The Raleigh Cartagena Connection

Carlos Huston, a fit 45-year-old Black male, stepped onto the tarmac of Rafael Núñez International Airport in Cartagena, Colombia. He thought that the many trips he made to the desert while in the Navy as a younger man would prepare him for any kind of heat, but the heat in Cartagena was different. Asia, Europe, the Middle East—more times than he could count, Carlos had been all over the world, but never Cartagena. Still, it held a place in his heart.

Years ago, fresh out of boot camp and “A” School, Carlos had been chosen for a special assignment. He was on a special security detail. He was a Navy Military Police Officer, or MA, and he excelled at defensive driving, which made him chosen to be on a detail to escort the upper brass of the Colombian Armada.

He spent a week driving around Camila, one of the most beautiful Afro-Colombianas he had ever laid his eyes on, and of course her commanding officer. What happened wasn’t supposed to happen, and if caught it would have gotten Carlos some type of NJP if not court-martialed. But putting two young, fit, and beautiful people in proximity to each other, it was bound to happen. Nights filled with passion, and afterwards he would hold her in his arms as she told him stories of growing up in Colombia. Her childhood seemed much more exciting than his growing up in Raleigh, North Carolina. But with North Carolina being in the South, and with the South’s love for the 2nd Amendment, growing up in the late 80s and early 90s during the martial arts boom, and North Carolina being the home of NASCAR, Carlos developed skills that helped him excel in his military career.

The military allowed him to see the world, and after being eight years removed, he got the travel bug. But sailing around the world is different from flying. He had to get his feet wet, and what better start than the homeland of the one that got away? Camila always had a special place in his heart and stayed in the back of his mind.

He went to the store for a nice bottle of rum and found a bottle called Teniente, which meant “Lieutenant” in Spanish. He took it as a sign, since that was his last rank when he got out of the military. He arrived at his Airbnb and turned on the much-needed air conditioning. He poured a shot of rum, which did not disappoint, and scrolled through the experiences page on Airbnb. He found the El Totumo Mud Volcano and set up an adventure for tomorrow.

He awoke to a message in the Airbnb app stating to meet up at the Parque Centenario. Once he arrived, he saw a group of three American girls in their 20s he had met on the plane the day before. He greeted them and discovered they were going to the mud volcano as well.

They were approached by an Afro-Colombian in his mid-20s, decently built and handsome. He introduced himself as Diego, their tour guide. He greeted Carlos with a handshake that was a little too firm, as if he had heard about how tough American males were and wanted to impress. He walked them to the van that would take them to the volcano and stumbled over the history and facts during the ride. The girls didn’t notice, as most young American girls in their 20s had better things to focus on—their phones—but Carlos did. Chalking it up to the girls actually being very pretty, Carlos enjoyed the lecture.

They experienced the volcano, cleaned up at the lake, and went to buy souvenirs. The girls were all over the place, and Carlos took the opportunity to talk to Diego.

“This is my first time in Colombia, but with the military I have been all around the world, and one thing I discovered is that girls are girls. All you have to do is speak the language, and you seem to have that down,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” said Diego.

“The girls. You seem to be nervous around them,” said Carlos.

“Is this the advice you would give your son?” Diego asked.

“If I had one, yeah. I would tell him that women are human number one, and number two they are women. You like one, ask for her number. The worst she could say is no,” said Carlos.

Diego seemed to relax and let out a slight chuckle. “The girls don’t make me nervous. I talk to American girls almost daily. Honestly, I prefer Colombian girls,” he said.

“I agree with you on that,” Carlos answered.

“It’s just the volcano isn’t my expertise. It’s too far outside of Cartagena,” Diego said.

“You know Cartagena?” Carlos asked.

“Like a son knows his mother. I know the real Cartagena, and I would love to show you,” Diego said.

“I’ll take you up on that, but it’s definitely going to have to be tomorrow because this Colombian heat is something else,” Carlos said.

Over the next couple of days, Diego took Carlos deeper into the city. They visited the bustling and vibrant neighborhood of Getsemaní, where Carlos bought himself some of the beautiful street art. As they enjoyed a lunch of deditos de queso and fried patacones, Carlos told him that the name Getsemaní was actually sentimental to him, as it was the name of the church he went to growing up, where most of his ancestors were buried. As he told Diego the story, it seemed to hit him a little more sentimentally than a story between two strangers should—but he chalked that up to how passionate Latinos were.

They continued their tour, and Carlos was impressed with Diego’s knowledge of the city and Afro-Colombian culture. Especially the story Diego told him of Benkos Biohó and how he founded Palenque, his initial capture, and betrayal by Spain. As the day ended and Carlos got out of the Uber to go to his Airbnb, he made a suggestion.

“There’s a military base in North Carolina, in a place called Fayetteville. They had a Colombian restaurant called La Fogata. Had the best authentic Colombian food I ever had. It closed. I haven’t had Bandeja Paisa since,” he said.

“You can get Bandeja Paisa in the food court at the mall,” Diego responded.

“I know that, but I want it cooked fresh. You know, with love,” Carlos said.

“I think I know the perfect spots. I’ll pick you up for lunch tomorrow,” Diego said.

Not able to rest, Carlos went out on the streets of Bocagrande. He bought more souvenirs and a pack of Cuban cigars that probably weren’t real, went back, and sat on his balcony enjoying a cigar and rum. He looked out over Cartagena and Bocagrande and felt a comfort he hadn’t felt in years. He decided to enjoy himself—another cigar, more shots than he probably should. Being an American whose drink of choice was bourbon, he underestimated rum.

The next day, he slowly made his way to the waiting Uber. Diego noticed he didn’t have the pep in his step he thought rare for a man his age.

“You good?” Diego asked.

“Your country’s rum can sneak up on you,” Carlos answered.

“That’s true, but the remedy for our country’s rum the day after is our country’s coffee—and you are going to need some. You’re going to need to make a good first impression,” Diego said.

“First impression? Where are we going?” Carlos asked.

“My family’s restaurant,” Diego answered.

“Oh man, well make sure the coffee is strong,” Carlos said.

They pulled up to a restaurant in the Walled City. The outside was rustic and historic and read La Cocina de Cartagena. The inside was decorated with items of Colombian culture related to food, as well as hand-painted portraits. One of them caught Carlos’s eye—it looked like Camila, but younger.

Diego left for the back and returned with a woman in her late 60s, early 70s, still healthy and beautiful at her age.

“Abuela, este es el invitado especial del que te hablaba,” he said to her.

The look she gave Carlos was a mix of shock and excitement.

“Llévalo a donde sentamos a nuestro invitado especial,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Okay, tell grandma it was nice to meet her,” Carlos said.

“Don’t worry, she’ll come and speak to you before you leave. Come on, let’s sit down,” Diego said.

He took Carlos to a special section of the restaurant, gave him a menu, and took his drink order. Diego left, and as Carlos navigated the menu, someone placed a drink beside him. Not looking up, Carlos assumed it was Diego.

“I wanted Bandeja Paisa, but everything on the menu looks good,” he said.

“You can get Bandeja Paisa in the food court at the mall. I recommend the pescado frito with arroz con coco and patacones. My mother can actually cook it like the women in Palenque,” the voice said.

Carlos’s heart skipped a beat. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in decades. He stood, turned, and saw Camila. Just as beautiful as he remembered, with streaks of gray and a few lines around her eyes. The presence, the intensity, the smile—unmistakable.

His instinctive reaction was to embrace and kiss her passionately. Her instinctive response was to return the embrace and kiss.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about the times we live in,” he said.

“You think if I was bothered, I would have kissed you back? This isn’t America,” Camila said.

Carlos, a man hardened by life before being molded by the military, a man who hadn’t shed a tear in 30 years, began to break down. A tear slid down his cheek, and Camila wiped it away.

“You Americans are so emotional,” she said. “Sit down. There’s something I need to tell you.”

He kissed her again before they broke the embrace and sat across from each other. She took his hand.

“Diego, your tour guide, he’s—”

“Your nephew?” Carlos interrupted.

“You think I made 45 with no kids?” she asked.

“I did,” he answered.

“Did you?” she asked.

“So Diego is your son?” Carlos asked.

“Diego, ven aquí!” she called out.

Diego entered and sat beside her.

“Diego isn’t my—well, he is, but not just mine. He’s our son,” she revealed.

For the first time, Carlos saw it—a younger Afro-Colombian version of himself.

He fought back tears. “So I basically spent a week hanging with my son? What are you, 27? How do you not hate me?”

“It wasn’t your fault. I had a good family base in Colombia, my uncles and my grandpa. I saw you as a legend, a tough American military G.I.,” Diego responded.

“You never wanted to meet before?” Carlos asked.

“Of course. But—and this is no excuse—life started lifing. As Afro-Colombians, our family has defied the odds for generations. This restaurant, my mom moving up in the military as a female Afro-Colombian, me starting these guides as a teen. When it took off, I just focused on it,” Diego answered.

“And it was hard being a single mother in the military. I had to focus on that, then Diego, then my family. But two 18-year-olds going at it several times a night for a week—you didn’t think this would happen?” Camila said.

“Okay, Mom, Dad, I don’t need to hear this. I’m going to check on the food,” Diego said, getting up.

“Honestly, no. I was a stupid young kid. It never crossed my mind. I mean, I did miss you, and I’m sure I thought about you every other day for 27 years,” Carlos said.

“I thought about you. It wasn’t easy looking at Diego and seeing your face. Who would have thought you could fall in love in a week and it lasts 27 years,” Camila replied.

“So you don’t have any more kids?” he asked.

“No. It’s hard being a single mom in Colombia and being taken seriously. I focused on our son and the military. What about you?”

“No. I wanted a family more than I wanted kids, and I could never find someone who I felt would make a good mother,” he answered.

“Well, I think you did,” she responded.

“I guess so. So are you still in the military?” he asked.

“No. Once I hit my 20 years, and like Diego said, he was making really good money from the tours, so I didn’t have to worry about him, I retired. What about you?”

“Moved up the ranks, went from enlisted to officer. It was my plan. Then my country elected a commander-in-chief I couldn’t see myself serving. My friend had a great opportunity for me, something I could do with my skills, so I got out,” he said.

“So you have time to travel, time to get to know your son?” she asked.

“Yes, and to reconnect with his mother,” he answered.

She leaned over the table and kissed him again just as Diego and his grandmother brought the food.

“Mira, así es como se hizo Diego. Ustedes dos ya no tienen 18 años, al menos salvo por la habitación,” her mother said.

“Lo siento, Mami,” Camila said, helping her with the food.

“Pero ahora entiendo que me tomó 27 años. Lo entiendo. Es muy guapo y fuerte,” her mom said, softening her tone, causing Diego to laugh.

“What is she saying?” Carlos asked.

“She scolded Mom but says she understands because you are handsome,” Diego answered.

“Ay, Mami!” Camila said.

They spent the night laughing, eating, and enjoying each other’s company as a family.

In the following days, they spent time visiting family—Camila showing off her handsome man, and Diego showing off his strong father. Carlos and Diego spent nights bonding overlooking Bocagrande, while Camila and Carlos spent nights reliving the week they had at 18.

Carlos returned home and explained to his business partner and friend what happened and why he was cashing out, choosing to spend the rest of his days with his family in Cartagena.

He returned, bought the apartment overlooking Bocagrande, made his family official with a beautiful wedding to Camila—with Diego as his best man—and finally understood why he had that feeling the night before he reconnected with Camila. His family was in Cartagena. This was his new home.