ON PAISAS: MEDELLIN STEALS MY HEART AGAIN

A SILLETERO AND
HIS FLOWERS

Last week was Feria de las Flores, the Flower Fair, in Medellin, Colombia.  It is a week (and a little more) of celebrating the richness of the agriculture of the Antioquia region, especially the cultivation and distribution of beautiful flowers.

This metro area of more than 3.5 million people fills with tourists from around the world during the festival. Unfortunately, this is also a time, as in any large city, when also travel those folks solely inclined to take advantage of those from out of town.

On Wednesday, while traveling on the Medellin Metro transit system I was the victim of a pickpocket.  The crowds were huge in each car and, despite closing the button on the pocket holding my wallet, the constant bumping from side to side and crush of humanity enabled someone to take what was not his.  

Sunday, the porter at my building called me and asked if I had lost some papers.  I said yes.  He said someone is here.  I rushed down stairs and I noticed a cart in front of the building.  It was the cart of a recicladore (recycler)  See more here: Help Women in Colombia.

THIS GROUP OF RECICLADORES INCLUDES TWO
WOMEN, WHO, I SWEAR, WORK TWICE AS HARD
AS THE MEN

At the porter's window was a small, older, round woman, bald except for a few wisps of hair.  She had two business cards of mine on which I had handwritten the address and phone number of my apartment in Medellin.  I asked if this was all.  She nodded to me no.

I went outside to meet her.  From a place hidden under her shirt, she handed me my wallet.  Though the $200,000 pesos in notes and the local Metro card were gone; my credit cards, debit cards, Veterans Administration identification, Florida driver's license, blood donor card, Medicare card and more were still nestled inside.

YES, THOSE ARE REAL FLOWERS.
YES, THOSE ARE SILLETEROS CARRYING THEM.

I had mentioned to a friend on the Thursday after the theft that I received a telephone call the day before from a woman, but I could not understand all she said and she told me she would call me later.

This beautiful woman, now standing outside my building, told me she was the one who had called...from Plaza Botero, a park located many miles from my apartment in Barrio Laureles. She then apologized to me for not being able to speak English to me, in her country.

I hugged her tightly, gave her a big kiss, told her how thankful I was, and I gave her a reward...I am sure the amount was more than she had earned all week from the hard, backbreaking work she performed in this huge city.

She left quickly with her cart. I am sure to return to work tomorrow morning. And, then, it dawned on me.  She had walked those miles...through the rain of the last two days; through the heat of the days before.  And, for those who know Medellin, this city nestled in the Andes Mountains, her journey to me was only up hill from the center of our city.

LUNCHTIME FOR THIS
WOMAN?
IT COMES AMIDST THE
RECYCLABLES

This paisa, this woman who works harder in a day than any ten gringo men in a week, walked here because it was the right thing to do.  She walked here because she found something that belonged to someone else. She might have thought there could be a reward, but she had no guarantee of one and she did not ask me for even a centavo.

She did it because she is "paisa." Perhaps only paisas know what that really means. Gringos like me only know paisas because of the fictional character Juan Valdez, of Colombian coffee fame, the prototypical paisa. See more here: Paisas on Wikipedia

For those who wonder why Martin keeps returning to this city of contradictions, this tale tells you all you need to know.  Who would not want to be close to this woman of the streets, this beautiful PAISA.


NOTE: I have written well over 100 pieces for Martin's Musings. This is the first time I cried while writing a story.  While the USA deals with idiots like Donald Trump talking down to women, women here show me what it means to be human...and, what is real work.