Lillys in Colombia, S.A., 1968 part II
School started in September for our children, then in the third, fifth, seventh and tenth grades. They went by bus at 7 AM to the Colegio Bolivar, a school where only English was spoken. Ninety per cent of the students were Colombian. It was out in the countryside and each classroom had only three walls. The space for the fourth was completely open to the outside. Some of the teachers were Americans Mormans doing their missionary duty.
School was hard with lots of homework. Robert failed French and Mark was teased a lot about his thick glasses. Our spirited Laurel told us years later that she was tied to her chair on several occasions to keep her still. Catherine adapted well, made good grades but still felt lonely at times of trying to fit into teen-age cliques at the school. Both girls learned to speak Spanish very well.
Another Rockefeller Foundation wife, Pam Gordon and I signed up for a class in the History of Colombia. This helped us learn Spanish more quickly because the professor was fascinating. We sat in class, catching maybe half of what he said, and marveling at his expressive face, his gestures, and his aristocratic bearing. We wondered what he said that was so compelling, so tragic or so funny. The students listened carefully but took few notes. He is from one of the old families in Popayan. His uncle was president of Colombia and he had been governor of Cauca Province and ambassador to Spain.
One day as we went to class, posters and banners hung everywhere. “Action Popular” “Yankees go home!” “Down with Yankees!” We heard the students chanting and marching in the corridors of our classroom building. Pam and I hastily went into our classroom. The students looked a little sheepish when they looked in and saw us there.
When Professor Madrinan arrived, the students came into the classroom and tried to persuade the students there to join them. Professor Madrinan said they could go if they wanted to, but they elected to stay. Later they did come back again and he dismissed class. Pam and I never felt in any physical danger but we did feel a bit queer being part of a group that was denounced. The students were protesting the fact that several of their Sociology professors had been training Peace Corp volunteers. There was talk that there were spies for the CIA among them.
Our professor had been telling the students about the Marshall Plan in Europe and contrasted that with the Soviets taking over Eastern Europe. He called Americans “innocents abroad”. Colombians have long memories, however, and I learned their version of how Panama became a country. It was part of Colombia until the time that the U. S. wanted to build the Panama Canal. Our government felt that Colombia was asking too much money for the rights to build the canal, and fomented a rebellion of the Panamanians and dealt with them for a lower price.
Pam and I, our consciences were stricken by the dirty ragged boys in the street who begged for food or money, volunteered in a Catholic orphanage near where we lived. We went there three days a week and helped with crafts for the younger children. This orphanage had a most peculiar “door”. Half- way up, there was a circular platform built into the door. It could be turned like a revolving door. Poor mothers who could not care for their babies placed them on the platform and turned it so that the babies were then inside where the sisters in the orphanage would raise them.
A trip down town was an adventure. The streets in Cali were crowded all the time. If an unpleasant odor assaulted your nose, it was probably an open air market that sold meat, sausage, ribs, and chickens. Boys sold pineapple slices, tangerines, grapes and oranges. A barefoot man goes by, pulling a large cart piled high with burlap bags of used paper. Indian women sell herbs, hand woven and beaded articles. They stand with their spools spinning as they wait for customers.
One time I was walking slowly, looking for the bus stop when I saw people looking at me more intently than usual. Suddenly a teenager grabbed my gold watch off my wrist and ran. I screamed. It was almost as if I didn’t know where the screaming was coming from. I screamed, “Ladron! Camisa amarillo!” (thief, yellow shirt). Many people ran after the thief and I ran, too, losing one of my shoes. I was surprised when I found the thief with his arm twisted behind his back by a tall strong Negro. He gave me back my watch and marched him off to the police. I was lucky. Having things stolen makes a person angry more than anything. All in all that year we lost a wallet, a camera and a rug which was snatched off our balcony.
Easter week was a special time, especially in the neighboring city, Popayan. Its old colonial buildings and churches have been well preserved. They have a tradition of taking the statues out of the cathedral and bearing them on ornate platforms in a solemn procession through the street. It is a hereditary family honor to be one of the eight men who carry a particular statue on their shoulders. The procession is held at night. We were part of the crowd who held candles, and watch it go by quietly.
– Mary