And it burns, burns, burns...

I had originally hoped that my next blog entry would contain something of great worldly significance, like an analysis of the many human rights violations that are currently taking place here in Colombia (Please note-- these include those of: antipersonnel mines, the highest rate of internal displacement in the world behind the Sudan, a high rate of child soldiers, murders, crimes, kidnappings, torture, lots of missing people, the huge narco-trafficking ring (that creates tons of violence in and of itself), gangs, targeted assassinations, etc.), or perhaps something about the conflicts and political controversies of the country, or even some information on the research that I’ve been conducting on the indigenous peace movement of the department (state) of Cauca. But, in reality, the story that I am most eager to share involves the history of a mattress.

Two weeks ago, I became the proud renter of an apartment in Colombia (which is way closer to my university—yay!!!). It had an extra room, so I decided to invite my German friend, Melanie, to stay with me. We were very content in our new home-sweet-home, although we soon discovered that taking care of our living space would require battles with cockroaches and other insects that appeared daily without warning. I also discovered that I had to “battle it out” nightly with my mattress, which was completely old, uneven, full of ridges, and pretty much the most uncomfortable space where I’ve slept in ever (which I feel says a lot, as I’ve slept on many hard grounds and rocky camping spots). When my back could no longer take it, I searched for a replacement.

This replacement came in the form of another mattress that was kindly lent to me by Lola, Liliana’s mother. When it arrived, it was pretty much the oldest, dirtiest mattress I’d seen (It had been her daughter’s 40-years-ago), and insects started falling out of it as we lifted it up to the apartment. It looked so bad that Melanie wouldn’t even let me bring it into our place. “We already have a bug problem!” she said, “I do NOT want it to get worse.”

When we asked the guard of our apartment complex (Rodrigo) if/how/where we could dump it, he only had one suggestion: set it on fire. He also offered to help with this process—that is, if we agreed to wait until his shift ended at 12:00am. “Setting the mattress on fire at midnight??? Si, señor, sounds like a plan!” (That was our reply).

Ergo, Luis (Melanie’s Colombian boyfriend) and I bought a bag of gasoline (yes, you can apparently by gasoline by the bag) and matches and prepared for our mattress burning ritual… It was all that we dreamed of and more! Here are photos of the event, which was quite memorable and rewarding… I am sad to report, however, that I am still currently sleeping on the floor. :(

This photo does not really do justice to the true ugly condition of the mattress.

Rodrigo prepares the mattress by covering it with our secret ingredient: gasoline.

Whew--- it was up in flames instantaneously!

I call this the “feel the fire of the burning mattress” ritualistic ceremonial dance.

Nothing says “invigorating” like a mattress on fire!