Intercultural gesticulation

I was feeling kind of underwhelmed anyway.

I'd been down under for two weeks with The Diplomat without feeling like I knew what Australian 'culture' was. I figured Hugh Jackman, fit and frisky on a surfboard, might do the trick.

The beach: the answer to all cultural mysteries.

I'd missed my beaching opportunity on the east coast because god was punishing the nation for selling it's soul to Oprah the month prior.

'Oprah's Ultimate Australian Adventure' probably sounded good to the tourism board at the time, but do you really want thousands of middle-aged Angel Networkers asking for the nearest Outback Steakhouse and telling Aboriginals how to live their best life (according to this month's edition of 'O')?

Anyway, I couldn't blame god - it was all doomsday floods and hurricanes on the Great Barrier Reef, so westward ho!

Beach bag full of SPF and David Sedaris, I waited for Number 411 to take me to Scarborough Beach, outside Perth. As the bus came rambling down the deserted roadway and I stood up, taking my bag and walking three feet to the 'Bus Stop' signpost, money in hand - exact change, thank you!

I believed these efforts to be obvious international signals for 'I'd like to ride your bus! And - I will pay!'

I watched the bus approach. I saw the driver look at me. And then I watched the bus sail right past.

What the effy eff?

I then did what every woman ignored by a man does. I ran after him.

I caught up at the next light, breathy but willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I had already learned direct eye contact in Australia does not equate acknowledgment of one's existence.

I rapped on the door.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the door.
He kept looking, indifferent.
I pointed to myself, then the door, then made an 'open' motion.

He shook his head no and put his hand up in the air, waved, then pointed at me and shook his head again.

Wave? He wouldn't pick me up because I didn't wave?

It was quite a change coming from free-wheeling South America, where the designated bus stops are wherever somebody wants to get on. No Latino - or accompanying farm goat - is left behind. Waving optional.

I furrowed my brow, rolled my eyes sidelong, stomped a little for effect, then mimed my ascent from the bus stop bench to the bus stop sign and flopped my hands forward in an appeal to just let me on the damn bus already.

This is what Oprah's soulless Australia had reduced me to: a temper tantrum with a public servant. A'la charades.

At this point, all the other passengers became interested in our mime-off, and I'd like to think some asked him to just open the door for this nice foreign lady who maybe had a wave impediment? But the driver wagged his index finger at me, the international sign for 'I am a patronizing figure of authority and you are not.'

The light changed and he left me standing to brood in a viscous bisque of irritability. This is the Ultimate Adventure? Somebody get me a koala to hug, stat.

I changed my strategy and made a complete fool of myself, again, flagging down the next 411 with every limb and digit flopping in the air. I also changed my ticket to leave Australia a week early.

After all that, Hugh wasn't even at the beach.

FARC and Circumstance

Second-hand danger stories are always annoying.

Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.

And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.

And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...

They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.

Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...

They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?

All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.

For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.

The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.

Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.

And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.

But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.

Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.

The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.

The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.

Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.

I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:

* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread

Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!