Semana Santa, Part 2

The first week of vacation I spent at home with the girls. As the days got sunnier, we started hanging out up on the mesa. Natalia was the one who first showed me the mesa around a month ago. She and Patricia took me on a bike ride to show me around their pueblo, and we ended up on a little dirt road, heading to the highest accessible point in the village. As we got further from our development, the houses started to look more rustic, more like how I imagined a little village in Spain would look.

We turned down a little street, passing the corner store and a little market. Laundry was hung out side the windows of the short houses that lined the streets. As the street turned to dirt, the buildings that lined it turned to pastures. Soon we were heading up a steep hill, at the top of which was a sand soccer pitch. Behind the field, there was yet another hill, although we would have to carry our bikes up this one. Natalia and I raced up it, ignoring Patricia’s protests. We got ourselves and our bikes to the top of the hill, and I was delighted at what I saw: a rocky footpath leading to who-knows-where. I looked over my should to see Patricia clambering up the hill behind us, disinclined to wait alone at the bottom.

As soon as Patricia made it up, Natalia took off down the trail, shouting “Oh my god – dis is going to be the best adventer hever!” The girls had decided before we left to speak only in English. Patricia and I followed. The trail skirted the edge of the mesa, and soon opened up to one of the most gorgeous views I have seen. The edge of the trail was made of cliff-like rock faces, jutting out every once in a while. I could see a little tree growing on far side of the mesa. Behind it rose ginormous snow-covered mountains in the distance.

One afternoon we went up to the mesa to play soccer with Natalia's best friend, Alvaro. The pitch was enclosed by a chicken wire fence, behind which rose tall, rather oddly placed bushes. Behind them we could hear the sounds of other children playing.

- “OYE!!!” Natalia shouted to them. “QUEREIS JUGAR CON NOSOTROS?” Want to play with us? We waited for a response from the shrubbery.

-“QUE SOIS HIJOS DE PUTAS!” You guys are sons of bitches! Wait. What? “TU PADRE ERA UN CABRON, Y TU MADRE ERA UNA PROSTITUTA!” Your father was an a**-f*****-b****, and your mother was a prostitute. And that was how a war of insults began, a group of slightly dirty children emerging from behind the greenery. One of them, a girl who looked to be about 7, had the voice of the chain smoker, and began to make fun of my Colgate Univ. sweatshirt.

- “Por que llevas esta sudadera de pasta de dientes?” Why are you wearing a toothpaste sweater?

-“Es una Universidad,” I replied.

-“NO ME IMPORTA, INGLESA!!” I DON'T CARE, ENGLISH GIRL. To that, Natalia stuck up for me. “Ella no es inglesa, es Americana, bonita,” She's not English, she's American, honey. That riled the little thing up even more, and she began to screech out swear word after another, past the point of sounding like a lunatic. Patricia and Natalia however returned them, and with relish. Finally, I made the executive decision to leave. On the walk home, I asked them why they didn’t just ignore those kids.

-“Porque si alguien te insultas, hay que insultarle!” Because if someone insults you, you have to insult them back. Of course. "Pero no digas nada a nuestros padres..." But don't say anything to our parents... And that was the lesson I learned over spring break.