Home in a strange land

CALI, Colombia - In the searing light of his first day in Colombia, David Arias stepped out of his family's apartment in flip-flops and shorts to confront the life he had been dreading.

The long-legged 16-year-old padded down a parched alley of shabby brick houses and bleak trees, past the Malcolm X barbershop and corner stores. At the highway that roars past his house, his eyes widened. Horse-drawn wagons clattered beside smoke-belching buses. A broom salesman squeaked past on an oversized tricycle.

"That," he said, pausing between each word, "is very different."

David had arrived in Cali the previous night on a flight from Boston, and it was as if he had landed on another planet.

Just a few days before, he was a high school junior at one of Boston's elite exam schools, studying Japanese and precalculus and preparing for college. But earlier this month, he moved to one of the most dangerous cities in the world to be with his father, who was deported in September after nearly two decades in the United States.

David, who was born in America, had begged his parents to let him stay in East Boston, where he lived all his life. But his mother, also facing deportation, was afraid to leave him and his 5-year-old brother behind. So they struck a deal: They could try to get him into an American-style private school in Colombia so he could apply to a US college, or he could return to Boston alone to live with relatives.

A soft-spoken, guitar-playing teen, David had always done what his parents wanted. And even though he resisted at first, he had come to Cali, a sprawling city that is notorious for drug- and gang-related violence. The city, with a population four times that of Boston, had more than 1,500 homicides last year while Boston had 74.

Moving is the toughest thing David has ever faced. He had never been to Colombia or met his relatives here. Teenagers here love salsa music, but rock is his thing. And he has never written even an essay in Spanish. To have a shot at a good college in the United States, he will have to get into a school that teaches in English.

"They said I should give it a try, and I guess that's what I'm going to do," he said. "It might not be that bad."

A hearty welcome

When the half-filled airplane touched down in Cali, all David wanted to do was see his dad.

The family had lived apart for nearly a year - his dad, Gustavo, was in a jail near Buffalo fighting deportation while David, his mom Esperanza, and younger brother Daniel crowded into one bedroom in a shelter in East Boston.

The last time David saw his dad was around Father's Day. They were not allowed to touch, so they pressed their hands against the glass.

Gustavo, a community leader in East Boston, had applied for political asylum but was ordered deported. To avoid returning to Colombia, he had tried to move the family to Canada last year, but was refused and apprehended on the way back.

At the Cali airport, David ignored his mother's calls to wait. He grabbed his guitar and turned to the door.

Outside, the crowd erupted as if he were a rock star.

Dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins he had never seen cheered and waved signs in Spanish and English that said "Colombia is love" and "Welcome to your new home." They had rented a bus to pick them up at the airport. Some had traveled 10 hours to be there.

"It's like an explosion right in front of me," David said afterward.

The ride to a welcoming party at his uncle's house turned into a carnival. As the smell of burning sugar cane from the hills filled the air, his mother pointed out her sisters nearby - Nercy, Amparo, Nohelia, Consuelo, Gloria, Ximena, and Dolly, whose round, freckled faces mirrored hers.

"That's your aunt, that's your aunt, that's your other aunt," she said, laughing as she ran out of breath.

His little brother basked in the attention. David smiled shyly and peered out the window.

His 14-year-old cousin Natalia Zapata giggled as she stole glances of him on the bus.

"Does he like to talk?" she whispered. "We like to talk."

The bus whisked them to a celebration at his Uncle Guillermo's house in a middle-class neighborhood. His aunts served empanadas and pink-frosted cake as a hired singer crooned folk songs. David sat stiffly on a resin chair, in the front row, and kept glancing at his cellphone to see if it worked.

Finally, someone handed him a guitar. He played a song for his mother, and the room fell silent. His father gave a speech that told everyone the family would be OK.

In the kitchen, one of his relatives whispered that she was worried about David and his brother.

"It's going to be hard for them," said Miriam Gonzalez, one of Esperanza's sisters-in-law. "They are Americans."

Not much to compare

Nobody had expected the Ariases to come back to Colombia.

Gustavo had left Colombia in 1989 fleeing death threats from leftist rebels. Best known for powerful drug cartels that have been largely dismantled in recent years, Cali is for the most part still lurching toward modernity. Fancy shopping malls and restaurants sprout minutes away from tin-roofed shantytowns. The nation is still mired in a 43-year-old war.

The United States offered the family a future they did not have in Colombia.

In East Boston, they had owned a two-bedroom condo in a tidy brick building near a bicycle path. Gustavo quickly found work as a janitor, and Esperanza cleaned houses.

In Colombia they have no jobs and no car. They own a spotless four-bedroom apartment above a restaurant, a home they built for Gustavo's late mother. But it has no Internet connection and no hot running water.

"There's cold, and then there's extra cold," David said jokingly.

In Boston, it was possible to get a first-class education, even if you were poor. At Boston Latin Academy in Dorchester, David read Orwell and studied economics. Most academy students strive for four-year colleges, and scholarships abound.

In Colombia, public schools have a poor reputation. Most of David's relatives could not afford college, and those who did work had underpaying jobs. Uncle Guillermo, a math teacher, teaches at three schools to afford a middle-class life.

Because of high unemployment, many Cali residents set up shops selling ice cream and perfume or roam the streets hawking pirated American movies. The Malcolm X barbershop in David's neighborhood is owned by an immigrant who was deported from Houston.

In East Boston, the Ariases sometimes loaded up the minivan for family trips to Disneyland, Atlantic City, or New York. In Colombia, Gustavo won't even visit his hometown 45 minutes away. A friend's son was recently killed there over a cellphone.

"That's my main concern with David," Gustavo said, shaking his head. "He didn't want to come here in the first place. If something happens to him I'm going to blame myself."

In East Boston, each weekday morning David would take the T to school and then eat lunch in the spacious cafeteria. He jammed in two bands. He fell in love with an auburn-haired singer named Jessica.

Now, a street vendor selling corn cakes awakens him every morning. On the bus, he is shocked to see children selling snacks. He recalled friends in Boston who complained about parents who wouldn't let them stay out late.

"Kids there are really lucky," he said. "As a matter of fact, I don't think they know how lucky they are."

Pining for school days

Just before he left Boston, David had some luck.

The assistant headmaster at Boston Latin Academy, Emilia Pastor, happened to be from Cali. After learning of David's plight, she set to work raising money to send him to Colegio Bolivar, a private school she had attended that teaches in English.

She e-mailed everyone she knew and urged them to flood the school's principal with letters recommending a scholarship for David. The school costs more than $7,000 a year, more than his parents had saved.

In Colombia, David's mother tried to call the school the day after they arrived, but did not receive an answer. The next morning, she ordered David to shave his beard and dress in his best clothes. Together with his parents, David went to apply in person.

As the taxi climbed the hills, the landscape shifted dramatically. Pastel apartment complexes with names like Club Lake towered over fancy shopping malls and universities. Mercedes-Benzes and SUVs plied the street.

Colegio Bolivar, a pre-K-through-12 school with 1,300 students, is nestled behind towering hedges and gates capped with barbed wire. The air smelled of freshly cut grass.

"It's beautiful," David said. "I've never seen a campus like that before."

As they walked into the main office, posters from Boston's Museum of Fine Arts lined the walls. A young school administrator in a black dress and taut ponytail emerged from her office.

"I was waiting for your call yesterday," she told David's parents.

Esperanza did not say she had dialed all day. Instead, Esperanza told the woman about David's school in Boston, his guitar-playing, and his need for a scholarship. "He's a very good boy," his mother said.

The administrator said he could apply, but it was up to the board and the principal.

A secretary gave them an application and a cup of coffee. Quietly, they left.

With Pastor pushing from Boston and his uncle, the math teacher, aiding in Colombia, David tried to get back to school last week. He delivered the application to Bolivar, and is waiting for an interview. In case he is not accepted, he also took his first test in Spanish for a private school where his uncle teaches.

On Friday, David sighed and said he hoped Bolivar accepts him. The idea of remaining here makes him uneasy.

"I just have to hope that I get in," he said. "I like Colombia and everything, but living here is definitely something that I'm trying to avoid."

Maria Sacchetti can be reached at msacchetti@globe.com.