One month until my two-year South America adventure ends

On the evening of Wednesday 3 July, I’ll jump in an Uber which’ll ascend the steep hills blanketed with buildings in Medellín, until those home-covered hills become green, green mountains, and the tunnel through one of those mountains takes me to José María Córdova International Airport, where I’ll board a plane to Colombia’s capital, Bogotá, and, mercifully not long after, another to Heathrow. 

Two glasses of red and 10mgs of valium later, with a collar sodden from my own saliva, I’ll walk through those arrival doors and into the arms of my mum and lovely stepdad, unfailingly there after every long haul flight I ever make (about 14 so far!) to wake me up, bring me home and spoil me far more than I deserve. 

So will conclude two of the most formative years of my life, at the grand old age of 42, when I thought the time for things to be formative was probably over. 

It certainly was not. 

And now I know, poundshop philosophy as it sounds, you’re never too old to do something formative, as you keep reinventing yourself; as you keep shedding the chrysalis.

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I didn’t plan to blog today but I discovered a cafe that did baked eggs so good I got an instant semi, and just necked down a lavender latte with two espresso shots and this, it turns out, was enough to inspire me. Then I saw the date, and felt reflective with one month left. It also gave me license to put off the gym.

Two years ago, I couldn’t speak a single word of Spanish outside of ‘uno mojito por favor’ and today, I’m proud to say, I can speak literally five more.

From my checkered journey with learning Spanish (I remain committed to this lifelong Spanglish journey) to all the hard bits and the compensatory rewards, my overwhelming feeling, almost two years in, is one of immense gratitude - that I’ve been able to live in a time (and body) in which being a digital nomad has made it possible for me to work anywhere in the world with strong WiFi and stronger lavender lattes.

I’ve deliberately often blogged about the harder times because, well, they’re funnier. They’re more fun to write, too - I’m about a billion times more likely to write (or read) a negative Google review or below the line comment because they’re more engaging. Writing here about the rewarding stuff feels a bit smugly self-satisfied, but the rewards have definitely been there. Many of them (in terms of personal growth stuff) I reckon I won’t even reap till later down the line when I reflect and tell stories round dinner tables. Plus, I’m British. We fucking love to complain. In that pass-ag polite way.

The harder bits probably sound a bit scary when I tell them together here. They’re isolated incidents, true, but they tell a narrative of the reality of what it’s like to live somewhere when you’re a baffled digital nomad, as I remain. 

For example, two weeks ago, I was punched by a (female) sex worker (the confronting, busy red light district here is next to the gay scene) who was furiously confused as to why I wouldn’t hire her. She pulled my arm back and, as I wriggled it away with a cat’s arse grimace, she took offence and punched me in the arm! I power-minced out of there quicker than you can say ‘it’s Madonna night at Chiquitas.’

As I write this, I’m intermittently stroking a bump on my head. That’s because, last week, when feeling a bit lost (which, as I often say, is the whole point of travel - it’s healthy to sometimes feel lost), I decided to do something which unfailingly makes me feel like myself again - I booked a bicycle tour. I’m always happiest on two self-powered wheels.

We stopped at a town square dedicated to the sculptures of Fernando Botero, famous for his celebration of voluptuousness. The cycle guide (who was so hot I immediately planned our spring wedding, then forgot all about him by 6pm) gave us 15 minutes to have a wander. And that 15 mins is when I got clobbered round the head!

Some bloke intent on selling me something approached me and was trying very hard to get my eye contact. I was warned about that here - when you open your wallet to help they’ll see the money inside and find a way of getting the rest of it. Or they might get you to sign a petition, then rob your phone while you’re distracted. Yesterday, in the LGBTQI WhatsApp group, a man posted that he got a Grindr hookup round, but two men burst in and, as one held him down to his bed, the other tried to rob him, which was not the pinned-to-the bed experience he was after. I say tried - he overpowered them, got to safety and they didn’t make off with anything; gay power! My point is twofold - one, this is another reason why I rarely have Grindr on my phone, especially here, and two, Medellín and Colombia in general abound with these warning stories.

So it’s within that context I completely ignored this guy - just fully didn’t engage and pretended he wasn’t there (just in case you don’t know what ‘ignore’ means). He took offence to this and started raising his voice. The power mince resumed at this point, this time at a pace as if Madonna herself was around the corner (actually, I never want to meet her, but that’s another blog). By 30m or so away he was shouting, and suddenly, THUD! He’d picked up one of those massive hard tree seeds, lobbed it my head and - credit where credit’s due - was a very good shot! For the first time making eye contact with him, he was looking at me right in the eye from across the crowd and I could make out the gist of what he was saying in Spanish: Never fucking ignore me again.

I was actually too embarrassed to tell the cycling guide with whom I was briefly in love.

I’m not yet retiring the Adventures of a Baffled Digital Nomad - with a title that concise and catchy, how could I?

Plenty of retrospective stories up my sleeve to tell you - from my night in the world’s biggest gay club to my trip across Argentina.

With a month left, I may stop being a South-American based digital nomad, but I’ll continue to be one in Europe, with lots of upcoming adventures planned. 

Hopefully, though, in my home continent, I’ll be ever so slightly less baffled. 

**This is a reader supported publication. Your donations keep me writing! Do consider a paid subscription, if you’re able to afford one**

PS - here are five words I never thought I’d write: I’m dog-sitting this week!

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