The langauge. Leaving my family, friends and
girlfriend behind. Getting myself involved in drug cartel business. These were
all things that bounced around my head pre-trip. You know those nights where
you lay awake and speculate exactly what lies in wait for you for the next six months.
They’re the ones. Anyway, one thing that definitely did not enter this zone of
precaution was music.
Why
would anyone worry about music? The music is usually not a defining feature of
a place, let alone a country, and is rarely something to use as Trip
Advisor-esque judgment factor. As well of this I class myself as a fairly
flexible music fan. My taste ranges from Drake to Red Hot Chili Peppers and
even stretches to a bit of 1D – I’m an ‘accept all sounds’ kinda guy. I could
cope with everything. That was until this lovely type of music that the South
Americans call ‘Cumbia’ came along and hit me as nicely as a slap in the face.
I
was crammed in the back of a car with 7 other people at 2:30am on a Tuesday
night when the true horror hit. We had been driving around Gualeguay – a small
town – with no particular destination for about 45 minutes and I wasn’t
understanding the conjoined plethora of gossip being shared frantically amongst
my fellow passengers. The only thing I had to listen to was what was blaring
out of the stereo. Cumbia.
