian accent, eh!
I watched to see whether they would get kidnapped on the spot. What I didn’t realize was that our customs officer was a teenager in flip-flops. Colombia didn’t make any sense.
