It’s no secret that I speak Spanish about as well as I can shoot awesome wolverine-like adamantium claws out of my knuckles.  But my complete metal retardation in the understanding-Spanish-when-it’s-spoken-to-me realm comes in great handy for photography in Colombia.  Especially street photography.

I decided to bring Diego out with me as a translator, because I knew I wanted photos of people doing things, and not just of the backs of their heads.  I wanted their permission to photograph them, so I could get some real interaction shots.  This is not something I usually do.  I’m usually going for scenery, and shots of people are either of bands, or I luck out with one person bringing me around to photo a large group (Fishermen of Juan Griego).

So this ‘let’s actually get photos of complete strangers” thing is a little unnerving. Especially in an area that is not used to tourists.

The first place we stopped, Diego and I, was a purse making shop (pretty sure they are openly making knock-offs…but they are  handcrafted, made well, and cheap…so really, who cares?).  I had Diego ask the owner if I can take photos.  This big burley man, leans over the counter, and I swear to God he was going to start punching us in the face and take us in the back to ‘teach us to mind our own business’.  He was not having it at all.  Finally, Diego was able to convince him I just needed photos for school or something, and he agreed…but there was a definite feeling of ‘hurry the fuck up and get out of here’ vibe thing going on.  The workers wanted nothing to do with me, and the owner just stood outside and starred at me.

So the next place I stopped, I decided to talk myself (and by talk I mean massacre Spanish, not really understand what they were saying, and just smile a lot while doing the Sullivan nod (oh thank you 10 years of food service.  You actually taught me something useful).

“Por favor” and I point to my camera.  Slightly disconcerting looks from a hairdresser and his middle-aged female client.  ‘Why.  What for?’ – something along those lines they ask.

“Yo queiro un foto.  Es bonita”.  (“I would like a photo of you working because it is really cool looking!)

The man says yes, the woman (whose hair is still being worked on) of course says no.

“Please.  This photo is not for the internet or magazines.  I need street photography for a job I am applying for, and this photo is beautiful! I promise, it is not for Facebook.”

is what I said in my head.  In reality, my Spanish came out to about

“Please. No for internet. I am trying job. Ask me urban photos. This pretty. Please. No Facebook.”

but it worked.  In about 1/3 of the time of Diego with his perfect Spanish explanations.

Every time, I spoke bad Spanish and smiled sheepishly. Diego just stood there like he spoke no Spanish either.  The victims subjects just gave up and said yes, or felt bad and said yes.  Hell, the homeless dude (Frankie or Freddy, can’t remember which, but I’m pretty sure he is a local homeless person) who was burning tree stumps out of the ground started posing for me, told me where to get some more cool photos, then gave me a welcoming hug goodbye.

So what have I learned:

In Colombia, it seems a lot easier to get street photos of people when you barely speak their language (or speak it worse than you really do).  Also, Colombians wont pose like the USA.  If you tell them you want a photo of them working, they’ll keep right on working like you aren’t there.  Maybe they will stop and give you one cute pose, then keep on working.  It’s great!

CHEERS! 

The other day Diego took me to a woodworking shop in downtown Medellin, where some of his family works.  It was awesome.

The smell of fresh cut wood, a smell I adore, permeated everything.  We walked through the tiny pathways the weaved in between gigantic unfinished furniture stacks, stepping on a carpet of soft, baby-powder fine sawdust.  The air was thick with airborne particles that created a fuzzy haze throughout the dark and horror-movie-ish looking warehouse.

I loved every second of it!

I ran around taking photos of the guys working, getting covered in sawdust as I laid flat on the ground to get artsy shots…

…and spent way too much time photographing this man hand carving flower designs into chair backs with a fascinating amount of precision and speed.

Each person had one job that they would just do in mass quantities with such skill.  I was loving watching it all.

I was absolutely amazed with this little wood shop in the middle of Medellin.  I wish I could tell you a name or direction, but this being Colombia, I can tell you it is just some no name wood shop  that you will pass by without notice unless you are specifically looking for it.  All I can say is that it is on Avenida de Greiff, a ripped awning, and yellow out front.

CHEERS!

Downtown Medellin is a bustling section of the city, full of vendors, customers, visitors, and locals.   From the rich and fancy, to the broke and homeless, there is always interesting interactions going on – if you just take the time to step back and watch it.

This captain is having way too much fun cutting across the waves at high velocity.   The boat flies into the air then smacks down onto the water, sending salty spray everywhere.

“I can’t even wipe my eyes!” I complain to Diego.

Even with my sunglasses on I can barely see. The spray is getting behind my glasses from all angles, in my eyes, up my nose, and in my mouth. Everything is soaked! Diego semi figured out a way to hide my camera bag and cover it with towels so it’s mostly protected, but that leaves the two of us without anything to use as cover.

The bow fills with college-aged frat-type boys who are (trying miserably) at timing their jumping so they can make the boat bounce more. It would help if they could even time their jumping as a group, let alone with the up and down of the boat, but watching them try to jump in rhythm is like watching rich white people try to dance; sad and comical.

I walk over to the side of the bow to get some cool angled photos of the spray coming up around the sides and soaking all of us. I’m also trying to get the wind in my face, because, having just finally started to feel better while visiting Playa Blanca, this choppy boat ride is not what my stomach wants right now. As I’m filming Diego, who is also soaked and breathing in salt water, decides to brilliantly walk over in front of me, lean over the side, and…

“DID YOU JUST SPIT ON ME?” I yell in disgust and

disbelief as a giant loogie lands square on the side of my nose.

“OH MY GOD HONEY! I’M SO SORRY!” Diego is profusely apologizing while I am simultaneously disgusted and laughing hysterically at his obvious disregard for physics.

Yes, when you spit upwind from someone, on a boat, moving at rapid haste, said spit WILL fly directly backwards from your oral cavity, not cut outwards and perpendicular to the wind, and you will end up spitting on whoever is behind you. In this particular case, your girlfriend.

I am so thankful it was neither an inch higher (in my eye) or lower (in my mouth), but yes, even through the constant spray, there is a distinct difference in feeling of a warm, slimy spit-wad just hanging out on the left side of my face.

Awesome!

It’s actually pretty funny and a few people behind us are laughing at it too. I think they are just thankful that I was there, and not them. I don’t blame them.  It’s still gross.  And Diego is utterly horrified at what he just did.   HAHAHAHAHAHA

I’m getting too wet now though. My eyes hurt from the salt, and I really need a minute to break from this constant onslaught of spray and spit.

“I’m going to go get some video out the back”, and start walking like a drunk person as I try to keep my balance walking through the cabin to the back of the boat.

I finally, after a couple semi-falls, and almost landing on an old dude in the inside cabin, I make it to the back door. I set up my camera, open the door, walk out, and…

GAG!

It reeks of diesel fumes! Ok, I can handle this. I just want a little video. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Oh my god I’m going to throw up!

I whip around and fling the door open, and walk as fast as I can through the lower cabin, back towards the front of the boat. Between the back cabin and the captains room is a small room that I didnt notice before, with open door to the outside, air conditioning, and a couple of benches. This room is perfect, I can be out of the spray and still get fresh air.

I must look like hell, because some lady takes one look at me, jumps up, and lets me slide into an open space on the bench next to a basket. I try breathing slowly, and telling myself I’m fine, but I don’t feel fine. The residual stench of diesel fuel lingers in my nose and on my clothes. I need fresh air. I stumble back outside and sit next to Diego

The boat has started to slow down and turn parallel with the waves, making the ride smoother. I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m getting better. I’m going to be fine.
And I throw my GoPro at Diego, “I need to go” and run over to the side of the boat.

One of the guys who was behind me during the spit session is standing in my way.

“Por favor” as I look up at him and point behind him. At least, in my state, I can still remember common sense science. I know I look like hell now, because he jumps out of the way and gives me wide berth to get around him.

I slump to the floor and lay my chin on my knees, with my forehead on the rail in that ‘I’m going to try not to throw up but if I do I’m pretty much over the rail’ position and don’t move. I think I fell asleep at some point. I don’t know. I can’t move. I cant look. I can’t do anything or I know I’m going to hurl. I just stay in this position until we start coming back into Cartagena’s harbour.

Now that we are crawling along in the greater harbour area, I slowly feel I can start to move again, though I don’t dare stand up – or god forbid walk – yet, but I can lift my head, and sit mostly straight up. After about 10 minutes of this, I attempt the standingish-while-leaning-on-the-rail-looking-out move, to a surprising success. I stay this way until I see Diego walk to the side of the boat and look back at me with that ‘poor baby’ look. I think I can move now, and slowly test my ability to move without projecting lunch into the bay. I make it to Diego and am amazed that I’m feeling MUCH better. So much better I totally forget I just spent the last hour or so, on the sunny side of the boat, in a sitting fetal position, and start running around taking portraits of people in the sunset.

We finally dock in the harbour.

Oh no Jorge! During the trip back, between the spit, the salt, and my extreme nauseus, I totally put the fact that Diego and I left our friend Jorge stranded on Playa Blanca! We now have to deal with the guilt at our lack of Jorge again.
We rush back tot he hostel as quick as we can. Maybe he grabbed a cab and beat us back?

Nope. The hostel hasn’t seen him. His roommates haven’t seen him. We have just had to admit we left our friend all alone. Well, we have no idea if he’s figured out a way back, and it would suck to pass him, so we decide to shower quick and change. If Jorge doesn’t arrive by the time we are done, we are going looking for him. We haven’t really figured out the logistics of this endeavor, but we have to make sure our friend is ok.

Oh man we are horrible people!

As Diego jumps in the shower, and I’m realizing that I have burned streaks on my forehead, arms, knees, and back (just about every part exposed to the sun when you are in a sitting fetal position paralyzed with nasuea). As im changing out of my damp, salty dress I realize something else.; I BURNED MY STOMACH THROUGH MY DRESS! Im going to be a sexy, skin-shedding mess in about a week.

I hear a knock on my hostel dorm door.

JORGE!!!!

I can’t stop myself from jumping at him in a giant hug!

Standing in front of me is a sheepishly smiling, tired looking Jorge

“YOU”RE OK!” I say, while also thinking, “We didn’t kill our friend. Thank god we didnt kill our friend!”
“Yea. Do you have anything to drink?” he says exausted.

I throw the Gatorade at Jorge and run to the shower to yell at Diego that Jorge is back.

“HE”S OK?!” Diego yells from the shower, also excited and he rushes out as soon as he can.

Turns out, Jorge went on a walk around the beach. When he got to the end he saw a road, so he decided to loop around and follow the street back. He followed a path that headed back to the beach where the food was, and when he came out through the trees, he emerged right onto …

…an empty beach!

He wasn’t that far behind our departure, but our boat did the Colombian thing and left when it wanted, this time a bit earlier than they said. Even thought our boat captain told us we were the last boat off Playa Blnca for the day, luckily a last, small, fast boat, owned by the same tour company, happened to be leaving Playa Blanca after us, and gave Jorge a lift for free.
But at least we all ended up back fine!

So to recap: Our cheap-skate asses ended up on the wrong tour, got sick, got spit on, got lost, got ridiculously burned, and all ended up back at the hostel with stories to tell. Nothing is ever boring when you wing it.

 CHEERS!

I’ve returned to out tour boat alone. Jorge is nowhere to be found. Diego is running down the white sand beach to find him. I am waiting anxiously with ALL our gear strewn across the 3 front bow seats we’ve claimed during this trip, wondering if i’ll be returning to Cartagena alone.

The second boat comes back with neither of my tour-mates. Shit!

Wait. I can see a third pontoon on the beach filling up with more people (and we are the last real tour boat left, so it is obviously for us.)

“Maybe Diego found Jorge and they are on this boat”, I hopefully think.

People are piling on to the ship. What if Jorge comes back but Diego misses seeing him and gets left on Playa Blanca? What if they both miss the boat? At least they can take a cab back…..

I HAVE ALL THE MONEY!

Oh dammit! Now I’m getting really worried. I have no idea if Jorge has enough, or any, money with him, and I have ALL of mine and Diego’s money. And all the drinks. Oh man. They are screwed if I leave without them.

I make a decision, if I don’t see Diego on this 3^rd boat I’m heading back to shore. As the 3^rd boat come closer, I see the 2^nd boat back on shore making a last and 4^th pickup. Ok. If they aren’t on the FOURTH boat, I’m going back. I have to. I have money to get back. I can’t leave them there stranded.

The third boat comes, still no Diego or Jorge. DAMMIT! I’m semi packing our stuff together so I can make a run for the fourth boat. A couple of guys from the crew have seen me pacing and made gestures that they are aware I may get off. They even nodded no when Diego wasn’t on the third boat.

The fourth boat pulls up. I’m searching and searching, and getting ready to run to go back to shore, when I spot them. Well, Diego. I spot Diego. Where’s Jorge? Maybe I missed his arrival. Maybe I just can’t see him. Diego climbs aboard, I breathe a sigh of relief, but don’t see Jorge. I’m just going to sit down and wait, and try not to look like I’ve been waiting nervously on the boat or anything. Try being the operative word here

(I fail by the way).

Diego comes running up. “Did Jorge come back?”
“I haven’t seen him. You didn’t find him?”
“I couldn’t. I thought I missed the last boat when I saw the third leave. I barely made the fourth boat!”

Uh oh. We have all the drinks. Diego had grabbed Jorge’s beach shoes (so they wouldn’t get stolen just sitting on the beach). We have EVERYTHING!

“Does Jorge have any money?”
“I don’t know”

We just left our lost friend alone. We are horrible, horrible people. We have no idea where Jorge is or if he has any money. At least he speaks Spanish (giant bonus), and I did see the bunch of Chileans that left the hostel last night (obviously to stay ON Playa Blanca), so Jorge will likely find them too.  Yea, so he will be fine.  We hope.  Because we can’t do a damn thing about it now.  Oh man, we have to tell the hostel. We are the most horrible friends on the face of the planet!

“Ok, maybe Jorge will be at the hostel when we get back? Yea, or we will give him like an hour before we go looking for him?”

We succumb to the fact that we can’t do a damn thing until we get back to land, and hope Jorge will figure it out. I mean, it’s not me with my limited Spanish that was lost, so that’s better…

Maybe the boat will wait?

Nope.

The boat pulls anchor and heads off for Cartagena. We just left our friend shoeless, possibly penniless, and waterless on Playa Blanca…..