Wherever I looked, my surroundings were beautifully green and vivid, but also uncomfortably humid and stuffy. A constant, light drizzle insisted on falling as we made our way towards my friend’s grandmother’s old finca. As I was climbing the steep, rocky path with my black backpack stuffed with clothes, two books, a Bible, and several other things on my back, and carrying a heavy bag full of kitchen utensils, first with my right hand, and then with my left, all the time I was singing the habanera “Mare, Vull Ser Pescador” in my head. Sometimes I would forget myself and even sing out loud. “A un poble de pescadors, entre el mar i la muntanya…”
I have no idea why that particular song was stuck in my head. I was going up a Colombian hill, and the surrounding area, steep, grassy, rocky and alive with different sounds and colours could hardly remind me of the seashore. It was too far off that picture. However, on I trudged, short of breath and sweating, or glowing, as my Mum would say, under the layers of extra clothes, but happily murmuring “Mare, vull ser pescador, vull ser pescador i no frare, que sóc fill de pescador, i malgrat el teu dolor jo tinc les venes salades… mare, vull fer-me a la mar, mare, vull fer-me a la mar, i que em bressin les onades…”
No one seemed to mind my breathless humming.They probably didn’t hear it, anyway. Everyone was too busy carrying their load and minding not to slip.
Such a walk! Such an experience! Still, the most vivid memory of it all, besides the spectacular flowers and the exertion of that loaded twenty minute trek uphill, was singing that song and wistfully remembering the beautiful, lulling sound of the foamy waves crashing on the shores back home.