‘Two things. One, we shouldn’t have to be “getting away” with anything. This, all this, belongs to us. If they’re going to slam the door in our face, you know, lock themselves inside – the least they can do is give us the outside. They leave us staring at the walls, fine, we’ll take the walls. The same way you take a picture and frame it and put in your apartment, and that makes it your apartment, you know? Different from the guy in the apartment next to you? Well, the streets are our apartment. And our pictures, we just spray them instead of hang them. Although, come to think of it, that’d be pretty cool right? Big ass wooden frame on the side of that tower over there, and inside, nothing but my work, in spray paint.”

“And two?”

“Two, getting away with it is easy. I’ve never seen a place where somebody could just vanish in broad daylight, but here you can. All these buildings and all these people, and all this color and sound and movement? You just get smaller and smaller until nobody notices you, and nobody cares if they do. I knew this dude, Generação, we were painting over on São João, in broad daylight, when he just disappeared. Nobody ever heard from him again. Know what he was painting? Pandora’s box. Like he just opened up the box, and whatever was in there swallowed him or something. True story – people disappear. And everyone else just accepts it. Maybe it’s because they know we’re just trying to tell a story, leave a mark. Same way they’re just trying to leave their own mark on the world. Only they might make it in their job, in their family, in their community. Maybe you make it with the pen. Maybe others make it with the sword. Me, I’m just trying to make it. It’s funny, we’re all just trying to make it, only, in the end, we’re all just marks. Dots on some government official’s city map. Drops of paint on a great big canvas. You don’t have to believe me – you can go to the top of Edificio Italia and look out over that ledge. Take a walk, all the way around. Nothing but towers, just like these, three hundred and sixty degrees, as far as you can see.”

“What about Os Gemeos? Don’t you think they made a mark?”

“Os Gemeos, Os Gemeos, Os Gemeos. All anyone wants to talk about is the twins. And shit, no one’s gonna talk bad about them. They didn’t make a drop, they made a big splatter. Blat! They didn’t just put São Paulo on the map, they put it front and center. You been down to Praça de Correios yet? That piece is more than a mark my friend. Big dopey dude taking up the entire side of a twenty five story building. That’s not graffiti now is it? It’s ‘Street Art’. Trademark, Copyright, Patent Pending. But wait, what’s that sitting on dopey dude’s head? That’s a Pixão guy. They didn’t forget us, so what can you say about it? The same time, they didn’t come up like we did? They’re not even street artists, really, not in the typical sense of the word – they’re artists, with maybe a little streak of troublemaker in them. Besides, when was the last time you saw Os Gemeos put anything up in São Paulo. They’re international now. Mexico, New York, Milan. It’s like a business now. An organization. Permits and funding and exhibitions and contracts. Hundreds of thousands in gallery sales, sitting pretty atop Pinheiros. I mean, more power to them, I’d probably do the same in that position. But I’m never gonna be in that position. All I’m saying is you can’t lump them in the same category as us, though. That’s like Apples to Abacaxi. But anyway, if you want to talk about street art, you should be talking about those Beco kids. Go down to Batman, to Apprendiz. Or better yet go check out the piece on Augusta, on the overpass that runs right by Santa Cecilia. Nobody really knows who did it, but I’ve never seen anything like it. That shit will blow your mind.”

“So why pixão?”

“Why Pixão? Why do you write? Why does an actor act, or a lawyer ...law…yer? We do what comes natural to us. We do what we fall into – no matter how much we try to convince ourselves otherwise. We pretend we’re in charge of our own destiny, but we’re not. I remember a friend of mine, Betinho, he told me once that there is no free will. All that we are is determined by our genes, our blood line, you know, and what we learn from our interaction with others. We act the way we do based on those two thing. I don’t know, makes sense to me.”

“So how did you fall in to Pixão?”

“Literally, man. And it hurt. Me and my fried Curtis, he lived over there in Retiro – dead now, but back in the day, I was about thirteen, we used to steal beers from his dad’s fridge and go up to the roof to get drunk. Didn’t take much back then – one or two, and we’d drink them as fast as possible. Not to to get drunk faster, we weren’t smart enough to figure that out, but because we were paranoid we’d get caught. I loved it up on that roof. Curtis would get up there and get real quiet and contemplative, but I would start running around like a fucking monkey, jumping off air units and climbing up services ladders and shit. Anyway, one night we’re up there pretty late because his Dad is god knows where, and we’re pretty drunk at this point, when we hear some noises off the edge of the roof. So we crawl over there like Tropa Elite, and we see these guys, Pixadores, climbing up from the lower balcony, hitting every sill. I’m leaned out way off the ledge trying to get a better look, and Curtis is back a bit, asking me what’s going on because he doesn’t want to get near the ledge. ‘Pixadores’ I say. ‘What are they doing?’ he asks, and I’m like, ‘What do you think they’re doing. Pixão.’ ‘Who are they?’ he asks, only I don’t answer, because at that point I lose my balance and fall over the edge. Three stories and I almost take one of them out on the way down. I landed hard and broke an ankle. And as soon as I hit, the Pixadores are down too, and on top of me.”

“To jump you.”

“No, to see if I’m okay. They help me up and clean me up – I’ve got blood everywhere, mostly just scrapes and whatnot, and I’m smiling, because I just fell three stories and lived to tell about it. I guess those Pixão guys thought this was pretty cool because once they stopped laughing at my stupid ass, one of them handed me a can and tells me to write my name. I’ve never used one before, so I start spraying wild like a kindergartner – ‘W-I-L-’ One of them slaps the can out of my hand, and the other slaps my head. ‘Not your real name. Your pixão name. Don’t you have a name?’ I shrug, and so he says, ‘then we’ll call you Birdman. Now write it, and don’t make it look stupid this time.’ And that’s where it started. Where I got my name, my symbol.”

“Do you ever worry about falling again?”

“If I ever stopped worrying, I’d probably stop doing it. The thrill of it is why I’m in it. And every time we go out, we climb higher and tag crazier shit. I’m sure some day I’ll either fall or get busted or say fuck it – I’m too old for this shit. Maybe then I’ll take up ‘Street Art’ (laughs). But for now, I just want to bomb”

Long ago, before it was part of the republic, San Gil belonged to the Guane, who learned to tame the valley, growing cotton, cassava, snuff, maiz. They taught themselves to fish and navigate the treacherous rivers. The land was passed through many diplomatic hands - Sarmiento Betancourt, Davalos, Solano, Gran Colombia. The valley is a labyrinth which, for years upon years, kept its people in, and visitors out. For this reason it became a haven for drug traffickers and guerilleros like the FARC, who, at sixteen thousand strong, covered the area in a fog of fear, hiding the valley’s treasures from outsiders eyes. When the Peacemaker failed and was pushed out of power, Uribe came in, guns blazing. He freed Ingrid Betancourt. He slayed Mono Jojoy. He lifted the fog and gave the land and the rivers back to the people. They sold the rights post-haste to Brazil for a dollar and a dream.

And now the outsiders come. They come in torrents, like the rain.Where the rain stops, the people begin. They come to uncover the valley’s secrets. They come for Fonce and Baricharra. They come for rappelente and parapente, caminatas and cabalgatas. They come to be thrilled by a land they’ve never known and cannot understand. They come to have me guide them through these cannibalistic currents.

I was born upriver, in Charalá. But like so many of the people in the Guanentá province, I was washed into the basin of San Gil by the promises of the river. I am not from San Gil, but I can tell you everything about it.

I can tell you about the naturaleza – I know places where the Ceiba grow taller than towers – seventy meters tall with trunks the size of pickup trucks. I know places where the Spanish moss hangs like a bride’s veil – a white and wispy mesh, and when the sun hits just right, looking through it is like looking into heaven – while being trapped in purgatory.

I can tell you where to catch the fish – Carpa, Mojarra, Pargo. I’ve even seen a species of freshwater stingray. It’s back is spotted white in geometric patterns. I know every rapid of the Rio Fonce. In the temporada alta I lead six trips a day. I can lead you six days through the Chichamocha, paddling six hours a day through class six rapids. Six six six. I can do all these things, but what I can’t do is escape this valley. Believe me, I have tried.

When the tourists come I ask them everything about their homeland. What’s it like? What kind of work can you obtain? How much can you earn? Are there any exchange programs? What can I do to speak better English? I study hard, I work all day, I learn quick and I’ve got good common sense. The world’s much larger than this valley, and I can be much bigger than a farmer, a student, a simple river guide. My pleas fall on uncomprehending and incapable ears, or are washed out by the river’s roar.

At the takeout for the Rio Fonce, in Parque Gallinareal, you can see a narrow sliver of slick black rock amidst the raging tide. The locals call it Piedra Súcubo. The current stays well clear of it, or is sucked in down below. Over time it has carved a giant hole into the riverbed. No one knows how deep it is, although speculation abounds.They only know how many lives it has claimed, fourteen so far this year. A few of those were guides, a few of them were friends of mine.

There’s no denying the Súcubo’s gravity. It draws in all around it – leaves and logs and garbage and rafts, things you never see resurface. It lures them in like a siren’s call and pulls them down into the deep below. I’m not prone to mysticism, but I suppose I fell prey to a legend of my own – that the pozo beneath Súcubo is a portal, leading brave souls to another world. A world with variety and opportunity. One where a hard worker can carve his own route through life, instead of being shoved like a slave through the narrow river.

On tougher days I’ll pass by the rock, just close enough to feel the tug of the current. As the nose of the boat sways sideways and dips beneath the surface, I can stare into the eye of the sea and imagine myself far from here.

In this case, beauty held the name of Diana Maria Patino Torres. He had only heard her speak it once, but the way she spoke it had ensured its place in the forefront of his mind – a slightly smokey paisa swoon which he took immediately as intrigue – controlled, self-certain, but searching for something nonetheless. That something, he calculated, was him.

Åre was a programmer, object-oriented as he would explain it, which seems oddly fitting for this story. His job was to create software for the banking industry. Using a series of complex algorithms, the software would, in theory, be able to predict critical market shift indicators and recommend the proper course of action – buy, sell, hedge, call. Nothing revolutionary. Nothing a thousand others hand’t already attempted, except that his appeared to work – to the surprise of everyone but himself.

Countless suitors had sought to fund the completion of the software, and license the technology for themselves, and so he’d been flown all over kingdom come by his employers to be present at their business negotiations. To make it clear, he was not intended to be heard from, a fact which suited him just fine. Åre was a man of few words, and when he did speak, his words often came off mechanical and unimpassioned to the ears of others. His purpose was rather to act as intellectual insurance – to speak up in the case that his superiors were asked a question above their balding heads or beneath the tips of their otherwise silver tongues. He paid visits to London, New York, Tokyo, Dubai – with each the bid grew higher. It wasn’t in Medellín where the contract was won, but it was there that Åre was unwittingly sold. Everywhere else that he’d been, the allures had always been of the monetary sort. On this front, of course, Colombia could not compete. Instead it aimed the only place it was capable – just beneath the pocket protector.

The suits were ushered to an exclusive after-hours establshment where they were treated to Medellín’s finest foods, beverages, and if they so desired, drugs – after ample enjoyment of which they were treated to the country’s coup-de-gras – the beauty of its women, laid on display and available for indulgence. The entreatment failed, of course, cash is always king in the business world, but in Åre’s world he’d been snared hook, line, and sinker the second he saw Diana.

She was not one of the aforementioned offering pieces, and if she had, it would have turned Åre from his purpose. She was just a waitress, but when she pulled the curtains to their private room and stared at him with her dark and steady gaze, he fell into what he thought was love.
She passed out plates across the long table – Ajiaco, Bandeja Paisa, Ceviche - “and you must be the Chis Boorguer.” They laughed – he at the pronunciation, she at his lack of imagination. “You must not be afraid to try new things,” she told him. “What is your name?”

“Åre,” he said, with the proper pronunciation – an elongated “A” starting deep within the chest and rising to a tenor and cut quick by the proceeding “r”, rolled off the tongue and cast aside in favor of an alto “e”.

“Ar,” she said. He laughed again. “You sound frustrated. He repeated the name, slower this time. “AaaaaarÉ.”  “Arrrrr-uh.” “No,  AaaaaarÉ.” She gave it a few attempts before falling to laughter. “I will just call you “Ar.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, and extended the other which he shook heartily. “Diana Maria Patino Torres.”

“Diana Maria Patino Torres,” he repeated to the restaurant manager for the third time. “Si, la conozco, pero ella no trabaja aqui,” he said in frustration. “Roxi,” the manager motioned over one of the waitresses, a curvy died blonde. The manager rattled off his frustrations to her in rapid Spanish. “Diana no work here no more,” she said. “Do you know how I can get in touch with her? It’s very important.” Roxana shrugged, translated to the manager who shrugged in turn.

And so his earliest days in Medellín were filled – working to bring the software to completion, seeking out a place to stay, and searching blindly for Diana. His visitation of the city’s extensive restaurant scene earned him a quick familiarity with Medellín, and even a notoriety of sorts among the night owls, but it failed to yield even a single person who knew the girl.

As for accommodation, he spent a great deal of time studying the various neighborhoods, assessing rental rate stability, cost of commute, quality of living, proximity to shopping, dining, etcetera. In the end, he settled on Envigado, in the Torres del Guadalcanal building (a name he could not even pronounce to taxi drivers when he wanted to travel there), simply because it stood above an empanada stand that, in his estimation, served the best mixtas in the city. He ate there every night for three weeks.

Envigado, of course, had plenty more to offer. It was renowned for one of the best standards of living in Colombia, had a promising futbol club, an incredible view of the entire Aburra valley, and a rich history as the home of such notable residents as philosopher Fernando Gonzalez, and drug kingpin Pablo Escobar, who spent a year in a luxury prison here of his own design, along with fourteen of his closest friends as inmates. The telescope he constructed here to keep an eye on his city is visible from miles away.

The apartment itself was not lavish when measured against his current salary – three hundred dollars a month afforded him three bedrooms, two baths, a study, a living room, an ample kitchen and a balcony overlooking the building’s private pool. Another twenty a week paid for the services of a maid, a nice young student at Católica named Ana, who swung this as a side job to help pay tuition. Åre was so fastidious, however, that she often arrived with nothing to do and, having spent several awkward hours in his presence trying to look busy, would return home feeling useless and guilty.

When Åre was not out looking for his love, he was in the apartment in front of the computer. For awhile his work kept him busy enough, but after the review phase of the project was completed, the work ceased, and he was left looking for something to do besides collect a paycheck. He wasn’t much for swimming or sunbathing so the pool remained unused. Television did not suit him – especially not the Colombian telenovelas, which seemed to play on every channel, hour after hour, one channel indecipherable from the next. He’d never been much for video games – the pursuit of their end objective did nothing to develop one’s character, he thought, but after time and boredom had worn his once sharp principles, he began to play the games that were pre-installed on his computer with an exponentially increasing frequency, to the point at which he could defeat the most difficult level of minesweeper in under a minute, win at solitaire seventy two point three percent of the time, and compete in chess at a level that, given time and coaching, could have likely rivaled Kasparov’s.

And yet all this did little to stave off loneliness, which embedded itself in his beautiful mind and began to spread like a quiet cancer. He became aware of every sound in the apartment. The tick of the boiler, the tock of the clock, the erratic drip of the bathroom faucet. Even his own typing began to drive him mad. He taught himself to do so softly, his gloved fingers nudging the keys ever so slightly downward.

Ana remarked on the lack of décor – there was no table in the dining room, no living to be done in the living room, and nothing to do on the balcony but cling to the railing and stare. Even in his bedroom, he barely managed a bed. With nothing else to do, Ana began to suggest methods of improvement. One week she came up with floor plans, meticulously sketched on the pages of a Winnie the Pooh spiral notebook. Architectural drawings, to scale, soon followed, along with lists of places where quality furnishings could be purchased on the cheap. To each suggestion, Åre shook his head and thanked her politely. “Without someone to share it with, what would be the point?” “No woman would want to stay in a place like this, that is the point,” she said. He immediately had her execute her plans.

The furnishings brought life to the house,and happily gave Ana something to do. Even Åre, for a time, felt his spirits lifted. But the possession of material things did nothing to summon the woman of his dreams. His inquiries still met with shrugged shoulders, his emails went unanswered. He had now memorized the location of every bar in Parque Lleras. His minesweeper score soared as his spirits sank.

Ana couldn’t help but notice. “You need someone to keep you company” she said, “you’re all alone in this big apartment.” It was an idea that Åre initially rejected. He was a very habitual and particular creature, and throwing roommates into his already unstable situation had the potential to upset the equation entirely. He told her this, in simpler terms. “Maybe they could help you in your search,” she pressed.

He stewed on this for some time, but with all he could think of to do still failing to produce results, he gave in and posted an ad online, which detailed a lengthy list of roommate requirements, specifications of every room in the house, a cost-benefit analysis, and a list of ideal Meyers-Briggs personality type matches, with a link to the online test. The advertisement was too confusing for the average non-english speaking Colombian to understand, of course, and in the end he received just two respondents, both of them foreigners.

The first was an Israeli, David – slender and sharp looking, with motives as unrelenting as his countenance. “What do you do in Colombia?” Åre asked. David’s eyes narrowed. “I enjoy to contemplating life and its greater meaning. I also enjoy to make sex with many beautiful Colombian womens.”

“I was referring to your profession,” Åre asked. David remained silent, stroking his chin. At length, he lit up. “I also enjoy the American television program Family Guy. Have you seen it?” Åre shook his head. “Hilarious!” he said, chuckling to himself. “You must watch.” Then, more serious, he leaned to Åre and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “And what do you do - “ a pause for dramatic effect - “in Colombia.”

“I’m an object oriented C plus plus programmer. I work for the Zurich based software company, Svitzertech, making market-predictive multi-platform software analysis programs for the financial industry.” The life in David’s eyes smoldered. “I was not referring to your profession.” Åre then added, “I am also looking for the love of a beautiful woman! Do you know a girl named Diana Maria Patino Torres?” He gave an abridged account of his now well-practiced attempts to track her down.

“My friend, do not worry! I know many beautiful women, any one of which would make love to you if I commanded it.” “But I only want the love of this woman.” “Only one woman? That is against Man’s nature. You are an unnatural man. How can you know what love is if you do not have many loves by which to measure it?” Åre considered this. The language of love, to him, often did not compute. “I’ll have to think about that,” said Åre. “Now how about the apartment?”

“I will give you half your asking price.” Åre didn’t care too much about the money, but he did care about the pricniples of business. He did a quick calculation in his head. “Seventy-eight percent,” he countered. “Seventy five, and not a peso more.” The offer fell within the margin of error, and the final numbers worked out roundly, which Åre could appreciate. They shook. “But I get your room!”

The second applicant for the apartment was an American – shaved head and sharp-jawed, with a couple of missing teeth. He carried himself in his baggy clothes like a nervous rat – never quite looking directly at Åre. His unkempt manner alone was grounds for his prompt dismissal. His name was Mike Woods, “But my friends back in B-More call me Woodski.” He extended a cocked hand in gangster fashion, taking Åre’s own and maneuvering it through several unfamiliar and uncomfortable poses. “What do you do in Colombia?” Åre asked.

“This and that. Teach english mostly, if you know anybody who wants to learn. I also make these dope bead bracelets that I sell in Berrio on Saturdays, check it.” He held up a beaded wrist to display a number of his offerings. Åre asked him why he’d come to Medellín, and Mike’s well slumped shoulders slouched lower still. “I broke up with my girlfriend in Bogotá. Lina. Turns out she was givin’ it to some other dude…” Then he perked up. “Plus it’s ridiculously easy to score blow here bro. I could sell a bag of this, we’re talking primo shit, for ten times the price I pay here if I could find a way to get it back there.

Chemical dependencies were another of Åre’s tier one disqualifying criteria, and while his mind raced to ind a way to politely dismiss Mr. Woodski, his mouth found itself saying, “I too lost a lover. Diana Maria Patino Torres. She was a waitress at Paisa Brava.He described her. “Do you know her?”

Mike scratched and twitched. His rusty mind worked its way through the many bars and clubs he’d frequented since his arrival in Medellín, but recalled nothing. Then he had a revelation. He plunged his hands down his pants, and produced a cloudy ziploc bag full of weed and a well worn piece of paper, which he removed and read aloud. “Hernan Patino Torres. I don’t know any Diana, but that’s the name of the dude I cope my bud from. Come to think of it, he does have a sister, kind of like you described I guess. Fly ass honey.” Åre knew it was against all probability, but he allowed his spirits to be raised. “Can you tell me where she lives?”

“Whoah, I can’t reveal my source. If Hernán knew I even told you his name he’d probably kill me.” He resumed scratching, tapping his foot, finally dropping his jaw. “Yo, give me the apartment and I’ll talk to his sister for you.”

Åre, desperate after weeks of fruitless searching, against his better judgment conceded. “The room is yours.” Mike jumped up and down, swinging one arm wildly while holding his pants around his ass with the other. “Sick! Wait til I tell my friends I got a pad in Pablo’s neighborhood! Bitches are gonna flip!” He paused. “Oh, one thing, I don’t have the money up front just yet, but I swear I’m good for it.”

If it was quiet he wished to banish from the house, his purpose was achieved. His new companions were constantly in and out of the apartment – Mike in varying states of intoxication, and David each time with a different female. Young, doe-eyed, and naïve – David would show them the pool, show them the apartment, and conclude his presentation with a tour of his bedroom, into which they would disappear, doors shut, for the better part of an hour, emerging slightly sweatier and more disheveled. “Now you must go,” David would say, or something along those lines, and rush them toward the door. “But when will I see you again?” “Fate will decide my love.” Click. When they were gone, he would hop on the computer and line up his next target with Facebook, maybe watch a little Family Guy while he ate Åre’s food. Through stuffed cheeks he would repeat his favorite lines from the episode. “Hah! You heard him, pick up my poop!” or “I need a plastic bag. Here’s a thin napkin.” Chuckle chuckle, munch, munch. “Åre you must watch this program. Hilarious!”

Mike moved from place to place like a frenetic monkey with attention deficit disorder. His path through the house could be traced by the trail of Ramen, cornflakes, and bracelet beads he left behind him, a stoned Hansel lost in the confines of his own apartment. The bedroom smelled like incense and Patchoulli. A steady mix of Marley and hip hop filled the halls – to the tune of which he was prone to sing. Åre subconsciously learned all the words to Buffalo Soldier in his sleep one night after Mike accidentally left it on repeat. He couldn’t stop himself from singing it for two days, a deed which earned his first nickname. “This is my roommate, the Buffalo Souljah.” He even composed a variant on the tune, which he played on his acoustic.

There was a buffalo soul-jah, born in Svitzera.
Driven from the mainland, to the heart of Colombia.
Looking on arrivah, looking for vagina.
Oy yoy yoy, yoy yoy yoy yoy…

In addition to composing and jewelry making, Mike also occupied himself with drawing, tagging, talking about, but not necessarily performing masturbation, and smoking impressive quantities weed, after which he often wandered into Åre’s office to philosophize. “They call me Mike. But what is Mike? Mike is just a name. But I am so much more than a name.” Upon returning to the house from one of his frequent excursions, he could rarely account for what exactly he’d been up to.

If he remembered his promise to Åre about speaking to Diana, he certainly made no immediate moves to accomplish the task. When Åre made attempts to ask about it, Mike always waved him off. “I’m on it, I’m on it. Just gotta find time in my busy schedule, you know? Plus Hernán’s a hard person to pin down.” “Why don’t you just talk to Diana directly? Or take me to her?” Åre implored.

“Are you crazy? Hernán is mad protective over her! If he knew I was going there just to see his sister, he’d chop my balls off. And make you swallow them. You don’t like salty nuts do you Souljah?” “No, I do not like the salty nuts, but I would very much like to find Diana.” “Hey, it’s like that guy, what’s his name, Thom Yorke says bro.” Mike slung his guitar over his shoulder and plucked a few strings.

True love waits
In haunted attics
And true love lives
On lollipops and crisps

“I should change that line to salty nuts.” Åre growled frustration. “Do you have my rent money yet?” “Uh…” “Then find Diana, or I’m kicking you out and changing the locks.” Mike looked pained. “Okay, okay. Lemme finish my stash and I’ll go hit up Hernán for me. Hopefully his sis will be there.”

In the time that passed, Åre sank into an even deeper funk. He couldn’t focus on his work, and got almost nothing done. Ana, who had started to come to the apartment with much more frequency in order to keep on top of the mess created by the roommates, couldn’t help but notice Åre’s deteriorating state.  “I remember when my family moved to Medellín,” she said. She was idly dusting and rearranging the living room. “We were living in Manizales at the time. Do you know it?”

Åre, head in hands in front of the computer, shook his head in the negative. “I was thirteen, and of course I believed what outsiders said about it – feo, frío, y faldudo. I thought I was too big for town, so the company my father worked for was acquired and he was forced to relocate or resign, I begged him to move. I thought it was my destiny.” “And?” “And so we moved. I think he wanted to stay, but he never said it. My father would do anything for me. We moved to Medellín, found the money to get a decent place, and six months later he was let go. Corporate restructuring.” “And you?” “I had a hard time fitting in. Here I was average. I was nobody. And I was lost. I couldn’t find what I was looking for, and eventually I forgot what I’d been looking for in the first place.” “Which is?” “The same thing every Colombian girl wishes for I guess. Love, opportunity…” Ana had taken a seat on the arm of the sofa.

“And now?” She pursed her lips. “I still feel that Medellín is my destiny. Don’t you?” Åre didn’t answer. Ana rose, and as she did, she loosed something from the couch cushions and scowled. “You know, when I suggested you needed companionship, these were not the type of companions I had in mind.” She held up Mike’s bag of weed, and when Åre saw it he leapt from his chair. “Let me see that.” He fished out the tattered piece of paper with the dealer’s address, then squeezed Ana’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “Maybe I do believe in destiny.”

His plan was to visit Hernán himself, but Åre would never jump into such an endeavor unprepared. On the internet he brought up satellite photos of the address, which happened to lie in Comúna Trece, one of Medellín’s most dangerous neighborhoods. He familiarized himself with the windy streets, plotting inroads and outroads and possible escape routes, should things suddenly go awry. A peaceful person by nature, with a weak stomach for violence to boot, Åre couldn’t bring himself to carry a weapon, but he did purchase a whistle and a can of pepper spray, along with a fake beard and dark sunglasses to conceal his identity. On wikiHow he watched self defense videos. He told no one of his plans to visit the dealer’s residence.

Amply equipped, he set off the next day on the Línea B – end of the line, San Javier. From there he began the steep climb up a favela littered hillside, toward Aurora. Despite his attempts at disguise, Åre quickly learned what everyone else already knew – he did not blend in. Walking through the barrio, a six foot three white shaded Jesus drew a lot of attention. Women scowled at him. Men pointed and laughed. Children ran up to him like he was some sort of underage Santa Claus. They pointed pistols at him and plugged away. “Bang, bang, bang!” Walking uphill along rickety wooden steps, he felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were upon him. He quickly became lost amidst his maps, and rifling through the massive stack didn’t exactly ease the attention he was receiving. Jokes and insults were slung his way. He didn’t understand much, but the words gringo, guevon, sapo, and marica seemed frequent to their tongues. A sympathetic youth, no doubt sensing his fear, approached him saying, “si me da una pistola, yo mismo lo cuido.” Åre, unable to understand, waved the child off. “No gracias.”

In and among the multicolored clapboard houses he wove, with each step losing himself further amidst the urban jungle. Abandoning all pretense of subtlety, he began to ask for Hernán by name – a name which everyone here seemed to know. “Hey, Marijuanero!” they chided, or told him to fuck himself. Some just nodded up the hillside, or pointed, or asked propinas. The foolishness of his errand began to dawn on Åre, evidenced by the beads of sweat on his brow and thick on his palms, which quickly turned his maps to mush. He was in the process of tangling with them when he saw a familiar face. “Diana!” The maps dropped to the dusty ground.

There she was, unmistakably, as beautiful as he remembered her. She furrowed her brow and tried to ascertain the identity of the bearded man before her. Åre at last remembered the costume, and pulled it down around his chin, removing the glasses as well.

“Ar?” The Swede grinned broadly. “You remember me?” “Claro. Que estás haciendo aqui?” “Busco a tí.” “Buscas para mi? Y eso?” Åre gathered up the little spanish he knew. “Fue mi destino. Tu eres mi destino.” Diana, accustomed to being pursued, dug her dark eyes deep into him, as if to assess the precise level of crazy contained within him. “Como me encontraste?” Åre showed her the paper with her brother’s name on it. I was told to look for - “

“Hernan!” Diana was looking wide eyed past Åre’s shoulder. “Yes!” Åre said excitedly. “That’s how I found you. Through your brother Hernán!” “Ar?” said a familiar voice behind him. He must have looked ridiculous turning to face the newcomers with his fake beard still long around his chin. It was Mike. He was palming his scalp in frustration. “What are you doing here dude?” he hissed. “I came to find Diana.”
“I told you I’d take care of it when I finished my stash!” “That was weeks ago!” “Shit, what do you want me to do? I’ll smoke faster next time! Oh, speaking of which, can you help me out? I owe Hernán twenty bucks.” Åre scowled. “I’m not going to pay for your drug habit!” “You really wanna piss off Hernán while you’re mackin’ on his sister?” Åre looked at Ana’s brother, who was exchanging some choice words with Diana. His face was red and the veins were bulging from his neck.  Frequent gestures were made toward Åre. “He does look pretty intimidating.” “Are you kidding, he’s like that Mexican dude in that Tarantino flick.” Åre peeled a couple bills from his wallet. “Alright.”

Mike approached Hernán with the money. At this point Ana had begun to argue back, hair flying in all directions, fists clinched tightly. He waited for his opportunity to interject, fidgeting nervously somewhere inside the waistline of his sweatpants. Neither he nor Åre could follow the conversation, but Hernán’s intentions became fairly clear when he pulled a switchblade from his pocket and took two steps toward Åre. Diana did her best to hold him back. “You’d better go,” she yelled to him over her shoulder.

You heard the lady,” said Mike, slinking off through the slum. Åre would not be pursuaded so easily. “I’m not leaving without you!” he called back. Hernán, still spouting choice slang, gave Diana a shove, and she stumbled backwards. Åre ran up to steady her, catching her arm and pulling her to him. “Come on, let’s go!” Ana pleaded. Åre gave a quick assessment of the situation. By height, weight, and wingspan, he had the advantage on the dealer. Then again, his fighting style most resembled a toddler in tantrums, plus Hernán had the pig sticker, which of course negated any ups he had on the dealer. He spun his heel and ran, dragging Diana close behind.

“Left,” came her panting voice, warm in his ear. “Right. Down these stairs. Watch out for the dog shit” (this too late). “WOOF!” “Watch out for the dog, too.” A big black pit bull had plastered himself against a stretch of chain link, torn between the strategies of trying to jump the fence, or chewing through the holes in the chainlink. Åre didn’t want to find out which he’d chosen. “Down that alley!” Åre was practically carrying Diana at this point.

They barreled down a windy cobblestone pass, rich with graffiti. “I think we can stop.” Åre held up, and the two fugitives gasped for breath. “What was that about?” “My brother no like no boyfriends of mine.” “So you’re saying you want me to be your boyfriend?” Diana smiled. “Novios.” Åre couldn’t contain his goofish grin. His mind raced to calculate the maneuver most likely to earn him a little action. The sound of voices down the alley startled Ana, and she pulled Åre into her. Their eyes met. He leaned in to lips he’d long fantasized of kissing, and just as they were pressed together, Åre’s pepper spray went off in his pocket, filling the air around them with a thin and noxious haze. The couple split and began to retch.  Tears streamed from their eyes, and somewhere beyond the haze the figure of the little boy Åre had met earlier came into view. “I told you you should have got me a pistol.”

So that was how Diana and Åre finally came together, bonding over the pain of pepper spray. She was as beautiful as he remembered, as beautiful as he’d built her up to be in his mind, and for the next few days he didn’t let her out of his sight, relishing in that beauty. She could see that he was love drunk, and played it with the right balance of restraint and reciprocation. They did their best to communicate, having a laugh at each other’s efforts, but most of the communication came as short, empassioned whispers amidst a tangle of pillows and sheets, and her long, night black hair. When they had exhausted all words and themselves, she told him she had to get back to her family. Her mother, chronically il, needed her help around the house, and her borther, chronically jealous and overprotective, would track him down and kill him if he knew what they’d been up to the past few days. “Yes, but my fitness teacher would felicitate me,” Diana said. “Fitness instructor?” “Yes, I have to stay in this shape,” she answered, rising from bed to stretch, accentuating the point that she was, indeed, in shape. “I want to be an actress, a model maybe, I don’t know.” Her dark eyes gleamed with a far off gaze that she presently batted down with long lashes. He pulled her into him in bed once again, and squeezed her tight. “Well I think you’re the fittest,” he said. She took the compliment with the calmness and grace of one well accustomed to receiving it often, then pushed him back and rose to put on clothes. “And you are neglecting of your work for me. I must go. Chau mi amor.” She blew him a kiss and he watched her go, then fell back to bed in a lovesick daze.

It was true, of course. In both searching for Diana and finding her, his work had been neglected. And now, as he sat down at his desk to an overwhelming list of unread emails – feature rerquests, bug reports, A+B analysis, he still could not focus on the task at hand. He spent a large portion of the time watching his inbox for news from her, tracking her down on Facebook to follow her activity in hopes of a mention of himself. Instead there was a Shakira video, a comment on a party she’d be attending soon.

Ana noticed. “You’re on that thing all day!” She slapped his back with a dish rag. “You’d think that was your job. Administrator of Facebook.” Whatever you find on there will do you no satisfaction in real life you know, good or bad.” She was right, of course, but the thought of life proceeding as normal for Diana without him in it filled Åre with anxiey, so he turned it off and turned his attention instead to the piles and piles of code. But as he looked at them now, they seemed as foreign to him as the Spanish language. So close to the end, yet his project came to a grinding halt. He took to making ascii cartoons – little drawings from ones and zeros on the page. “That’s Stewie!” David said in awe, walking in on one of Åre’s latest creations one day. “You like it?” “It is a work of pure geniusness my friend. I would like very much to print it out and put it on my wall. You will do this, as a friend.” Åre nodded. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been watching a few of the episodes from your hard drive.” David laughed. “Haha, I told you, did I not? Hilarious!”

When again Åre saw Diana, more than a week had passed. He had done absolutely no work of consequence, and his superiors at Svitzertech were beginning to complain. Åre himself was paler, thinner, having not left the house, not left the computer, for so much as a sandwich at the nearby corner store. Upon seeing her face at the door, he seized upon her. “Mi amor, como has estado?” he asked.

“Not so good mi amor. My mother is not well.” She cast her sad eyes downward. If there was one thing Åre couldn’t bear, it was seeing his lover sad. “What happened?” “She had to go to the hospital.” A sniffle. “What can I do?” “Well…” she said, looking up slowly. “the bills are so expensive…” Åre had his wallet out by the time she’d fixed on him with her best puppy dog eyes. “You’d do that for me?” “I’d do anything for you,” Åre said. And this was, unfortunately, very true. Diana threw herself at Åre in a flood of praise and kisses. “And your brother?” he asked. “He still wants to smash your balls.”

This became a pattern, more or less – Diana would disappear for days, weeks, then reappear to be with Åre. The time she spent grew shorter and shorter, as the list of money woes grew longer. Doctor bills for dear Mama Torres, an alternator out in the family sedan. Money for Hernán’s recent court case, a cousin’s sister’s wedding. Åre couldn’t pin down with statistical probability what everyone else could see in plain view.

“She has your prick wrapped around her ring finger, my friend,” said David one day. The roommates were sitting down to a rare supper together. Ana was at the stove, and Åre was lamenting Diana’s latest misfortune, a school loan reneged for lack of proper paperwork. “What should I do?” he asked. Ana raised a “you should know better” brow. He looked at Mike. “It’s like Kanye tells it man, ‘I ain’t sayin’ she’s a gold digger…’” “You should demand her to show receipts for these things!” said David. “and if she cannot, you should lock her in your room and refuse her sexual activity.” “You should not piss off her brother, is what you should do,” countered Mike. “He’s the only hookup I’ve got.” “You should not listen to these two bobos,” Ana said. “You’ve been blessed with a perfectly good head and heart, listen to them.” “And she does not mean listen to the head of your penis!” said David.

It wasn’t the money that got to Åre so much as the dynamic between the two of them. He felt truly that, while Diana didn’t mind taking advantage of his generosity, she did enjoy being with him, or at the very least, she enjoyed the idea of being with him. However, something had changed, and changed quickly. The awkward moments spent struggling with each other’s language had lost their endearment – the limit to the depths of their conversation had hit a shallow bottom. The silences were once filled with amorous glances and unspoken words were now filled with empty space.

Ana bore witness to its toll on Åre. He’d taken up drinking, apparently. Bottles of wine began to pile by the waste bin. Åre slept in later, and when he did awake, often it was to head straight to the computer for Family Guy marathons – headphones on, office door closed. The software deal was in peril of falling apart, and the company’s entreaties to him went unanswered. “We have no choice but to seek the counsel of other developers,” they wrote. Delete. He shoved the computer off his desk in anger, and it shattered to the floor.

“I have an idea,” Ana said. She was sitting on Åre’s bed, in which he lay face down – stuck in the nowhere haze between wake and sleep. It was well after noon. “Ungh?” “Why don’t you and Diana go do something fun. Something new.” “Like a vacation?” “No, doesn’t have to be. In fact, something simple. Something around here. Something cheap.” “Diana doesn’t like cheap.” “Just because something is affordable doesn’t mean it isn’t fun.” “Like what?” “I don’t know, go to a museum, to Bellas Artes, Pueblito Paisa, whatever. This is a beautiful city and you’re not taking advantage of it. That poor girl is probably going out of her mind with boredom, and I’m sure that you are too.” Åre nodded. “Sabes que, there’s a cool place just north of here – Parque Explora, near the Autónoma. They have an aquarium with great big fishes, and games, like science games, and there’s this one where you can race an elephant, or a cheetah, or - “ “It sounds like it’s for children.” “It’s for the young at heart. Besides, I need you out of the house today. I haven’t been able to clean your room for weeks because you’re always sleeping when I come.” Åre was skeptical. “Just mention it to her, see what she says.”

“Do you think I am a child?” she said. Åre backpedaled. “No, I wasn’t trying to -” “Just because I don’t go to a fancy school doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” “I know you’re not stupid.” “Then why are you trying to take me to a children’s…science fair?” “I’m sorry,” Åre said. “It wasn’t my idea.” “Whose idea was it?” “Åna.” “The housekeeper? You talk about her to me?” “I didn’t say anything! She was just trying to help.” “She is just… celoso.” “She is not!” Åre said. He was surprised at the edge in his tone. Diana flinched. Åre softened. “I’m sorry, but we always do the same things. I just thought you might be getting bored. Don’t you ever want to get out, surprise yourself?” “My life has enough surprises right now mi amor. Let’s just go eat. If you want to try something new, maybe you could take me to that cute little restaurant down on Republica, the one with all the old records on the walls.” “Recuerdos.” “All my friends have been asking if I’ve eaten there yet.” Åre nodded. “I’ll go get my shoes.”

After they’d eaten and Diana left for that secret world in which she spent the majority of her time, Åre took to wandering. He couldn’t bear to return to the house and admit that he’d been unable to get Diana out of Envigado. At Santander he came across an old pickup truck stalled in the intersection. After helping to push, the driver insisted on treating him to a bottle of ice cold beer. In Parque Bolivar he watched with amusement as a child ran frantic through a field of fat Botero sculptures, dodging amidst wide pedestals and chubby limbs, chasing bubbles which filled the air from the wand of a vendedor. The child would leap at them and catch them in his mouth, wiping the soapy froth of one and then chasing tirelessly after the next, like a fish after poorly tied bait. He swam away through the sea of pedestrians and Åre eventually lost sight. On Carabobo a fight broke out, and hundreds of onlookers took sides and cheered. The police came presently and whisked them away, and Åre wandered onward. By the time he returned to Envigado, it wa well into night, and the center square pulsed and swayed. An old timer, bent with age and too much Guaro, attempted to stumble out a too-fast Salsa step. His attempts to beckon a female partner fell on unwilling ears, and so at length he plucked out Åre, who let himself be spun into the Paisa’s stutter step. The crowd had a laugh at the mismatched pair, and Åre couldn’t help but join them. All around he saw the life and love he’d been expecting solely from Diana. Yet here it was free for the taking. Åre drank it up (and drank, and drank, and drank) and didn’t stumble home until the morning’s early hours.

He awoke to a world far more still than the one he’d left last night. The pain in his forehead rose as he did, and as he wandered to the ktichen for some water to wash away the pain, he stopped short. On his desk, the computer he’d thought he’d rendered scrap was sitting perfectly assembled. He pushed a button and it fired up. On the desktop was a note.

ÅRE – TRY TO PUT AS MUCH LOVE INTO THIS MACHINE AS YOU DO INTO YOUR RELATIONSHIPS AND THERE SHOULDN’T BE ANY FURTHER PROBLEMS – ANA.

He browsed through his files, all intact as he had left them. He stared in awe at the part of his life he thought he had destroyed, then around at the house, as if Ana might be lying in hiding behind a couch somewhere, ready to surprise him. All was still. With nothing left to say or do, he turned back to the computer, and opened up his project. This time, the code just came to him. Whatever cloud had stormed his brain had now been suddenly lifted, and the missing pieces to his puzzle began to come together.

He was in the same spot, two days later, putting on the finishing touches, when David and Mike came in the door. “Wow, it’s noon, and you’re awake.” “Ana fixed my computer.” “The maid?” David said. Mike slapped David across the chest. “See bro, I told you” “Told him what?” “Haven’t you noticed that chick is crazy about you?” “You mean she likes me? Ana?” In the circuitboard that was Åre’s brain, a dormant switch was finally activated, and all the current began to finally flow along the proper circuits. “You don’t think she – that we could - “

“She totally wants to swab your Switzertech!” said Mike. “This definitely goes above and beyond the duties of a common house servant,” David said. Åre was frozen in disbelief. “Anyway man, good to see you up and about. You look a whole lot better.” “How’s the project coming?” asked David.

“I think I’ve got everything figured out,” said Åre.

Diana came a few hours later. “Glad to see you two are playing nice,” she said, shutting the door with a knee, her arms around a bag of groceries. “How did you do it?” Åre asked. She grinned. “I’m studying computer engineering. This is a hobby of mine.” “Yes, but this – this thing was…I didn’t know you-”  “Ay, mira, Åre, you are very smart. But there’s a lot you still don’t know about. And I happen to be one of those things. Anyway, how’d it go with Diana? Did you go to Parque Explora?” “No…we went to Los Recuerdos.” “Ooooh, fancy.” She pulled a container from the bag. “Well, today all you get is Sancocho.”

Åre waved the notion off. “Not today. It’s your turn to get treated right.” Ana set the bags down on the counter and blushed.“ You’re going to take me out?” “It’s the least I can do.” She set the groceries on the counter and smiled. “Alright, let’s go.”

Finally, in Åre’s mind, he flipped the pencil he’d worn thin writing Diana’s name. Erasing two letters, D and I, left the one thing that could balance all the equations, his complex formulas and risk assessments, personality tests and moral checklists. The answer had been there the whole time. “Thanks, Ana, for everything.” “Somebody needs to treat you right. Now come on, let’s go. I’m starving.”

“Maybe afterwards we can go to race some cheetahs.” “You want to go to the park? I thought you said that was just for kids?” Åre grinned. “Today I feel like one, I guess.” “I was going to say it seems like you’ve finally grown up.”

“Only bombs here these days are the ones I sell on these sheets,” he said, in the deep scratchy voice that seemed typical of his profession. On queue, a child ran up and purchased a sheet of black polka dotted paper and ran into the swarm of parentless children, instantly becoming the most interesting kid in the square. He fought off greedy hands and guileless entreaties, and tore a piece off the paper, running it against the rough brick surface of the square until it caught spark. He held it on the tps of his fingers and ran a wild circle around the square until it crackled and leapt from his hands, spinning and spitting bright amber flames that assailed and absconded amidst the contrast between lamp light and the dark of night.

Watching this he shook his head and peeked between the fingers that covered his eyes, not wanting to witness an unfortunate accident, but unable to pull away, if solely for the look of surprised delight on the children’s faces as the fireworks leapt to life in their hands, the sporadic giggles that rose and were swallowed by the ranging bangs. Pop! HahahahahahaHAH! Pop pop! AHHHHH! Repeat.

“What are they?” he asked the vendor. The man pulled a leaf of paper from the stack and handed it to him. He was surprised at its weight in his hands. He could see that the circles were raised, the source of the weight. He scratched the rough surface and raised a brow. “Gunpowder?” The vendor nodded. “You’re selling sheets of raw gunpowder to six year olds?”

“Better on this paper than in a gun.”

“Cheers to that,” he said, and took a swig of his neglected beer.”How much?” 

“Cien por dos. Una página por mil.” It was cheap. “Fuck it, dame una página.” He purchased a sheet and went out into the middle of the square amidst the children, thinking all the while that in the states, he’d at the very least be labeled irresponsible for such behavior, and at worst be sued for whatever ensued. He made a rough tear of one circle and ran it across the ground. On the first attempt it did nothing. On the second it sputtered and died. The oldest of the children couldn’t resist, and ran up to the man. “No, no, es así” he said, and grabbed the paper from the man. He took the tear and ran it several times quick and light across the stones, then once hard and long, upon which it came to life. He watched it burn toward the center, then let it drop with practiced timing. It hit the pavement and bounced and danced, a dizzy twirl that flamed out far too soon for either of their liking.

They looked at each other and smiled. “Bien hecho.” “Me ragalas uno?” The man tore off two squares and handed them to the child, then set off to a corner, a child now himself,  to practice what he’d been taught. This new attempt brought an instant flame, and an impish grin to the man’s face.

Word had spread of his generosity, and the children came now in waves, arms outstretched and fingers pumping, junior zombies with a per in their step. They encircled him and talked in an incoherent collective jumble, but their purpose was clear. They wanted a cut. “Me regalas uno, me regalas uno, me des uno?” His supply was quickly dwindling. He purchased more and the plaza came to life with sound and spark. Across the plaza he spotted a loose brick and had an idea. He retrieved the brick and tore a stripe of gunpowder circles which he folded one on top of the other. He placed them on the ground beneath the brick. He then pounced upon it and did a pirouette, which sent a shower of sparks spinning in all directions. The children froze in slack jawed awe then cheered, running and dancing through the spitting embers. He caught the eye of the vendor, whose turn it was to raise a brow. “You teach them that they’ll learn how to make a bomb soon enough.”

“Just a friendly exchange of information across cultures is all.” He surrendered the rest of the sheets to the children and returned to his spot at the vendor’s side, watching as they wrestled for squares, then for the brick. A tug of war ensued. “Okay, maybe not so friendly.” A skeptical look now from the vendor. “Hey, better in that brick than in a gun.” “Better doing this than watching cartoons and playing videojuegos.”
“Some things never change.” “Some things do.” He nodded. “Some things do.”

Sparks and rained and shouts rang and Cartagena shone under a befitting light. They celebrated all and nothing, well into the night.

As their day begins, the night draws to an end for others, stumbling in from Casco’s cobbled streets in varying degrees of drunken stupor, varying shades of love, and lust. These most likely have a place to hang their hat, if they can find it. Some will end up on the newly vacated couches, some will find their way to the beds of others. The toilet might be where the more vicarious partiers rest their head. They’ve consumed the Casco nightlife to the very last drop.

Six and seven are the quiet hours. Eight is when the searchers start to rise. They’re the ones who pour through guidebooks, who keep journals and jot down notes. They want to see that not a minute gets wasted, not a landmark missed. They’re usually short on time and long on funds. Their knowledge of a place is extensive, their memories survive in carefully catalogued digital photos and meticulously maintained journals – well documented and distributed on the internet. It is their preciseness and care for culture which spreads the word of places like this, facilitating travel for others. If they knew that, would they still do it?

Ten, eleven brings a rising stream of activity throughout the house. I welcome the noise, the stories of the night that passed. Newfound friendships and hazy, lazy camaraderie. The crowd at this hour does not think in terms of minutes and seconds, miles and days. Time and distance are just a single dot on the horizon – the day they must return to whatever life they have escaped. Their appetite is as ravenous as their passion for unadulterated life. The kitchen noise rises to an arrhythmic clamor, the counters quickly covered in egg yolk scatter and pancake batter spatter. The less prosperous travelers steal away an egg or two or slice of toast to help get them through the day. It’s okay.

As afternoon rolls around the common areas are full and the heartier revelers have at last risen, slugging big mugs of slag coffee to help ease the pounding in their heads, penance for last night’s partying. Beds vacant and bathrooms empty, I earn my karma cleaning up in their wake. Here an indiscretion, there a mistake.

One o’clock is Q&A. I sketch a familiar map of Casco’s streets, reciting a familiar tale of where to go and what to see, delineating in red the barrios best avoided. I’ll trade a book or two, a story, maybe flirt with a foreign girl, and then my shift will come to close. Tomorrow night it begins again. New faces, new stories, a few fast friends. I hope one day that I’ll be them and they’ll be me. I long to know another country. Until then I’ll just pretend with my comrades. My family.

The presence of light behind the clouds is enough to wake them, stirring, rolling, still swaying from currents long since past. Out of hatch and hole they arise to a world quite new. Low slung clouds are rising too, parting like a curtain call, the sun the star attraction. Layers move in parallax – sea and sand and cloud and sun, and far beyond the fading stars – golden flecked, hide-and-seek. Sonar sounds, bouncing down, bring reports from the world below.

Here time is not measured in minutes and hours but tides and seasons. The tide is the taskmaster. When it raises its heavy hand it’s time to move along. But now’s the time to drink it in, lest the sea’s display be wasted on an empty audience. Anchor’s aweigh, and for today, they’ll claim the Comarca as their home.

It was planned then, that I become a sailor. My father taught me all he knew. He had an instinct for the sea. When the wind was about to shift, he could feel it. When the boat came close to shallow waters, he could hear it. “It sounds shorter,” he would say, and steer the boat to safer waters. He knew every star in the sky and steered by them, telling me their stories on nights I could not sleep. He taught me everything he knew – everything but instinct – not because he wanted me to become a great sailor, but because he was immersed in it, because it was the only thing that occupied his mind.

If sailing was his thing, then, I’d like to think free diving was mine. My father and I would compete to see who could dive the deepest. We’d tie weights to a hoist to lower ourselves more rapidly. The weights would carry us as far down as we dared, as we kicked our legs as fast as we could. I spent the better part of my youth watching his silhouette descend far below mine, and made a promise to myself to one day best him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when it finally happened.

We were diving off the coast of [NAME], in my father’s native England. I’d grown very familiar with the feeling of burning lungs, and very tired of losing. As we dove, I focused my eyes as far down as I could, and told myself to not let go until after my father had. I forced myself to ignore the depths to which we were diving. I banished the thought of how I would return to the surface. I only thought about holding on to that weight as far as it would take me.

Five, ten, twenty meters. They passed like seconds to me. At twenty five meters there are [POUNDS} pounds of pressure pushing down on your body. The need to equalize that pressure inside of you is constant. You lose all sense of orientation – up and down and left and right seem all the same. The feeling of self doubt can overwhelm you. And that is what I saw on my father’s face as I passed him by. A look not of defeat, but something helpless and scared. I reached a depth of thirty meters. We never dove together again.

So I was to become a sailor, and the passage from Panamá to Colombia was to be the way I’d earn my keep. I’d stay in business thanks to the Darien Gap – a stretch of jungle where the Panamerican highway ended and guerilla territory began. With no way to travel overland (save with a big machete and an even bigger pair of balls), most backpackers chose to sail to the San Blas islands, where they could clear customs easily, then on to Capurgana or Cartagena or wherever the captain’s chosen port might be. I’d advertise at a few local hostels – four hundred dollars for five days at sea, and give a small kickback to whichever hostel filled the seats. But first I had to find a bigger boat.

My own, the Watusi, was one I’d purchased from a New Orleans man who’d gathered a sizeable debt and a pregnant girlfriend during his time in Mexico. In exchange for paying off his debts (a few thousand dollars) he’d given me his boat, albeit in a rather sad state of disrepair. Once fixed it was a beautiful craft – simple and light and fast, but only fifteen feet. To carry enough passengers to make the trip pay, I would need one at least twice that size. 

Luckily around that time, I had the good fortune of meeting Conny. Not only was she the best navigator I’d ever come across, but she was also very charming. When I told her about my plan, she agreed to help me get a boat, on the condition that she be allowed to come along. At port in Cartagena, she’d manage to meet a fellow Austrian whose boat was wasting away in the harbor. Without having ever sailed with us, he offered his boat in exchange for half of the profits. “I’m looking for a bigger boat anyway,” he said, as if he were ready to give it up for gone. So we took the boat. Lutine, it was called. Thirty five feet long, and twice the normal weight of a boat its size. I didn’t like it that much, to be honest – it had been designed for the comfort of passengers than for the actual act of sailing. But we quickly schooled ourself on all of its quirks, and how to use its size to our advantage.

We set sail from Cartagena on the promise of just two passengers – Jean Paul and Catarine, a couple of Canadians. By the time we landed in Puerto Lindo, a pretty harbor a few hours from the Atlantic end of the Panamá canal, we’d gained another two – an American couple, John and Alex, which would pay the passage back just barely. Although we’d promised to set sail straight away, Conny managed to get them drunk and convince them to wait just one more day.

Sure enough, that netted us our last three passengers. Two irish boys and a Norwegian girl. They’d met under a similar state of intoxication and decided to sail on a whim. And so we had a full crew – a strong one, after all that. There was no reason to think the voyage would go anything but smooth. They were good natured and able bodied and had a general respect for the sea. We shipped out that night and set sail for San Blas, where we promised them two days of relaxation before the long and bumpy trip across the Caribbean.

The San Blas islands belong to Panamá, but are presided over by the Kuna Yala tribe. The Kuna hail from mainland Panamá but were forced to the islands when their tribal practices were suppressed. There they were given some degree of autonomy, as well as three hundred and seventy eight pristine islands, sometimes nothing more than a patch of sand and a palm tree. I intended to someday see them all – I convinced Conny to let me use some of the money we made from the trip to build us a sailing dingy. I had it all planned out – I’d build it out of balsa wood and fiber glass – about eight feet long and light and fast, perfect for skipping around the islands. But that dream of course was all for naught – this trip would be the last sailing I would do.

To call the passage from Colón to Cartagena “sailing” is a bit of a misnomer, I suppose. There’s not much wind at all through that corridor, so we leave the sail down and run the engine most of the time. The boat is loaded with gas and oil – the Lutine gets about six knots to a gallon, and the trip is a good [TWO HUNDRED TWENTY] knots. Sailing makes for smoother waters, but without wind, what can you do? With the current and a little gust the Lutine will luckily make six or seven knots an hour.

So we spent the first night motoring. The crew swapped stories and got to know each other, while Conny and I took shifts at the wheel. We made better time than I’d anticipated, and so at two in the morning I cut the engine. The crew awoke in the morning to a sunny and blue San Blas.

Breakfast on the boat isn’t much. Muesli, mostly, with bananas in condensed milk. They ate as I remember eating the first time I awoke to the islands – quiet, respectful, appreciative. San Blas has this air about it as if it might stay this way forever. There are no grand plans by the Kuna to develop it – no luxury condos or deep sea dive operations. Just the sand and the trees and huts and coconuts, of which the Kuna are very protective. They say each and every coconut is spoken for – signs are posted on the islands as a warning. Other than that you can come and go as you please – the exact same atmosphere I wanted to create aboard the boat. I didn’t speak too much on safety – I kept the life vests out of sight to keep their minds at ease. Conny took each person aside and explained the intricacies of a pump toilet – five in, ten out, two times through, but the other matters we left to them. The kitchen was open, the bunks unassigned. People were free to put their things in any compartment they chose. We had a bin for scuba gear, a stereo for music, and a cooler for beer – one dollar a can. We’d settle all accounts at the end of the voyage.

Jean Paul took to the water almost instantly. He was a good diver and a strong swimmer, and most of his time was spent with only his snorkel visible above the sea. Occasionally he’d return to the boat with some new curiosity – a starfish, eel, or conch. I told him we could cook the latter and showed him how to get the creature to quit its shell. Drill a hole just above its spine, which scares it out into the open where you can kill it quickly. Jean Paul struggled a bit at this, the conch’s fluids spilled all over and he managed to scrape the paint off the middle of the deck, but we finally managed to get it out. Conny chopped it up and made ceviche – tomatoes, lime juice, onion.

Jean Paul’s companion, Catarine, was content to sit and smoke and read. When she talked it was mostly of books and music and trendy things which were unfamiliar to me. The Norwegian girl, Turi, was young and bored. She had no interest in sailing – more in drinking beer and working on her tan. When another boat of sun tanned Aussies anchored next to ours, she quickly abandoned ship. We didn’t see her for a day. One of the irishmen, Seamus, didn’t take too well to sun – he was lobster red and fishbelly white, with a big smile always on his face and a witty reply for any conversation. He spoke great Spanish and listened well. He passed his time on the boat without a care. It was the other two men, Conor and John, who seemed the most keen on learning how to sail, which Conny and I could both appreciate. “The world needs more young sailors,” Conny always said. It’s mostly full of the old elite, despite being suited more toward youth – adventurous and physically demanding, and economical above all else.

Conor seemed the best candidate for sailorship. He was unhappy with his current work, strong, if a bit clumsy, and full of questions that only sometimes came off too intense. He was constantly asking if we’d raise the sails, to which my answer was always the same. “If there’s enough wind, I would love nothing more. But there’s never any wind.”

The American, John, was the oldest on the boat, but with an energy exceeding that of all the other crew. He was last to bed and first to wake, mischievous and easily distracted. He asked me after breakfast if he could climb the mast. I suppose I probably shouldn’t have, but the gleam in his eye convinced me otherwise. I gave him a harness and cautioned him on the foot pegs. They’re made of fiber glass and can really rash the skin. He cinched himself in and Conny belayed and he was quickly on his way.

Climbing the mast is fairly simple – the biggest obstacle is your own imagination and most people can’t seem to stomach that. Other than that, there is the halyard, which can trip you up if you don’t climb to the proper side, and of course, the foot pegs, which must be folded out as you climb and in as you descend. John had no hesitation with these though, he climbed quickly, if a bit haphazardly. At the top he threw an arm around the mast, and with the other hand fumbled around with the velcro of his swimsuit pocket. I heard his girlfriend say “Oh God,” as he wrenched his camera free. She buried her face in her Spanish book to distract her from the scene above. “Be careful,” I heard Conny say, a phrase she seldom uses. There was a gust of wind, the rattle of rope, an “oh fuck” and a gutteral groan.

I ran to the front of the boat and saw Conny dangling a few feet off the ground. John was suspended sideways, holding his camera in one hand, and wearing a big grin on his face. “I got it, sorry,” he said, and somehow righted himself. When he made it down his smile had not faded. “It’s like seeing heaven up there,” he said.

We made John give us copies of his photos for all the trouble he’d caused. Conny wanted to use them on the website, and one of the photos was really quite spectacular – a panorama in which was visible the boat of the president of Panamá. I hadn’t even known that it’d be harbored here. I still have the photo he took of Conny too, standing on the deck and smiling up – she looks sun tanned and strong.

Before sunset, I took a few the crew to one of my favorite spots to swim. There’s a shipwreck there that you can swim under and in and through. Coral is just beginning to grew on the hull and if you climb to the top you can dive into the ocean.

Alex was having trouble with her mask, a screw was loose and water and fog kept getting in. I helped her adjust it and she was off – I remember being impressed at how well she swam. She seemed unphased amidst the wreckage, and when she pulled herself above the water her eyes were wide like a child’s. “That’s so awesome,” she huffed. It made me smile. I thought back to when my own dives moved me as much. She perched herself on the rusted prow and gathered the nerve to jump. I have to admit she looked beautiful standing there, with the sun shining on her dark skin and the look of wonderment on her face. When I think of her now, it’s this fading image that I cling to.

She sucked in a breath, and stepped and screamed, and splashed down below the surface. Her figure disappeared beneath the shadow of the boat. After a minute, concerned, I looked into the water, but couldn’t see a thing.

“I wanna do that again,” her voice echoed from somewhere below in the hull of the hip. I breathed a sigh of relief. We spent the rest of the day at the wreck. Alex didn’t let on until later that she’d stepped on something while diving. Coral maybe, or rusted metal, or maybe a jellyfish sting. But by nighttime you could see the mark, a dark purple blotch surrounded by red. She talked it off but I could tell it was bothering her by the way she walked across the deck.

Conny cooked my favorite dish that night, and Jean Paul brought out a camping lantern which we hung from a brace underneath which we ate. Seamus had put on Irish songs and got us all to sing along. In his enthusiasm, Conor stepped right through the styrofoam cooler, and with nothing else to keep them cool, we decided to drink all of the beers. Nearly everyone got drunk that night – a handful stayed up until four in the morning. I remember Catarine vomiting off the aft deck in the morning, and Seamus was out of commission as well.

John, of course, was the first one up, despite having slept only a couple of hours. When I arose I saw him speaking with some Kuna who had rowed their boat alongside ours. He was handing them a wadded coat from out of which was spilling coffee. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, when I looked at him confused. “I couldn’t find anything else to put it in.” And then, to elaborate, “they asked for coffee and magazines. Alex had a Spanish Cosmo…the Jacket was theirs, don’t worry…I figured since they were letting us borrow their islands, the least I could do is give them coffee and Cosmo.” I laughed. “Relax. I could use your Spanish when buying fish. They may look tribal, but the Kuna drive a hard bargain.”

We ferried the boat to Porvenir. Connie and I had to take care of the passports. We left for shore in the dingy and let the crew sleep off their sickness. I showed John where the reef extended, where, with good luck, one could find lobsters underneath the rocks. “If you cach any, we can cook them for dinner,” I said. Then, reading the expression on his face, “they don’t have any claws, don’t worry.” I bid him good luck and took my leave.

When I came out of the immigration office, everything had gone completely wrong. There were shouts coming from just offshore. The anchor had slipped and the Lutine was encroaching in on another harbored there. The owner was using some choice French curses to yell at what looked to be Jean Paul. The Canadian could only stare and shrug.

I sprinted for the dingy, and caught sight of a movement from the corner of my eye. It was John, out by the reef, waving frantically and shouting something I could not understand. He pointed at the boat, and in my haste I assumed he was warning me of that which I already knew. I jumped in the dingy and fired up the motor, setting off toward the Lutine. By the time I’d calmed the Austrian down and moved the boat toward safer anchor, John had swam nearly half the distance toward me, and I could see his face, drawn and pale.

He was still shouting, and turning circles, as if he were lost at sea. As the anchor chain came to rest, I could finally hear what he was saying. “Is Alex on the boat?” His voice was thin and gasping. I looked on deck and saw nothing. I peeked my head below. When I came back up I saw it – a hot pink snorkel drifting through the shoals. It followed an all too familiar pattern in the current, and I realized then what had happened.

I dove off the boat and swung into the dingy, setting off toward the diverless snorkel. I scooped and John along the way. He was having a panic attack. “Oh God, Oh God,” John said. “She was right beside me.” “I know where she is,” I said. We pulled up to the site of the snorkel, at which point John became hysterical. “Oh God, where is she? I told her to wear her fins. She said her foot was hurting…she was right beside - “ the rest of his words dissolved as I dove, following the rip to its inevitable point of escape.

Riptide occurs when an incoming current meets with a reef or eddy. The water shoals and is forced sideways until it finds an exit, at which point a strong current issues outward, back toward the open ocean. Swimming against a riptide is like being on a treadmill.  A good swimmer knows to swim sideways, or tread water until the wave subsides, but an inexperienced swimmer will get stuck there like a hamster, trying to fight his way back towards what he thinks is safety, until he exhausts himself or swallows too much salt, and eventually succumbs.

I found Alex at the ocean floor. Her face was frozen in a familiar expression - not helpless or scared, but surprised at her defat. My head was filled with my father’s lessons, “at fifteen meters the body has neutral buoyancy.” I cradled her body and hauled her upward, thinking of John, afloat and blind and helpless amidst the endless cresting waves – as just beyond the reef his lover’s last breath escaped.

My lungs burst as I broke the surface. He ripped her body from my grasp and set upon her frantically, pounding her chest and breathing wasted breath into her watery lungs. I led the dingy back silently, all emotion in me strangely dead. There was nothing left for any of us. I begged John to let us take her body on shore at Porvenir, but he was insistent that she “finish the journey” - that all of us finish what we started. “She would have wanted that,” he said. And so we sailed, all of us eager to get to shore as quickly as we could. A heavy rain set upon us that night, so the rest of the crew stayed below decks as I steered. Behind the wheel, eyes set upon the storms on the horizon, I eventually succumbed to sleep.

Although the sea was ill at ease, it was to sound, not motion, that I awoke. An arrhythmic banging, hard against the mast. Behind the sail and in front of the sun, two silhouettes were suspended in open air. The one was Alex, harnessed in, head dangling back and looking toward the sun. The other was John with the belay rope around his neck, eyes looking toward the sea. That look will always haunt me. I took to the winch and brought them down. We gathered the crew and said some awkward words.

The day brought an uncommon wind which pushed us perfectl toward our port and soothed the rough and angry sea. A fleet of five small birds had tracked us, seeking shelter from the rain, and came to rest on the rigging. Not sea birds, by the looks of them, and nearly eighty miles from the nearest patch of land. They stayed with us on our silent passage, and took their leave as the old stone walls of Cartagena came into view.

These days I sit and watch the sea from the safety of dry land. If someone sees the longing in my stare, or asks what happened out there, the only answer that makes any sense is the one my father ingrained in me. The sea has plans for us all.