The City of Eternal Spring

by Tumi Imevbore (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Colombia

“My friend was gunned down over there.” I still remember how Julio pointed out the spot on the first day we met as though it were any other landmark. I was looking for someone who could guide me to the perfect spot for bandeja paisa - a hearty Colombian dish consisting of various meats and accompaniments. Stood a few steps above the crowd, this tour guide was reminiscent of a priest preaching on his pulpit with the yuppie tourists staring back intently like a doting congregation. He had an exuberance to him that was almost palpable from where I was sat. His gestures slightly too big for his small frame and the inflections in his voice so frequent the whole narration almost felt musical. It was strangely beguiling. As the group dispersed and he tucked his last tip into an inconspicuous pouch, I edged towards his fluorescent red t-shirt and tapped his shoulder gently. He jerked in defensive readiness and I jumped back startled at the swiftness with which he had assumed a combative stance. His wide smile now a menacing scowl and his wandering hands now two tightly clenched fists. I took another step back leaving enough space between us for the thick air. Not from the humidity, but rather from the tension that seemed tangible. He looked down and let out a quick, deep sigh. I got the feeling he had reacted like this before, perhaps even often, and he looked both annoyed and disappointed at himself for doing so. “Julio!” He said finally, unclenching his fist to wipe his sweaty palm and shake my hand. We shook, I explained my quest and he gestured the way. Not long into the walk, he was pointing things out and telling me the history behind the buildings, the vibrant murals, the street food. Without the large audience, Julio spoke with less dramatic effect. There fewer melodic intonations used to draw me in and yet I increasingly was. He was righteously indignant whilst depicting a childhood which had violence so intricately woven into the fabric of everyday life. But Medellin had changed now and Julio was optimistic. Incredibly so. As were the tourists that began to flock to his communa (neighbourhood) in droves. That’s when Julio became a tour guide. It made sense to. He let out a half-suppressed, scornful laughter recounting the number of times he’d been asked where to find ‘the best Pablo Escobar tour’. “You know, to me, it’s just like being in Germany and asking a Jew for the best tour about Hitler.” To Julio, there was no complex Robin Hood story. No nuanced take on how the drug money had helped to build the city. Escobar, whose name he never said aloud, was a hardened criminal whose narcoterrorism had cost Julio too much. We stopped climbing uphill briefly. We weren’t at the top yet but you didn’t need to be to take in the greenery encasing the city. So vast it seemed to go on till the sky began. The dense vegetation embellished with pastel coloured shanty dwellings that sprouted incongruously, and inconceivably close together. “The bullet hit her while she was standing just there. I pressed the bleeding so hard, I didn’t use my hand for one week.” The matter of fact, nonchalant way in which he said it created a strangely unnerving momentum. It was as though I were watching a film where the events unfolded and the characters and subplots I considered inconsequential were suddenly so crucial to the narrative. A reminder that all lives were for the taking at the height of the carnage. He took me on a journey into his world, a sensual array of feelings that none of the blog posts I read could have prepared me for. Julio, like many Colombians, did not seek to replace or erase Medellin’s history but to develop a new one. Medellin was a city reinventing itself with innovation and art. Flowers were not the only thing set to bloom in the City of Eternal Spring. I didn’t actually get my bandeja paisa that day. But I did, and still do, get selfies from Julio.