Pablo's Adventures
As described last week, my Colombian friend Pablo arrived in Australia at last. After years of slaving away, grafting and, let’s face it, who knows what [1], somehow Pablo miraculously saved the money to purchase his dream flight. It’s such an inspirational story. The guy from Ciudad Bolivar with the disabled mum, just a humble fast-food employee, earning pittance. Yet somehow. Somehow! He scrabbled enough pesos together to afford the $3,000 flight and education fees.
He arrived during the heavy storms of the past week, which may not have been the glorious sunshine he’d been led to believe bathes Sydney year round, but would have reminded him of drizzle-swept Bogotá. Of course, I picked him up and delivered him directly into the welcoming arms of the Galah [2].
As they’re fond of saying in Latin America, mi casa es tu casa; and that’s very much the philosophy of The Galah. (Though not legally mine, when you’ve resided in any hostel for as long as I have it’s only natural that I think of it as mine). It’s your home away from home. Naturally, mi casa es tu casa is more something one says, rather than fact and most people tend to accept that; even so, some habits are best kept to the privacy of the shower cubicle [3] or undercover of darkness once “lights are out” in the dormitory [4]. Pablo will eventually learn this.
With his duffle bag stowed under his bunk and a quick change into his spare underpants, it took only a matter of hours for Pablo to ingratiate his way into the trust of Rafinho and Flavia, even though they’re Brazilian and in my experience the Brazilians don’t hold Colombians in very high regard. I told Pablo exactly that but he seemed unconcerned.
Like many travellers to Sydney, Pablo was eager to see the sights: Bondi Beach, the Opera House, the Bridge. Having been the recipient of Pablo’s hospitality and guidance in Bogotá all those years ago, it was only fitting I be the one to take him around. I love being the guide. Being that person to take a new visitor around for the first time and knowing how they’ll remember, say, who they were with the first time that had a beer in Scruffy Murphys. Makes the spine tingle. In the last 12 months alone I’ve probably shown over 10 friends around.
Indeed, I’ve taken the phrase mi casa es tu casa and extended it beyond the confines of the apartment/house/hostel, to mean the entire country.
Welcome to Australia, Pablo.
Naturally, having hauled myself around Circular Quay (CQ) or the Rocks so many times in the recent past, I was forgivably less enthusiastic than I may have been. Rafinho took my mentioning of this to him and Flavia as my lacking in enthusiasm for being Pablo’s guide and offered to take him instead. No way, José, I said [5].
So we set out for the city. When we arrived at Bondi Junction train station, however, the thought of changing trains at Town Hall for CQ probably affected me more than it should have.
Luckily, the rudimentary map I sketched out for Pablo on the back of his hand contained more information than most guide books [6], going as far as to draw a realistic picture of the Opera House using three of his knuckles as the sails so that, when he viewed it at a 10 degree angle, it became 3D. I waved goodbye to him at the ticket barrier insisting he use my Opal card [7], then I wandered off to The Tea Gardens, assuring him everything would be fine.
I waited until the next day to visit the police station on Gould Street, where I reported my missing Opal card. I reported Pablo’s disappearance as well. In hindsight, I wish I’d at least taken a picture because it would have helped the police with their inquiries if I’d known the card number. A picture of Pablo would also have helped. Even I’ll admit that two days was a long time for Pablo to have disappeared for, but when he eventually turned up at the Galah last night – admittedly a little dishevelled – we all breathed a huge sigh of relief. Maybe once he’s able to speak again he’ll tell us all about his adventures, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll tell me where my Opal card is.
[1] Though sicarios are fairly cheap to hire, one with Pablo’s work ethic and ready access to the work (Ciudad Bolivar) could probably make as many as 5 hits a day.
[2] I borrowed Quentin and Darryl’s Nissan Micra and waited 13 minutes for Pablo in the express pick-up area of Sydney International Airport. If I’d waited another two minutes I’d have had to pay the extortionate parking fees and so I left with Pablo just visible, waving at me from the other side of the car park. It worked out well though – I sent him a Whatsapp message to go back to the terminal and look for the train station. I picked him up from Bondi Junction train station two hours later, so all ended well.
[3] Assuming Darryl & Quentin have replaced the doors. It’s been weeks now.
[4] This only applies to the bottom bunk. Top bunk dwellers can’t get away with any movement, no matter how sly.
[5] Interestingly, the phrase “no way, José” is considered offensive in Mexico and many other Latin American countries, as they view it a lazy stereotype, and negative reinforcement to anyone named José. As with Darryl and Quentin when I explained they shouldn’t be offended by my usage of the phrase “mincer” to describe Mick Jagger, the Latinos are being a tad precious.
[6] The Lonely Planet, obviously.
[7] Which almost had enough on it to get him to Circular Quay.