Urban Thought Collective

No se preocupe, yo soy seguro (Don’t worry, I’m alright).

“Señoras y Senores, por favor sujetan sus cinturones de seguridad y por favor coloque sus asientos en la posición vertical…” (Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts and please put your seats in the upright position).

That’s what I heard as I nestled into seat 30G of my American Airlines flight from Miami to Bogota, and that’s when it truly hit me that I was headed to South America again. Seat 30G, obviously not anywhere near the first class or even business class section that I so richly desired, is the kind of seat that you fold yourself into like a pretzel when you’re a 6’7” brotha. Luckily, I was seated next to a 9-year old girl with whom I neither had to fight for legroom nor battle for the armrest, as she spent most of the time leaned over on her mother. She smiled really big and said “Buenos dias” as she and her family sat down in the row and settled in for their trip home to Colombia.

How bad could Colombia be? From the comments after last week’s post, I can see that most of you were reluctant, like me, to set aside any of your pre-conceived notions and not be a little worried for me as I embarked on this trip. Speaking of comments, y’all got me a little spooked this week after seeing how you showed your proverbial teeth in the Truth Be Told post. I ended up commenting late in the game so I don’t know if anybody saw it, but please check it out and go easy on us. I digress.

Where was I…? Oh yeah…Colombia. I’m not easily rattled, and since I’ve been in many situations where I’m out of my comfort zone, having to suddenly (and rapidly) translate everything that I hear, and attempt to respond in kind, wasn’t making me sweat just yet. Going through Immigration and Customs and being chosen for the “random” pat down by a guy with an M-16 strapped to his back as somebody else looked through my just-claimed luggage with a fine toothed comb didn’t really bother me either. Such things amuse me and give me a chance to share clever stories with whoever will listen.

No, it wasn’t until I walked out of the airport to a huge crowd of loud and boisterous people, many holding signs for loved ones, while eager taxi drivers and hotel representatives clamored like runners in the pit at the New York Stock Exchange, did my heart rate elevate just a tad. (For some reason, at every Latin American airport I’ve ever been to, there’s always a huge crowd outside waiting like fans desperate to catch a glimpse of their team returning home after winning the championship.)

Ordinarily, when I fly into another country, especially one with this reputation, one of my clients is waiting for me with one of the aforementioned signs. If they don’t have signs, we’ve usually already exchanged emails with my itinerary and maybe a mention that I’m not easy to miss and will likely look more like a ballplayer as I step off the plane in my official travel uniform (one of my numerous sweat suits) than an engineer here to fix their network.

None of that happened this time though, and I chalked it up to the fact that I’ve met this client previously when I worked with him in Santiago, Chile a few years ago. I didn’t see him. When some little guy talking a mile a minute in Spanish motioned to me, I foolishly assumed that he had been designated to pick me up. Not so, as I found out after my brain had kicked into high gear and started thinking in Spanish. He was just another taxi driver, so I finally told him “Gracias, Senor, pero mis companeros me encontrara aqui…no necesito un taxi.” (my friends are meeting me here, I don’t need a taxi.) To make matters worse, my cell phone didn’t work, and I didn’t have any cash for a taxi. Nevertheless, after about 15 minutes, I finally broke down and found the little guy again. He proceeded to walk me about a half block to some other illegally parked taxi. I got in. Strike one. I told him that I needed cash and he went in search of a “cajero” (ATM machine). Strike two. I’m at a nice hotel, and I’m sure there was a cajero near there, but no, he took me off in a neighborhood that looked every bit Cabrini Green.

I’m having flashbacks of the shady cabs in Vietnam all over again. I’m done. I’ve been in Colombia for 30 minutes; this is how I’m going out. Days later, after hearing the stern warning from Juanito, our hired taxi driver and virtual tour guide that takes us to and from the job each day, never to trust the “amarillas” (yellow taxis) and never take one alone because they are notorious for setting you up to be robbed in a remote location (like an ATM off in the cut), I sheepishly offered up my story. The car erupted with laughter as Juanito and my two temporary co-workers couldn’t believe that I had actually lived to tell about this. Juanito said that I was one lucky caballero.

I assure you, however, that Colombia has been much better since those first 30 minutes. Bogota is actually a very multi-faceted, very cosmopolitan, and “tony” city of nearly 10 million people. It looks like Northwest Washington, D.C. where I’m staying, Brooklyn where I’m working, and has shades of L.A., Chicago and San Francisco as well. Don’t be put off by the heavy police and military presence (that’s just President Uribe at work) in most of the frequented areas. I know you’re not accustomed to seeing cats with their finger on the trigger of an M-16 standing on a busy street corner other than when you flip on CNN at night as they blurb about Fallujah, but it actually gives you a feeling of security. I haven’t seen anybody remotely thinking about getting out of line.

Part II continues tomorrow (with photos )…

Destah Owens is a single father of two from Northern California and proud UCLA Bruin who travels the world for his job as a computer engineer. His blog, “Souffles in Saigon,” is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.