One evening in 2008, a band of joyriders pilfered our van, christened The Colombian, from a street outside Wellington, New Zealand. My sister-in-law was the first to notice and she alerted her spouse, Ant, who promptly embarked in search of it. Upon spotting the van stationed on the shore, he contacted the authorities, who then initiated pursuit as it fled. After disregarding several traffic signals, the joyriders lost control and collided with a structure. The front of the van was crushed in on both sides and the driver’s door was torn off.
We awoke to an email from Ant entitled “RIP The Colombian,” recounting the ordeal he had endured the previous night while my husband, Dave, and I slumbered soundly in our apartment in Bogotá, Colombia. The police apprehended the six joyriders – three girls in the front and three boys jostling in the back. “No wrongdoers were harmed in the unfolding of this spectacle,” were, thankfully, the final words of the email.
This van held great significance for us. Two years earlier, Dave, then my partner, had purchased it before my visit to him in New Zealand and transformed the rear into a cozy abode: a bed that doubled as a sofa, a cooler box powered by the cigarette lighter, and a portable gas stove. We spent the summers of 2006 and 2007 on a journey around the South and North islands.
The Colombian was the focal point of everything. During nights parked on beaches admiring breathtaking sunsets, we would devise plans for our future. We had been in a long-distance relationship for a year; soon we would bid farewell again, and I would return to my homeland, Colombia (hence the van’s moniker). I had never contemplated living in any country other than mine, but after traversing New Zealand, I was enamored with these two petite islands on the fringe of the world.
We resolved that Dave would join me in Colombia within the year, and once I completed my undergraduate studies, we would relocate together to Wellington. The van held such significance for us that we decided to retain it – after all, we would be back in New Zealand in a couple of years. The van remained parked at the residence of Dave’s sister Rachel, and Ant, her husband, kept it licensed and operational.
The theft of the van ultimately altered the trajectory of my life. We were in Bogotá, and soon we would be relocating to Wellington. “Now that we no longer possess the van, we lack any immediate obligation to return to New Zealand,” Dave remarked to me one day. “What if we journey to London for a year or two to experience Europe?” At that moment, I didn’t comprehend the immense impact that decision would have on our future, and I responded as if he had asked: “Would you like milk in your coffee?” I replied: “Certainly!”
My initial years in London were challenging. Every opportunity I pursued seemed to elude me. It took me two years to find my footing, and three to feel as though I belonged. Subsequently, I felt that the city which had initially opposed me was finally in my corner – so I resolved not to depart. “Now that I understand the difficulty of establishing a life in a foreign land, I am disinclined to relocate to New Zealand and start anew,” I informed Dave. “London is my home now.”
He nearly toppled from his chair. London was intended to be a brief interlude, not the final destination. A month later – following contemplation and a thorough analysis of our prospects in Wellington versus London (likely involving a spreadsheet) – he approached me and said: “Certainly!”
It’s difficult to envision what my life would have been like in New Zealand had the van not been stolen. I arrived in London by chance, or rather, due to happenstance. I arrived as a Colombian; in the UK, my horizons expanded to encompass being Latin American, as I forged connections and found camaraderie within the city’s sizable Latin American community.
During this period, I have transitioned into a journalist and a mother to two remarkable boys. I have discovered a sense of belonging in my locale through neighbors and a network of parents via educational institutions, childcare facilities, and my neighborhood library. Although my initial years in London were fraught with uncertainty, 15 years later, I find myself flourishing.
We never returned to New Zealand, and if losing the van taught me anything, it’s that unforeseen circumstances lead to intriguing new avenues.
