First part of the Easter Holiday

Last week, being Easter and all, saw millions of Colombians swarm to church (that is the catholic church of course) in order to beg forgiveness for their otherwise sordid lives. Well it kinda seemed like that with everyone being the picture of innocence and lily white virginity, at least until the church service was over and the drinking could commence once more.

I was lucky enough to head into the nearby countryside with some mates who had rented a cottage close to a small town called San Jeronimo. The weather was bloody good out there and we spent a couple of days soaking up the rays next to the pool and laughing more than I can remember doing for years. It is possible that this was because of the alcohol being consumed at all hours.

This is Tamarind country with every kind of sweet thing you could imagine!

This little town is very close to Santa Fe which is where I was a couple of weeks ago with some other mates (my adopted mommies in Medellin). Both towns are built in the old Spanish style with the church and plaza in the centre of town. You really have to remind yourself that you're not somewhere in the south of Spain because the similarities to those towns are striking.
Santa Fe is undoubtedly the more popular of the two and this is where loads of Paisas (the word used for people from Antioquia) from Medellin head for the Holy Week. When I first travelled there with Paula, Juan Pablo, Clara and Cata, we spent a relaxing afternoon watching the sun slowly sinking behind the mountains that encircle this little colonial town. I destroyed another Bandeja de Paisa which is a traditional meal from these parts made up of Frijoles (beans cooked slowly for almost a full day), chicharron (kind of like crackling but thicker and with more fat), carne de rez (beef steak) with a huevo (egg) on top, chorizo, arroz (rice), patacones (flattened plantain), ensalada and an arepa (maize flat bread) on the side. Not for the faint hearted I can tell you. This is almost always consumed with a selection of juices made of Lulo, Papaya, Mango, Tamarind and at least ten other fruits that I still don’t know. I loved it but walking was tough afterwards.

This is Bandeja de Paisa. Yummy!

This link is a good one to check for an idea of the kind of food and drink you get here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuisine_of_Colombia

There is loads of info on the fruits, soups, meats and booze (I.e. Aguardiente, Ron, etc.)

Chilling out after lunch in the plaza of Santa Fe

As the sun dipped further behind the mountains we stopped at the nearby and famous wooden bridge called Puente Occidente (Western Bridge). It is quite an impressive structure which still takes traffic and spans the massive Rio Cauca. Colombianos are quite proud of this engineering feat and why not!? Its kinda strange standing in the middle of it and feeling it sway and shake with the wind and cars. Like all the rivers here Rio Cauca is large and mighty impressive. Africa has some biggies but they really do not touch this continent for sheer size and power.

The Medellin Mommies, River Cauca, Antioquian countryside and some views of Puente Occidente

This time around my trip was with Ruben and the two Natalias who I had literally met two days before. Ruben is another one of the geologist crew (and a sick salsa dancer) who I have met here in Medellin. He recently returned from a two year stint in the UK. Chatting to him has made me grateful for having an SA passport, which I would have never have thought possible before. There are only 4 countries in the world which do not require visas for Colombians!

Ruben and I in front of the church in Santa Fe

Nati Number 1..always close to shops and markets.

Nati number 2 in her natural environment...pool side!

Their mates and significant others made up the rest of the group travelling to the country cottage which they amusingly all refer to as a farm. Maybe farms are different back home but seriously, a house on an average sized stand in a fenced off resort with a pool is not a farm. What the hell do they farm with? Grass and empty beer bottles? Anyway, shopping was all done beforehand and a worrying proportion of it was made up of 2.5 litre bottles of Aguardiente, beer and that devil's broth known as Ron de Medellin. Yuck. Something that I had not seen before are the wildly popular litre boxes of booze being sold over here. They look identical to milk cartons at home (like Everfresh I think) and are obviously made for rapid consumption. I mean it is kind of strange to see apparently good 3 year old rum being sold in a box? Damn near killed me the first time I took one of these cartons out of a fridge, thinking that it was milk for the tea I sorely needed, due to another pounding hangover! Imagine the horror!

Having arrived at the cottage it quickly became clear that this group was made up of the rich local kids. Paisas generally have quite an inflated opinion of themselves compared to the rest of the country and feverishly hold onto all the things that somehow make them different to other Colombianos. This includes their accent (which I am apparently picking up...in Spanish!) and the general perception that Paisa girls are the best thing since sliced bread. It also means that some serious stereo types exist where the ladies and gentlemen over here generally have very specific roles to play. Think of your average Pretoria braai with more makeup and drinking. The ladies make the salads here too! I had a good laugh listening to some of them referring to people from other parts of the country as 'garbage' and generally making sweeping statements about everything from Africa to the local football. The girls had such a strong Koogal accent that it was like being in a Spanish Sandton and the fellas pretty much sat around and plotted around what they wanted to do next. I laughed really hard at times as this was almost as strange for my friend Ruben and Nati as it was for me. At stages the ladies all sat around me and giggled uncontrollably as they tried to teach me more words that would make me undeniably Paisa. I was also incessantly questioned about what I thought of Paisa girls. I generally tend to get mighty uncomfortable at questions which really only have one 'correct' answer that is at odds with what I really think! The cackling applause to my answer seemed to signal that all was ok though. It must be said that once again the levels of general friendliness and warmth were unlike anything I have experienced outside of this country.

The cottage / farm trip gang

Its really strange to be in a place where many cities are literally and quite famously rated according to their women?! The other day I was telling someone that I was maybe going to another town called Pereira. The immediate response I received was that Pereira girls are the easiest in Colombia and I kid you not that every response after that was exactly the same, from girls and guys alike! Must be tough being a girl from Pereira!? I do think that very similar comparisons exist in parts of SA but I reckon that I was lucky enough to personally not have too much exposure to that, due mainly to the places I liked going to and more generally the people that I was close to.

Beer and Colombian Cafe in Santa Fe!

Santa Fe at night with some of the bustling markets

It was good Friday on my second day in San Jeronimo and we moved off to Santa Fe for some late afternoon drinks and to watch the Holy Procession of those guys who look like scary KKK druids. Damn frightening I tell you and made worse by the sickly looking Jesus and Mary that are being carried around with them and the haunting music that this bit piece band plays during the procession. The town is beautiful at night though and everyone had a calm happiness about them which was great to be a part of.

Quite a sight as thousands line the streets for the procession

Yeah this looks a little scary...better not to provoke these fellows

I wonder who washes their robes? Quite impressive really, but is it Mary or Jesus?

One of the stunning Churches in Santa Fe!

I enjoyed the spectacle and we returned home that evening for a massive braai and loads of merriment. I tell you, it was super close to home for me with the meat sizzling away and the drinks flowing. I could almost hear Hugh Bladen’s drunken rugby commentary in the background! Everyone made sure that plenty photos were taken of me supposedly showing off typically Colombian attire and accessories.

Just like Home!

New mates and my Sombrero!

I must confess to knowing very little about what is going on here

Sombrero, Hammock and box rum...distinctly Colombian!

After dinner a pack of cards was produced and a table cleared for the serious business of drinking games. I was already quite tanked at this stage, but the confidence was there and I was sure that I could prevail in these circumstances. Once again I underestimated the Colombian ability to imbibe alcohol. This was also made worse by the games being played in Spanish. This friendly lot actually offered to speak English but I was far to stubborn for that and told them not to be ridiculous…in Spanish of course. At one stage we all had to count and, my abilities now impaired by alcohol, I was taken to the cleaners as maths and counting in another language all became just a tad too difficult for me. Presented with my first tumbler of rum that I had to throw back, I naively asked for a chaser. I was literally handed half a lemon to suck on if required. This was serious stuff and I rolled up my sleeves and silently resolved to take this game by the scruff of the neck as it was now becoming a matter of survival. My head was swimming and I could feel that name-throwing was minutes and not hours away. I picked up my game but was still shown up far too often to really make a recovery. Next a game with cards and 8 spoons was revealed and this became even more complicated. I tell you, the laughing was hysterical at stages and the tears were literally streaming. The vast array of games was impressive and thoroughly enjoyable even if it was interspersed with further revolting shots. I wish I could remember more of them! Obviously my condition was deteriorating and I looked around to see if others were at least struggling somewhat. It seemed like it but I couldn’t be sure. I quipped to Nati, who was sitting next to me, about how roasted we were, so that I could gauge some sort of a response. She replied that in Colombian terms this was getting tipsy. I went cold with fear and it took some minutes for me to accept that I had been thoroughly routed in this battle. I went to bed (first!) about fifteen minutes later and almost broke my neck as I repeatedly tried to get onto the top bunk bed that was assigned to me. Outside, the raucous laughing continued unabated until 6:30 in the morning!

Another Colombian pastime...riding a saddle minus the horse.

The spoon drinking game...absolutely ridiculous!

The next morning, or early afternoon, we headed back to Medellin. A great time was had by all and I thankfully had started to develop a tan again. It has to be said that I was not really contributing to conversation in the car as I hid behind my shades and Ipod, trying desperately to string a thought together. I guess I’m finding it tough to accept that I am now some sort of a geeky foreign lightweight.

Musings

I recently started reading some poetry by the famous Chilean, Pablo Neruda (Nobel prize in literature - 1971). Its called El libro de las preguntas (the book of questions) and was given to me by someone who knows me very well, better than I would even admit at times.

The publication’s introduction by William O’ Daly, immediately grabbed my attention, as it referred to things like ‘revisiting the deep well of perpetuity’, ‘radical trust in the quest to know himself’, ‘by vocation seeks the roots of belonging’, ‘beyond rehearsed patterns of thinking and feeling’, ‘when we run in place’, ‘what we learned was forgotten so that we might learn it again’, and ‘only he can rightly accuse himself of being many men, of never knowing “who I am, / nor how many I am or will be.” It struck a chord with me at a time when my own questioning process felt more like a desperate wheeze than a righteous roar .

Surely one of the greatest challenges I face, when running my life’s race, is to not look behind me or around me at where everyone else is. After all its not really a race is it? That is tough and no man is an island as they say, but I’ve learnt more and more that life is filled with much that is temporary and only our fear (sometimes panic) convinces us otherwise. That being said, we surely shouldn’t let the fear of change or the pain of loss hinder our ability to embrace, love and cherish that which is still there and more importantly, what is still to come.

We’re all kids when it comes to facing the unknown. I can see it in the old man who shakes and trembles uncertainly at the supermarket check out, for instance. His already dented pride evaporates in the daily challenges which he used to skip over without a second thought. Never could he have imagined asking for help to pick up a packet or suffering the humiliation of having to ask twice about the price of what he is buying, seeing as his pension won’t cover what the till flashes brightly for all the other shoppers in the queue to see. I see the same trepidation in the small girl on the Metro, from the poor Barrio on the edge of town, wide-eyed and questioning her acceptance amongst richer classmates, based on what her working class mom can afford for her to wear. So it goes, over and over again. I see all the everyday cycles, as the poor work harder for their kids to have a brighter future and the rich kids squander their gifts as poverty has now overtaken their hearts and minds.

When we get shoved onto the path of this involuntary journey, I believe that all of us have the key that unlocks our ability to feel all that pain, loss, insecurity, loneliness. To feel it all, and to move forward without carrying it with us, while still having allowed it to affect us. Problem is that when one feels a certain kind of pain for the first time, the fear of it often becomes bigger than the pain itself and hence, we carry a little piece of it forever so that we can always remember and ensure that it never happens again. Some of us carry more than others and when we do, that drowns out the spaces in our hearts which could be filled with the wonderment, love, and exhilaration, but also the pain and sorrow, of the here and now. Very much like the passage on Happiness and Sorrow in The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. The choice then becomes about whether we would rather feel less in general than risk more of the moments where there is pain in the same form as that which we felt before. Here I must add that I really don’t think many of us consider the pain that we have not felt yet. Moreover, we also surely wouldn’t last very long if we knew what lay ahead in advance, right? Life is certainly not a bed of roses and within the smaller lifetimes that I seem to have navigated up to now, I am often struck, in the reflective moments, by 1) how much harder the experience was than I could ever have imagined and 2) how I would never have made it through had I an inkling of what lay ahead. Climbing Kilimanjaro is a great analogy here. That in itself should be encouragement for what we can cope with though.

So how does the questioning thing tie into this? Well it really boils down to whether we are optimists or not. Let’s use the analogy of walking along a previously undiscovered jungle path, for instance. Walking, in this instance, is analogous with a healthy outlook on life and a general openness to that which comes across our path. We are thus always moving forward. It implies security in oneself (to maintain a healthy attitude towards the journey and the unknown) and a level of introspection (which allows for us to see what the path offers us daily and to question how it affects us). We have a small bag with us (our heart). We then might come across something beautiful along the way, if we‘re lucky. I reckon that we mostly are, and that it’s a question of seeing rather than luck. Anyway, it fits neatly in the bag and we hastily (or sometimes carefully) stick it in there along with the couple of other belongings we hold dear. Bear in mind that family are generally sewn into the seams of the bag, but they tend to take up space nonetheless. This is important to realise seeing as some of us are blessed with bigger bags than others.

Seriously....I carry this thing with me everywhere!

So, you keep walking and as you do it becomes obvious that what is in the bag affects the way you walk and starts to literally make an impression on you. That’s the bit we can’t really change and control. But, maybe some way down the line you start to see new things and what you find beautiful changes, or maybe what is in the bag starts going bad cus it was never meant to be carried around anyway, or maybe your bag just starts to get a little heavy to carry and you realise that if you want to keep walking, something is going to have to stay behind. This is where the choice and the questioning comes in. Can you, in other words:

1. Question yourself to the extent where the reality of these scenarios becomes something that you can accept?
   
2. Consciously make the necessary choices e.g. to leave something behind?

Here it becomes important to clarify that leaving something behind often means that the space in the bag will still be there and the impression on you (e.g. the way you now walk) will be there possibly forever (not always)?

Not half full yet

You see, being affected and holding on are two different things, in my book. Being affected is like coastlines getting affected by the sea. The impressions can stay there forever, but the elements which affect us never go away, so that, at some distant point in the future you might only see a small crack where there was once a gaping crevice, violently torn open by a stormy sea of the past. Hardly anything is permanent as long as the weather keeps changing. Holding on is like the gambler sitting at the roulette table, nervously counting his last chips and consulting his magical sheet of scribbled paper, as if it will now tell him some illuminating truth that it was not capable of doing 10 minutes ago. This then, is where the choice comes in.

Do we carry that something with us, even though it could mean that we have to stop walking, or that we become ill from it having gone bad (or vice versa) or through our own sadness? Do we hold on until the effect is nothing but crushing and painful? Sometimes we hold on so long that what is in the bag can never exist outside of it again. Sometimes we choose to break off pieces to make sure that we carry something tangible with us forever. This however, means that what was in the bag can now never exist as a whole again and we can also never really put anything else in there either. Sometimes we actually do choose to never put something in the bag again out of fear of the same thing happening. We keep an empty space in there and we learn to only look at our feet as we try to become blind to what we are walking past. We then often carry the bag as if it were even heavier than it was before, even though it is now empty! All these scenarios result in a hindrance which often times extends beyond ourselves and has a kind of chain reaction with everything linked to our bag and ourselves.

Sometimes we’re just plain lucky and something fits in there so well, that it becomes part of the seams and material of the bag too. It grows with us and may even make us stronger. It might become so light (supportive, constructive, positive) that we scarcely remember we have the bag on, and quite often (life seems to work in this way) the space inside becomes even bigger. A good sign to me. What many of us forget though, is that world around us and its effect is something quite personal and when all is said and done, there really was only one person who experienced that from beginning to end: You…. with your trusty bag of course. We’re born with it empty and we hopefully die with some things that have travelled a part of the way with us.

When we are free of carrying the bad stuff, and that which we have only affects us positively, we are able to merrily skip along, sticking all manner of other weird and wonderful things in there, as we unashamedly and spontaneously swap, share, collect and take in treasures from our fortunate path. If your bag is open then something can either fit or not. Horrible scenarios do exist where people don’t have something in their bag but something bad still hangs onto some part of them like a nasty parasite. The bag represents the essentials and everything else hanging on you is unnecessary and often destructive. That does not imply that interaction with the world around us does not take place and that we do not gain from many things that might not eventually end up with the essentials.

Look out cus you could be missing some treasures along the way

During this journey there should be no need to close our bag or protect it because everything in there is plain to see, and the effect of anything new can be handled because the choice to hold on is never taken away from us. That gives freedom to what is in the bag too. You’d have to agree that a prolonged outlook like this would certainly result in a fairly interesting and distinctive walk! This is because we do not fear the path or what we encounter / pick up. The ultimate choice of being affected, whilst not having to hold on, is ours.

The truth is that this choice exists for us in all circumstances, but only if we let go of the fear of the undiscovered, as well as the apprehension of what we can and can‘t carry. The key is the questioning and the choice is our freedom.

Let me end with one of the poems by Pablo Neruda:

When I see the sea once more
Will the sea have seen or not seen me?

Why do the waves ask me
The same questions I ask them?

And why do they strike the rock
With so much wasted passion?

Don’t they get tired of repeating
Their declaration to the sand?

The Holy Week begins

I have discovered to my own horror that the university is completely closed this week and that means that my internet access is now restricted to internet cafe´s. This will be the case for two weeks atleast, seeing as I am vamoosing to the beach on Sunday. Not sure where. I am kind of "along for the ride".

As my good friend Tenu would say, "Its all happening at the Gabba!".

Last week I did my groin at rugby practice. I was slightly over excited and didn´t warm up so five minutes in I felt a twang and then I couldn´t run anymore. I still stayed for the rest of practice though and put in some telling hits! Even as a cripple my impact was colossal. Well I´m now out for a week or two and that is ok cus the university is closed anyway and I´m gone for a week after that. The coach cancelled our rugby tour this weekend cus we´re too horrible. He has a point and I must confess to frequently doubting whether some of my team mates passed elementary school. Not the sharpest tools in the shed....and that is tough to coach!

I finished my second level of Spanish last week and that went pretty well too. The progress is good. I am now starting to speak a lot more and with a couple more weeks of practice it should be getting comfortable. I´m able to confidently spend a night out with my Swiss-French classmate (who is picking it up a lot easier cus of the similarities with French), for instance, who can´t speak a word of English. It just feels like I need more fluency, but the speaking itself is not really a problem anymore. It´s cool to notice how you have been talking for twenty minutes, while someone else is listening to you speaking in another language!

I am today picking through the wreckage that remains from a weekend of note, but the pain felt good too!

My Salsa (and the "version" of Meringue that I attempted with that scary Mexican hussy) is coming along nicely. Ya really don´t have a choice here to be honest.

I went to a swanky part of town on Friday night where massiveness was delivered by yours truly to the point where I required a "little nap" in the taxi on the way home. I swear its only because they make you buy a bottle of rum at a time! Being African means that I just cannot bear the waste of leaving any behind!

Saturday I was fighting through the waves of nauseau when another group of mates picked me up for a concert by two of the best known Salsa bands in Colombia, happening at the stunning botanical gardens. I gagged with my first sip of aguardiente, but it wasn´t long before I was back on the horse and marvelling at my own hip-gyrating super smoothness. That stuff literally makes you hot! This dance thing is so damn good and one just gets swept along with it. Wish I had taken photos but predictably and much to the disgust of mates, I forgot my camera again. I am always doing that. Lord knows what other photos I was in though cus I often did not even know who the people were who I was posing with or taking the photos?! Must work harder on keeping a lower profile! A good time was had by all and my second consecutive 4am stint was resoundingly positive...I think.

Another little bit of news is that I am to start giving some English lessons to 3 Geoligist mates over here who are trying to prepare for that ghastly english exam one has to take before starting grad school in the states.

That is going to be it for now I´m afraid. I must run home. Be safe over the Easter and I´ll be recounting more of my recent life in the next while.

One more thing: I HATE the Super 14! My beloved Bulls....the waste of it all...

Francois Steyn breaks through - the Colombian Version!

Hola Compadres!

It has been a while I know. Such has been the frenetic nature of my life that I am now reduced to catching up on emails and making contact with you all on Saturday afternoons at the university. Yes, this is certainly sad in some ways, but it also points to a very full life that has now unfolded for me in Medellin. Not a bad thing!

This post is not going to be about everything that has unfolded in the last couple of weeks because there is just too much to write about in one go. I'm going to try and catch up between now and the end of the Holy Week (Starting next week Friday) seeing as that will be a quiet time with no classes...I hope!

Right, well onto the purpose of this piece then, namely: My 'debut' with the University of EAFIT's rugby team! Yes thats right ladies, Hilton is showing everyone what he's made of in the sport of gladiators, right here in Colombia!

I put off going to practice for a couple of weeks because i was trying to buy myself some time to do exercise and to get fit enough to unleash something close to my true potential. I exercised at home and tried to get as ready as i could before reporting for practice. Well, that possibly did not make that much of a difference when I finally took part in my first full practice this past week.

Medellin has had a sh#tload of rain in the last 3 or so weeks and the field that we practice on (something like a 'B' soccer field) was closer to a swamp than a place to practice rugby on. I attended my first practice with T-shirt and tekkies (running shoes) seeing as i had little else. Most players, upon hearing that a South African was at the practice, came to welcome me warmly and all scrutinised me carefully as if my country of origin somehow gave me superhuman strength and skill in this game. Maybe they weren't convinced instantly. Even though Colombians are generally not that big, these guys were certainly on the large side and various ogre-like fatties crushed my hand and slapped my back as I nervously scrutinised the morass that we were to practice on and waved goodbye to what used to be a good T-shirt. I'm definitely below average size in the team. Everyone wanted to present their credentials to me by either telling me what they knew about the game (e.g. 'eeeeh maaaan! yooooo weeeeenaaaaa theee worraald kaaaap! Cooool! Soowt Aaafricaaa eeeessaaa straaang no?') or by acting super tough or by inviting me to beers later or by talking tactics (?!). During the warm up laps the two or three that could speak english were trying to strike up conversation with me while I was attempting, in vain, to jump over the biggest puddles. Interestingly, I did meet a psychologist from Bogota who works with internal refugees and I'm planning to have a chat to him in the coming weeks. A good bloke!

Practice started fine and after some fitness we started playing - two teams running at each other and 'semi-contact'. Its fair to say that I was on form: breaking line with expert-like dummies, catching the kicks with consumate ease, passing crisply and drawing the man beautifully, beating my opponenents on the outside with my natural speed, coming through at pace! I wish my father could have seen it! Pretty soon I was a marked man and started getting the attention of a number of players everytime I got the ball.

It was at this stage that I started running out of puff and I was wheezing horrifically after about twenty minutes. The captain and coach then also stopped the game to discuss my obvious impact: 'eh heeeeltooon...we starta play feeeerst gaaayam theees weeekend! yooo aaaah fooooooolbak ok?'. I had to protest furiously by telling them I hadn't played in seven years (well more like ten actually) and that it would take me 2-3 weeks to get fit and hard enough to last 80 minutes in a match. The coach would not accept me missing anything more than the first game, to which I reluctantly agreed. He seemed more interested in getting my medical insurance details (actually only travellers insurance but it'll have to do) and all my contact information, including my home address! I understood later that it was to ensure that i will never be able to escape the team. At this stage cramps were setting in and I was not happy with how fresh everyone else still looked!

Pretty soon I could hardly run anymore and pride was getting me through more than any physical reserves i still had left. After my calves cramped like two tennis balls for the 4th time the coach switched me to defense cus that was supposedly easier. At this point it is important to explain that when playing rugby it is not the fatties that usually pose the biggest threat, but more the faster players, and if you happen upon a fast fatty you have real problems. Well I confirmed this old truth when a bald 100+ kilogram grunting brute broke the line and I was all that was left between him and the line. I grimly dropped my shoulders and tried to hit him in the midrif without dislocating my shoulder. To say that he bounced me about 5 metres would be an understatement! Goodness that hurt! Turns out I at least slowed him down enough for two others guys to take him down.

I struggled through the rest of practice and by the time I left for home I looked more like a brown limping and wounded swamp creature, covered in mud from head to toe. Why was I so much dirtier than everyone else? The coach and two senior players then offered to share a cab with me and I accepted the gesture. The coach wanted to see where i lived and repeated continuously how close he lives to me. I smiled weakly and by the time i got home it seemed that rigamortis had set in to my legs.

The next day I was walking as if both my legs were in splints and I'm actually still walking funny and it is now Saturday! I again went to practice the next night after going shopping for some soccer boots (the rugby variety can obviously not be found for love or money), old T-shirts, running shorts and a mouthgaurd which I found at a boxing store. I was severely hamstrung if you'll excuse the pun. More tackling happened and the glossy veneer of my first night's fame started to disappear as I got smashed in the face (another fast fatty), had two of my fingers pulled back in a ruck, bashed my knee something fearful, severely bruised my bicep and ripped one of my precious ears at the back. I started feeling like a street dog that had been in too many fights and I was viewing the other players with a one-eyed grimace as i waited for the next onslaught. No-one seemed to notice though and soon i was practicing with the run-on team. The coach gamely tried to convince me again that i should play this weekend and i just managed to get out of it. I asked one of the other player why the same guys were always having to tackle us and we always got to attack. He said that those were the 'new guys' who had only been with the team for a couple of weeks. I told him that I had been with the team for a day and asked why I was different. I got the now familiar Colombian-shrug in response with a predictable, 'Well, you're South African...right?'. hmmmm. Our first game was the next night at one of the smaller fields next to the big soccer stadium in town and I promised to attend as a show of support, although I could see the coach scheming to find ways of getting me to play.

On my first night I was also roped into a rugby tour to another town called Pereira this coming weekend. Apparently we'll be playing a number of matches and get to do the whole tour thing with a bus and staying in a team hotel. Quite cool and i'm excited to see another city.


After my second practice and once again covered in mud, the coach deposited his precious 'new signing' at home once more and feigned concern as he told me to rest. No kidding @sshole! I needed painkillers to sleep. Yesterday (Friday) was worse and even my spanish teacher was concerned at the visible bruises and scabs all over my body. I soldiered on and dragged my crippled @ss to the match. Thankfully I didn't have to play but the coach made sure that i was taking notes and acting like some sort of 2IC technical analyst.


Here are some pictures of the field for the first match:


You will notice the absence of rugby posts...I asked a team mate about this and he said that they simply 'imagine' them extending above the soccer posts. Quant!






My team is the one in blue.


Well, the team was annihilated and played pretty badly, it must be said. One guy seemed pretty good though and I asked the coach who he was seeing as i did not recognise him from practice. Turns out that he plays for the national team!


The sport here is certainly something different. I can't understand sh#t during the team talks and they have some strange ideas, but I am glad to be playing for sure. This could certainly not happen in SA and more generally I can't spend nearly as much time being active back home. That's because I walk everywhere here and public life is so much bigger and more accessible. Quite seriously, I don't think I've ever been in such good shape. The food is really healthy and fruit is something that you virtually can't go more than a day without here. It has made me realise that I was probably a little on the 'chubby' side in SA! you guys will have to wait for some other posts to see that though!

All for now and look our for more posts in the coming week or two!

PS. I finish my second course this week!