I spent my last week in Colombia back in Taganga without the company of my limited-Spanish speaking travel buddy. It was a marked contrast to be in this touristy town while trying to experience it in a non-touristy way. Since my Spanish is far better than my Hebrew, and I stayed there far longer than your average Parque Tairona bound tourist, I ended up making friends with a few of the locals and being more than just a white face with a dollar sign on it. I played soccer with the kids, chatted with vendors, and gave acknowledging waves to the fisherman to drunk to understand my Gringo accent. But I also had a lot of alone time to reflect on my past month in Colombia and how it would seem to a person arriving here for the first time with preconceived notions of blood, danger and cocaine.
I am admittedly biased. I’ve grown comfortable in Colombian culture and have had enough good experiences to mitigate my media-driven initial preconceptions. But I think one with no Latin America experience and halfway malleable pre-conceived notions would find Colombia to be pleasant, beautiful and above all interesting. From the modern city life of Medellin to the laid back farmers in the pueblos, from the touristy bubble of Cartagena to the hectic poverty of the roadside coastal towns, from the mountainous landscapes of the Andes to the tropical beaches of Tairona, Colombia provides stereotype-shattering and thought-provoking experiences that no newspaper, tourism book, or blog can capture.
Medellin is a playground for any single, outgoing, party-guy; or a perfect place to study Spanish or teach English for any gendered person with any marital status. True, it may not be as much fun to be a blond-haired goddess among horny, short, cat-calling Latinos, or be committed to such a goddess when your blue eyes draw more female gazes than there are ounces of silicon in the gazers, but the city is so pleasant in itself that the nightlife (read: women) is just the happy ending to an already great massage.
In Cartagena you might get your happy ending before your massage, or just for ordering the special, but it is still an elegantly historic, romantically invigorating and architecturally beautiful first entry point to Colombia.
The diversity of people, geography, climate and pace is another aspect of Colombia that provokes an analytical traveler. A four-hour bus ride from the cornfields of Nebraska gets you to…. well, the cornfields of Kansas. A four-hour bus ride from Medellin passes through cold to hot climates, goes over mountains to plains, and leaves you hearing a different Spanish accent on the tongues of locals. Eight hours in one direction and you have crossed a cultural, linguistic and climatic dividing cordillera of the Andes and are in the seemingly foreign Bogotá, where as eight hours in the other direction and the light European skin darkens with African influence, “S”s disappear as speech quickens though pace of life slows down, and the cool freshness of mountain air gives way to the palpably hot coastal climate. One could miss all of these distinct delineations that the diversity of this country engenders. Some might be unimpressed or not even care. But for a tuned in traveler, a self-conscious traveler that is aware if his/her surroundings and how they fit into it, Colombia culturally stimulates the mind and senses, while pleasing the eye with its natural beauty.
And with those thoughts I sat cliff-side with Ipod in ear, sun setting over the Tairona waters to my right, fish-filled boats returning to Taganga to my left, and concluded my month in Colombia. Doubtless I will continue to return, but even more sure it won’t be any time too soon. I hope this blog was at least at times entertaining to read, it definitely was entertaining to write and countered the solitude of walking a foreign city alone. I’m now off to Panama for a whole new experience…..working. Check me out at www.adayinpanama.wordpress.com for more observational wit, cultural insight and unabashed sharing of my experiences.
viernes, 18 de julio de 2008
miércoles, 16 de julio de 2008
Parque Tairona
After a far from romantic, but pleasantly debauchery-filled weekend in Cartagena, I moved east by bus to a tiny fisherman village just outside of the previously touted Parque Tairona. This village, Taganga, was once a poor and sleepy home to those that wanted to avoid the hectic city life of Santa Marta, and be able to drunkenly stumble from their boats to the liquor store, from the liquor store to their beds or respective pass out posts, then back to their boats. That hasn’t changed. Now fishermen just have to dodge a few similarly drunken Israeli tourists in their lifelong quest for fish and alcohol. I don’t know what tourism genius did it, but Taganga and Parque Tairona have exploded among post-Army Israelis like Cancun for post-pubescent frat boys. I have all 73-investment dollars I own in “Israelis gone wild: Taganga”. There are 6 million people in Israel, which if you break down the age demographics and crunch the numbers, means every 22-24 year old Israeli has been cloned twice and is this tiny town. Maybe after 2-3 mandatory years of army service (and a lifetime of Holy War) they don’t have the same fear that us lilly-ass American tourists have about the violent reputation of Colombia. There are other tourists here as well; Bogotanos, Paisas, Cartageneros……and I think a German came here once in the 80s.
We had had a slow-moving and inefficient morning that started past lunchtime in Cartagena, and were happy to achieve our two stated goals of getting supplies for the park and some rest. The 45 minute bus ride to the park entrance is the first obstacle that keeps the prissy tourist away; maybe second if you count the century of bloodshed, kidnappings and cocaine trafficking that has plagued Colombia. Packed busses leave from a street that resembles a swap meet in which all the stuff anyone wanted was bought weeks ago, but the sellers hope the smell of urine and yesterday’s catch will bring people back for a second look. The best entrance into the park is an exquisite, but arduous jungle hike up to a preserved indigenous pueblo, where white-robe wearing Taironas still live they way they did 1000 years ago……except for the crazy, sweaty, foreigners that insist at looking at them through their magic Nikon boxes. Few speak Spanish or have ever left their jungle paradise, but the tribal chiefs who travel to other communities are more hip to the changing world around them, and in my first visit I was shocked when a 4’7’’ indigenous man asked in broken Spanish to borrow my cell phone…..then to buy him a beer…at 6am. Ahh, the beauties of the modern world.
From El Pueblito it is another hour down to one of the most spectacularly picturesque beaches I have ever seen. Calm, blue water forms two gentle, sandy bays that are lined by huge white boulders. An idyllic grassy area with palm and mango trees is just off the beach, and is filled with young, sun-soaked travelers lounging in hammocks or playing soccer on the makeshift field. There is a huge palapa hut on the rocks between the two bays that provides an impressive view and is home to a Colombian family that runs a small restaurant and rents tents and hammocks. It is probably what most people pictured when they read “The Beach”, and for those that saw the movie it was how they wished Dicaprio’s paradise had looked.
Unfortunately, due to a newfound burden of being weighed down with things of value that I couldn’t leave in my dorm-like hotel, this time we chose to enter the park through the main entrance to avoid the long and sweaty walk through El Pueblito. Unfortunate not so much because we missed out on a beautiful hike, an anthropological experience, and losing double-digit pounds of sweated out water weight, but due to an unexpected “security” checkpoint at this entrance. Two militarily dressed police all but homo-erotically pleasured us with the intensity of their search, just knowing that two young (ish), unshaven Gringos must have some illicit “supplies” from Taganga. I spent a nervous 10 minutes of awkward Spanish chit-chat as they ransacked our bags, smelling tent poles, opening pill bottles and questioning he legality of my Echinacea droplets. My bag was clean except for the suspicious immune system enhancers, some rolling papers, a lighter, and a bottle of Guaro. I was aware that my non-Spanish speaking friend’s bag might turn out something besides tobacco to warrant my papers and lighter, and was silently rehearsing my plea or bribe attempt while motionlessly warming up my legs for a mad dash into the safety of the jungle. Amazingly, his bag was found to be clean as well. They had confiscated my Guaro, which was $10.00 I was happy to walk away from, but then said I could take it in if I bought them each a soda. Done. I wonder how many sodas I would have had to buy them if they had known that their local firewater wasn’t to be our choice means of intoxication in their beloved park.
When my heart rate slowed, ironically aided by the use of the same substance that had caused it to rise, I began to reflect on the situation we just narrowly avoided. What I found myself feeling, besides a squishiness in my pants from the scare, was a confused disappointment with the logic of the newly enacted policy. The goal of keeping the park safe is understandable, but the means are ridiculous. In a place where ten years ago tourists were not safe to travel because of armed Guerrillas and kidnapping possibilities, I think the last thing anyone fears is a cookie-eating stoner on the beach. It actually made me feel less safe. This idiocy is compounded by the fact that the nature-loving tourists that frequent this area, and the stereotypically drug-loving Israelis that dominate Taganga, are likely to be turned off to this destination that is trying to grow in tourism popularity. Furthermore, the checks are so arbitrary that some days they have checks some days they don’t, they don’t check cars that enter, don’t check boats, and don’t check those that go through El Pueblito. I’m pretty sure any gun-holding Colombian is savvy enough to find an alternate route to the naïve, but not thank god not stoned, tourists. Only the dumb and unlucky pay the price of this stupid policy. Thank god I am not unlucky.
We spent an amazing 4 nights in the park sleeping in hammocks, sucking down tropical juices, hiking through jungles, and scampering up various beach side boulders to jump off. After our ritualistic sunset Frisbee and swim, we would eat at the amazingly affordable restaurant given both the limited options, and the fact that the police probably would have taken any food one packs in as a threat to national security. A bonfire on the beach was the nightcap before our sleepless battle with the mosquitoes. A little rugged for some, but undeniably some of the most spectacular hikes, beaches and swimming that the world has to offer. Though Parque Tairona is growing rapidly in popularity as Colombia’s security and international reputation improve, there seems to be a strong commitment to preserving the ecological, low-impact style of tourism. There are now cabins for those choosing the comfort of a bed over a hammock, and to avoid red-dotted legs and itchy feet, but don’t expect your Costa Rican 5-star hotels or cruise ships anytime soon.
We had had a slow-moving and inefficient morning that started past lunchtime in Cartagena, and were happy to achieve our two stated goals of getting supplies for the park and some rest. The 45 minute bus ride to the park entrance is the first obstacle that keeps the prissy tourist away; maybe second if you count the century of bloodshed, kidnappings and cocaine trafficking that has plagued Colombia. Packed busses leave from a street that resembles a swap meet in which all the stuff anyone wanted was bought weeks ago, but the sellers hope the smell of urine and yesterday’s catch will bring people back for a second look. The best entrance into the park is an exquisite, but arduous jungle hike up to a preserved indigenous pueblo, where white-robe wearing Taironas still live they way they did 1000 years ago……except for the crazy, sweaty, foreigners that insist at looking at them through their magic Nikon boxes. Few speak Spanish or have ever left their jungle paradise, but the tribal chiefs who travel to other communities are more hip to the changing world around them, and in my first visit I was shocked when a 4’7’’ indigenous man asked in broken Spanish to borrow my cell phone…..then to buy him a beer…at 6am. Ahh, the beauties of the modern world.
From El Pueblito it is another hour down to one of the most spectacularly picturesque beaches I have ever seen. Calm, blue water forms two gentle, sandy bays that are lined by huge white boulders. An idyllic grassy area with palm and mango trees is just off the beach, and is filled with young, sun-soaked travelers lounging in hammocks or playing soccer on the makeshift field. There is a huge palapa hut on the rocks between the two bays that provides an impressive view and is home to a Colombian family that runs a small restaurant and rents tents and hammocks. It is probably what most people pictured when they read “The Beach”, and for those that saw the movie it was how they wished Dicaprio’s paradise had looked.
Unfortunately, due to a newfound burden of being weighed down with things of value that I couldn’t leave in my dorm-like hotel, this time we chose to enter the park through the main entrance to avoid the long and sweaty walk through El Pueblito. Unfortunate not so much because we missed out on a beautiful hike, an anthropological experience, and losing double-digit pounds of sweated out water weight, but due to an unexpected “security” checkpoint at this entrance. Two militarily dressed police all but homo-erotically pleasured us with the intensity of their search, just knowing that two young (ish), unshaven Gringos must have some illicit “supplies” from Taganga. I spent a nervous 10 minutes of awkward Spanish chit-chat as they ransacked our bags, smelling tent poles, opening pill bottles and questioning he legality of my Echinacea droplets. My bag was clean except for the suspicious immune system enhancers, some rolling papers, a lighter, and a bottle of Guaro. I was aware that my non-Spanish speaking friend’s bag might turn out something besides tobacco to warrant my papers and lighter, and was silently rehearsing my plea or bribe attempt while motionlessly warming up my legs for a mad dash into the safety of the jungle. Amazingly, his bag was found to be clean as well. They had confiscated my Guaro, which was $10.00 I was happy to walk away from, but then said I could take it in if I bought them each a soda. Done. I wonder how many sodas I would have had to buy them if they had known that their local firewater wasn’t to be our choice means of intoxication in their beloved park.
When my heart rate slowed, ironically aided by the use of the same substance that had caused it to rise, I began to reflect on the situation we just narrowly avoided. What I found myself feeling, besides a squishiness in my pants from the scare, was a confused disappointment with the logic of the newly enacted policy. The goal of keeping the park safe is understandable, but the means are ridiculous. In a place where ten years ago tourists were not safe to travel because of armed Guerrillas and kidnapping possibilities, I think the last thing anyone fears is a cookie-eating stoner on the beach. It actually made me feel less safe. This idiocy is compounded by the fact that the nature-loving tourists that frequent this area, and the stereotypically drug-loving Israelis that dominate Taganga, are likely to be turned off to this destination that is trying to grow in tourism popularity. Furthermore, the checks are so arbitrary that some days they have checks some days they don’t, they don’t check cars that enter, don’t check boats, and don’t check those that go through El Pueblito. I’m pretty sure any gun-holding Colombian is savvy enough to find an alternate route to the naïve, but not thank god not stoned, tourists. Only the dumb and unlucky pay the price of this stupid policy. Thank god I am not unlucky.
We spent an amazing 4 nights in the park sleeping in hammocks, sucking down tropical juices, hiking through jungles, and scampering up various beach side boulders to jump off. After our ritualistic sunset Frisbee and swim, we would eat at the amazingly affordable restaurant given both the limited options, and the fact that the police probably would have taken any food one packs in as a threat to national security. A bonfire on the beach was the nightcap before our sleepless battle with the mosquitoes. A little rugged for some, but undeniably some of the most spectacular hikes, beaches and swimming that the world has to offer. Though Parque Tairona is growing rapidly in popularity as Colombia’s security and international reputation improve, there seems to be a strong commitment to preserving the ecological, low-impact style of tourism. There are now cabins for those choosing the comfort of a bed over a hammock, and to avoid red-dotted legs and itchy feet, but don’t expect your Costa Rican 5-star hotels or cruise ships anytime soon.
jueves, 10 de julio de 2008
Cartagena
Despite being 4 hours longer, the bus ride from Medellin to Cartagena was more pleasant in every way than was the night I spent arriving from Bogota with someone’s back on my knees and head on my lap. First off, I had an aisle seat which meant only one leg went dead for 12 hours. But it wasn’t just any aisle seat; it was an aisle seat with a long, lean Paisa beauty in its window counterpart. A trade up from being stuck between a cold window and a fat smoker on the way to Medellin. My seat mate’s attractiveness did not help the time go any faster as after an initial conversational spark and my optimistic fantasies of an 11 hour flirty conversation and make out session, she promptly passed out like a drugged baby and never spoke to me again. 11 minute flirty conversation, no make out sesh; I’ll take it. The movie they played was an unimpressive improvement from the previous trip’s Brazilian jungle movie that was dubbed into Spanish by exactly one voice reading for every part. The idiocy in the decision of playing a horribly dubbed movie in which the same monotone male voice reads for men, women and children alike, or even a well dubbed movie, is that no one can hear a word because of the low volume, extreme air conditioning, and the bus driver’s seeming necessity to continuously blare Salsa music from the front cabin in order not to drive into a ditch. I understand that subtitles may be annoying and admittedly see very few foreign films for that reason, but given the choice of being able to maybe understand the English, and definitely read the translation, or have an incomprehensible dubbed mumble, I think most would agree that it is worth a couple of Pesos for the bus company to buy one of the thousands of pirated, subtitled videos for the ride.
Cartagena is a beautiful city…..for exactly 2 hours a day. When the sun gets low in the sky and sets over the ocean, the historic buildings and monuments glow in the evening light, the streets and restaurants are filled with dining tourists mixed with happy, homebound Colombians, and the constant dripping of sweat finally subsides, Cartagena is one of the most beautiful and romantic cities I have ever been to. If Cartagena had the eternal sunsets of a late Norwegian summer, Colombia would no longer need to cultivate cocaine because the tourist money flowing into Cartagena would dwarf the late Pablo Escobar’s drug fortune. But unfortunately sunset only last 2 hours at best, and coke sells for $50 a gram. Walking the streets in the heat of the day, from about 8am till 5pm, provides little pleasure except for the occasional passing of an air conditioned shop where you feel the artificially cooled air lick deliciously at your uncovered knees and toes. I despise shopping, but frequently found myself pretending to be interested in anything from an overpriced piece of art to a training bra, as a means to submerse myself in the cool store air. Post sunset, it is pleasantly warm enough that clothes are worn only for social conformity, not for any personal comfort. Unfortunately, in the later, cooler hours, the streets once filled with happy tourists and Colombians on their way home, are now relinquished to drug dealers, prostitutes and indigents. Cartagena is the perfect sociological reaction of what happens when you mix 2 parts -impoverished local population, with one part -rich tourist. The result- Drugs and Hookers. What unskilled poor people have to offer and what uncultured tourists seem to want. Being one that actively seeks to disassociate myself from tourists, most drug dealers, and nearly all prostitutes, Cartagena is not for me. But it is a popular, safe and growing tourist destination. It amazes me that this city that is so different from the rest of Colombia, is the one place that many Americans and Europeans will fearlessly travel. For me the beauty of Colombia lies in the genuine people that treat you as a person not a tourist, the exquisite natural beauty still undisturbed by high rise hotels and guide-railed moving walkways, the laid back life of the small towns, and the feeling of being somewhere special that few that aren’t from there experience. Cartagena is none of those things, but is solid proof that tourists are sheep and go where their Shepard guidebook leads them.
This may be a harsh description of Cartagena from an admittedly spoiled traveler. For one with limited time or previous experiences in Latin America, Cartagena provides some very important vacation ingredients. First, there is the undeniable exoticism that Colombia provides. Check. You have beaches for lounging and options for boat tours to nearby islands. Check. And you have a safe and beautiful colonial city for affordable shopping, dining, and lodging needs. Like Lebron James when his jump shot is falling, it is a true triple threat. But, with full acknowledgement of its vacation diversity, for me it lacks a specific draw. If you want beach there are thousands better in Colombia alone, and millions if you include the rest of Latin America. If you want a historic, clean, and architecturally interesting city, there is this little place some you might have heard of…….called Europe. If the exotification that the Colombia name provides, allows you to get your vacation-time kicks by sipping daiquiris by a pool while still feeling adventurous, then maybe we have different definitions of “exotic” and “adventure”. But Cartagena is a great first entry into Colombia, and guarantees an excellent romantic weekend in a historically beautiful city. The common tourist blunder is to limit one’s entire vacation to Cartagena, when there is one of the most impressive national parks in the western hemisphere a few hour bus ride away. This park, Parque Tayrona, will be the focus of my next entry and should not be missed by any nature, beach or jungle lover with half an ounce of adventure in their blood. The perfect 10-day Colombian vacation would be to fly into Cartagena for a relaxing couple of days of sight seeing and city enjoyment, followed by 4 or 5 days of remote beaches and jungle hikes in Tayrona, then the last few weekend nights in the beach front, ritzy Rodadero. Maybe go out with a bang of a last night of coke and hookers in Cartagena, unless if you can afford to skip the bus ride back and get a flight out of the Tayrona-jump-off city of Santa Marta (they have coke and hookers too). Unfortunately, the common 10-day Colombian vacation is to fly into Bogota, immediately wonder why, then fly to Cartagena for the same aforementioned enjoyable weekend, but instead of the beautiful beaches of Tayrona and Santa Marta, people now bored by the old city and heat, stay in the new Miami-esque neighborhood of Boca Grande, and bask by the pool of their generic high rise hotels or the unimpressive city beaches of Cartagena. Still fun, maybe exotic, but a shame to miss out on some of the less traveled and prettier roads that Colombia has to offer.
Cartagena is a beautiful city…..for exactly 2 hours a day. When the sun gets low in the sky and sets over the ocean, the historic buildings and monuments glow in the evening light, the streets and restaurants are filled with dining tourists mixed with happy, homebound Colombians, and the constant dripping of sweat finally subsides, Cartagena is one of the most beautiful and romantic cities I have ever been to. If Cartagena had the eternal sunsets of a late Norwegian summer, Colombia would no longer need to cultivate cocaine because the tourist money flowing into Cartagena would dwarf the late Pablo Escobar’s drug fortune. But unfortunately sunset only last 2 hours at best, and coke sells for $50 a gram. Walking the streets in the heat of the day, from about 8am till 5pm, provides little pleasure except for the occasional passing of an air conditioned shop where you feel the artificially cooled air lick deliciously at your uncovered knees and toes. I despise shopping, but frequently found myself pretending to be interested in anything from an overpriced piece of art to a training bra, as a means to submerse myself in the cool store air. Post sunset, it is pleasantly warm enough that clothes are worn only for social conformity, not for any personal comfort. Unfortunately, in the later, cooler hours, the streets once filled with happy tourists and Colombians on their way home, are now relinquished to drug dealers, prostitutes and indigents. Cartagena is the perfect sociological reaction of what happens when you mix 2 parts -impoverished local population, with one part -rich tourist. The result- Drugs and Hookers. What unskilled poor people have to offer and what uncultured tourists seem to want. Being one that actively seeks to disassociate myself from tourists, most drug dealers, and nearly all prostitutes, Cartagena is not for me. But it is a popular, safe and growing tourist destination. It amazes me that this city that is so different from the rest of Colombia, is the one place that many Americans and Europeans will fearlessly travel. For me the beauty of Colombia lies in the genuine people that treat you as a person not a tourist, the exquisite natural beauty still undisturbed by high rise hotels and guide-railed moving walkways, the laid back life of the small towns, and the feeling of being somewhere special that few that aren’t from there experience. Cartagena is none of those things, but is solid proof that tourists are sheep and go where their Shepard guidebook leads them.
This may be a harsh description of Cartagena from an admittedly spoiled traveler. For one with limited time or previous experiences in Latin America, Cartagena provides some very important vacation ingredients. First, there is the undeniable exoticism that Colombia provides. Check. You have beaches for lounging and options for boat tours to nearby islands. Check. And you have a safe and beautiful colonial city for affordable shopping, dining, and lodging needs. Like Lebron James when his jump shot is falling, it is a true triple threat. But, with full acknowledgement of its vacation diversity, for me it lacks a specific draw. If you want beach there are thousands better in Colombia alone, and millions if you include the rest of Latin America. If you want a historic, clean, and architecturally interesting city, there is this little place some you might have heard of…….called Europe. If the exotification that the Colombia name provides, allows you to get your vacation-time kicks by sipping daiquiris by a pool while still feeling adventurous, then maybe we have different definitions of “exotic” and “adventure”. But Cartagena is a great first entry into Colombia, and guarantees an excellent romantic weekend in a historically beautiful city. The common tourist blunder is to limit one’s entire vacation to Cartagena, when there is one of the most impressive national parks in the western hemisphere a few hour bus ride away. This park, Parque Tayrona, will be the focus of my next entry and should not be missed by any nature, beach or jungle lover with half an ounce of adventure in their blood. The perfect 10-day Colombian vacation would be to fly into Cartagena for a relaxing couple of days of sight seeing and city enjoyment, followed by 4 or 5 days of remote beaches and jungle hikes in Tayrona, then the last few weekend nights in the beach front, ritzy Rodadero. Maybe go out with a bang of a last night of coke and hookers in Cartagena, unless if you can afford to skip the bus ride back and get a flight out of the Tayrona-jump-off city of Santa Marta (they have coke and hookers too). Unfortunately, the common 10-day Colombian vacation is to fly into Bogota, immediately wonder why, then fly to Cartagena for the same aforementioned enjoyable weekend, but instead of the beautiful beaches of Tayrona and Santa Marta, people now bored by the old city and heat, stay in the new Miami-esque neighborhood of Boca Grande, and bask by the pool of their generic high rise hotels or the unimpressive city beaches of Cartagena. Still fun, maybe exotic, but a shame to miss out on some of the less traveled and prettier roads that Colombia has to offer.
Metrocable and Baskteball
On one of my last days in Medellin I went to see the newly constructed, and second, Metrocable in the city. The Metrocable is an extension of the city’s great Metro system, but takes the form of a gondola that in America I could only imagine seeing at a ski resort. The original idea was to provide access to the regular Metro, and thus all parts of the city, to one of the poorest barrios that is located on a steep hill outside of the city. Before the first Metrocable was up and running, people in barrio Santo Domingo had to walk down a treacherous slope for 30 minutes, up probably 45, to get access to public transportation (and great calves) and reach the few respective jobs available for the uneducated poor. It is an interesting and progressive concept that was initially funded by the government, but creates revenue from the herds of Paisa tourists that pay the 1000 pesos to experience the modern infrastructure, get a great view of the city, and have an anonymous look at their poverty stricken countrymen. I was skeptical about the exploitation of the people in this neighborhood, and thought that poverty tourism seemed like a disgraceful idea, comparable to hospice tours or vacations in a psycho ward. But upon learning that barrio residents ride free, revenue generated is reinvested into the community, and seeing the positive changes that enfranchising this marginalized population has engendered, I quickly embraced the unique infrastructural development. The second Metrocable, the one I experienced on this day, is of similar design, but seems to have different aims and goals. Instead of reaching only one of the most impoverished neighborhoods, this new, longer gondola spans across overcrowded slums, but the stations are located in lower-middle class neighborhoods. My observational and completely unverified take on the situation is that the this Metrocable is directed at moving people into the middle class, rather than eliminating the abject poverty that previously existed in Santo Domingo. There are vans and micro buses that take people from the slums that the gondola passes over to the stations, making it possible for a previously isolated bread winner to now work in the city and provide a the basic means of survival for their family. But given that the stations are located such that people who are already surviving, albeit struggling, have the easiest access to get better jobs and transform these lower class communities into middle class neighborhoods, I see the same progressive aim with a different target socioeconomic group. I got off at the last station and sat on a bench watching the sun set over the city, reflecting on the contrast between this area’s middle class feel of couples holding hands and buses taking people home, to that of the top station of Santo Domingo’s rural, third world vibe. The humanitarian in me was at first disappointed in the governmental choice to aid those that are not necessarily in the greatest need, but the economist in me quickly bitch-slapped the humanitarian with the logic that there is a far greater long term benefit in expanding a productive middle class, and not just finding a band aid solution for abject poverty. Providing resources to the poorest of the poor is of course important and I was impressed by the change in Santo Domingo after the first Metrocable, but see the greater importance of facilitating the transition into the middle class. Moving the poverty stricken and miserable to just poor and unhappy does little to really improve the quality of life of a population or boost economic output, but if you give the lower classes a higher ceiling, and a chance to truly be enfranchised it can make a long term difference in a country, in an economy, in overall social welfare.
After riding the gondola back down over slums, I got off the regular Metro at my favorite station, Estadio, with hopes of finding a pick up basketball game. The game I found, though it brought me very little enjoyment while playing, was one of the more unique basketball experiences I have ever had. I am a solid recreational baller back home in the States, but here am a 6’ 2’’ Gringo freak on the court. I foresaw no competition from the ratty crew I would be playing against, and had to will myself to even pretend like I was trying when they elected a 45-year-old woman to guard me. But she turned out to be the dirtiest rat-balling bitch I have ever played with. Physical, cheating and mean. I was completely taken aback to be casually dribbling outside the 3-point line and see her come flying at me with a barrage of arm waiving, a few grunts and a knee to my thigh. I tried to laugh it off, despite the throbbing Charlie Horse, but she was no smiles and straight up talked shit that would have made Gary Payton seem like a little choirboy. Before I knew it, instead of effortlessly dominating a game far beneath me, I was sweating, calling fouls, and arguing the score in order to not get run off the court. Her team was a an eclectic mix of two tiny gay guys that shot two-handed set shots like third grade girls, and a 6’4’’ Garnett-like, black guy that, like me, had no business playing in that game. He blocked my shots, out rebounded me, and dunked on me so violently that it took days to get the vision of his crotch flying towards my face out of my mind. But that I could handle. Though I didn’t enjoy the crotch to face trauma, his impressive skills legitimized my effort on the court. What hurt was that the gay duo not only drained every moon ball shot they threw up and crazy, slashing drive they attempted, but the shit they talked stung like a verbal midget kick to the nuts.. I am usually pretty quick with the tongue, especially in the heat of basketball competition, but when a 4’9’’ Latino with a gay lisp was wagging his finger in my face and ironically calling me a “marica” (fag), I was too shocked for words. It turned into a hard fought battle with shades of the NBA finals. Their big 3 of garbage ball Celtics, with Garnett, and the Latino, homosexual dwarf version of Paul Pierce and Ray Allen……..I was Kobe, forcing shots and hogging the ball, but willing our undermanned and outplayed team to stay in the series. Like real life, Garbage Celts in six.
I got a bloody nose at the end of the game from a flailing elbow by the dirty rat-baller, and saw an interesting cultural and economic metaphor in the events that transpired. I went from our covered, outdoor court into the gymnasium in hope of stopping the bleeding. There were no public bathrooms (hence the urine smell in the corner of the court) and no paper towels to plug up my dripping nose. I asked the woman in charge of the gym if there was a bathroom that had paper towels or anything to keep me from leaving a trail of blood back to my apartment, and she pulled out a wadded up napkin from her pocket. The metaphor being the lack of economic resources to provide the facilities Americans are used to, and also the lack of health education to think that a snotty napkin is what I should use to stick in my gushing nose, but also the desire to please and give whatever one has to help another in need. I see this daily in other aspects of Colombian life as well. Frequently someone without the resources to really offer anything of much of value will still offer whatever they have. Whether it be offering a place to sleep in an overcrowded, under-bedded house, or something to eat when food is obviously scarce, directions though they have no idea what they are talking about, or a disease infected napkin to stick in a an open wound, Colombians, though maybe lacking the means, want to give, want to please, want to help.
After riding the gondola back down over slums, I got off the regular Metro at my favorite station, Estadio, with hopes of finding a pick up basketball game. The game I found, though it brought me very little enjoyment while playing, was one of the more unique basketball experiences I have ever had. I am a solid recreational baller back home in the States, but here am a 6’ 2’’ Gringo freak on the court. I foresaw no competition from the ratty crew I would be playing against, and had to will myself to even pretend like I was trying when they elected a 45-year-old woman to guard me. But she turned out to be the dirtiest rat-balling bitch I have ever played with. Physical, cheating and mean. I was completely taken aback to be casually dribbling outside the 3-point line and see her come flying at me with a barrage of arm waiving, a few grunts and a knee to my thigh. I tried to laugh it off, despite the throbbing Charlie Horse, but she was no smiles and straight up talked shit that would have made Gary Payton seem like a little choirboy. Before I knew it, instead of effortlessly dominating a game far beneath me, I was sweating, calling fouls, and arguing the score in order to not get run off the court. Her team was a an eclectic mix of two tiny gay guys that shot two-handed set shots like third grade girls, and a 6’4’’ Garnett-like, black guy that, like me, had no business playing in that game. He blocked my shots, out rebounded me, and dunked on me so violently that it took days to get the vision of his crotch flying towards my face out of my mind. But that I could handle. Though I didn’t enjoy the crotch to face trauma, his impressive skills legitimized my effort on the court. What hurt was that the gay duo not only drained every moon ball shot they threw up and crazy, slashing drive they attempted, but the shit they talked stung like a verbal midget kick to the nuts.. I am usually pretty quick with the tongue, especially in the heat of basketball competition, but when a 4’9’’ Latino with a gay lisp was wagging his finger in my face and ironically calling me a “marica” (fag), I was too shocked for words. It turned into a hard fought battle with shades of the NBA finals. Their big 3 of garbage ball Celtics, with Garnett, and the Latino, homosexual dwarf version of Paul Pierce and Ray Allen……..I was Kobe, forcing shots and hogging the ball, but willing our undermanned and outplayed team to stay in the series. Like real life, Garbage Celts in six.
I got a bloody nose at the end of the game from a flailing elbow by the dirty rat-baller, and saw an interesting cultural and economic metaphor in the events that transpired. I went from our covered, outdoor court into the gymnasium in hope of stopping the bleeding. There were no public bathrooms (hence the urine smell in the corner of the court) and no paper towels to plug up my dripping nose. I asked the woman in charge of the gym if there was a bathroom that had paper towels or anything to keep me from leaving a trail of blood back to my apartment, and she pulled out a wadded up napkin from her pocket. The metaphor being the lack of economic resources to provide the facilities Americans are used to, and also the lack of health education to think that a snotty napkin is what I should use to stick in my gushing nose, but also the desire to please and give whatever one has to help another in need. I see this daily in other aspects of Colombian life as well. Frequently someone without the resources to really offer anything of much of value will still offer whatever they have. Whether it be offering a place to sleep in an overcrowded, under-bedded house, or something to eat when food is obviously scarce, directions though they have no idea what they are talking about, or a disease infected napkin to stick in a an open wound, Colombians, though maybe lacking the means, want to give, want to please, want to help.
miércoles, 2 de julio de 2008
Colombian Fashion
I by no means have a keen eye for style and fashion, but there are two distinctive trends that caught my attention among Colombian women. One I get, one baffles me beyond comprehension. Whether augmented or natural, perky or saggy, Colombian women shamelessly show off their boobs so much that it makes even the sluttiest of American girls look conservative. This is the one I get. A timelessly proven winner that has attracted the gaze of men since the invent of the wheel, or at least alcohol. What is shocking to see, is both the degree to which the rack is revealed and the seemingly lack of importance of the attractiveness of said rack. From silicon-filled push up bras that nearly block the esophagus, to gravity stricken saggers that drop below the waistline, Colombian boobs are in your face. Mesh shirts with only bras underneath are common. The cleavage line, that’s novelty leads to arousal in the States, not to mention an uncovered shoulder or ear lobe that turns a man on in many more conservative cultures, is hardly worth a second glance in Colombia. The sight of bottom boob and the concave chest valley in between two mountains cause no surprise, and unless you see nipple, which is not out of the realm of possibility, all is fair fashion game.
The other trend, which I Rea-ea-ea-lly (Dr. Cox from Scrubs, not Ace Ventura) don’t get, is the ridiculous shaving, plucking or waxing of eyebrows so you can redraw them on the way you wished they had originally looked. In this age of cosmetic enhancement and purchasable beauty I understand the concept of materialistic alteration, but there is a major flaw in this idiotic trend….. your new eyebrows have NO HAIR! You look like a freaking clown. This is the equivalent of a bald guy taking a Sharpy to his head, but worse…..because he is only bald cause he waxed off his original hair to begin with. Do they think people don’t notice that where there is suppose to be a natural and tangible substance we call hair, there is now just a immaculately drawn and symmetrically placed line? Unlike the enhancement or just blatant showing off the aforementioned important feature in the minds of most guys, eyebrows are sex-less and forgettable, with only one important characteristic; that they exist. Wax a uni-brow, pluck a bushy brow, even dye a brow with unflattering tint, but to give up the actual texture of an eyebrow for the perfect color, symmetry and fineness is utterly moronic. I am so dumbfounded by the fashion logic of this one that it has now edged out smoking cigarettes on my “things you can due to ensure I will never date you” list.
As I said before, and my friends and former girlfriends would attest to, I am far from a fashion genius. I am rarely tuned in to my own fashion statements, and much less those of others. Unless it is eye-popping bustiness that brings me back to the days of late night Cinemax, or a painted on face that takes me to images of a Bozo the Clown birthday party, style is lost on me. In my own dress I frequently opt for personal comfort over aesthetically pleasing. Even in the States I will wear sweat pants rather than jeans, flip flops to clubs, and sometimes look like I must be going to or coming from the gym despite rarely working out. Here I am similarly out of touch with what I probably should be wearing. I have given up on blending in and frequently stumble through the Centro in my American style cargo shorts, flip-flops and T-shirts attracting more attention than I want, but oh-so comfortable in the heat. Though self-conscious in both definitions; being aware of how one fits into the world around them and thus not a completely oblivious idiot, and the more traditionally used nervousness and unnecessary preoccupation and over-analysis of how one is perceived, I frequently fail to include my fashion statements in the neurosis. The other day I was on the Metro to go to play basketball when it was pointed out that with my Red and White shoes, Red shorts, and Blue and White jersey I looked the American flag…..carrying a basketball. Classic Gringo. A day later I unintentionally found myself wearing a Brazil T-shirt, a Brazil backpack, Havaianas, and carrying a soccer ball. It took me a while to grasp why people were greeting me in broken Portuguese. Self-conscious, but still an oblivious idiot in my fashion statements. But I have hair everywhere where it should be, and only show off my augmented yet still saggy junk when socially appropriate.
The other trend, which I Rea-ea-ea-lly (Dr. Cox from Scrubs, not Ace Ventura) don’t get, is the ridiculous shaving, plucking or waxing of eyebrows so you can redraw them on the way you wished they had originally looked. In this age of cosmetic enhancement and purchasable beauty I understand the concept of materialistic alteration, but there is a major flaw in this idiotic trend….. your new eyebrows have NO HAIR! You look like a freaking clown. This is the equivalent of a bald guy taking a Sharpy to his head, but worse…..because he is only bald cause he waxed off his original hair to begin with. Do they think people don’t notice that where there is suppose to be a natural and tangible substance we call hair, there is now just a immaculately drawn and symmetrically placed line? Unlike the enhancement or just blatant showing off the aforementioned important feature in the minds of most guys, eyebrows are sex-less and forgettable, with only one important characteristic; that they exist. Wax a uni-brow, pluck a bushy brow, even dye a brow with unflattering tint, but to give up the actual texture of an eyebrow for the perfect color, symmetry and fineness is utterly moronic. I am so dumbfounded by the fashion logic of this one that it has now edged out smoking cigarettes on my “things you can due to ensure I will never date you” list.
As I said before, and my friends and former girlfriends would attest to, I am far from a fashion genius. I am rarely tuned in to my own fashion statements, and much less those of others. Unless it is eye-popping bustiness that brings me back to the days of late night Cinemax, or a painted on face that takes me to images of a Bozo the Clown birthday party, style is lost on me. In my own dress I frequently opt for personal comfort over aesthetically pleasing. Even in the States I will wear sweat pants rather than jeans, flip flops to clubs, and sometimes look like I must be going to or coming from the gym despite rarely working out. Here I am similarly out of touch with what I probably should be wearing. I have given up on blending in and frequently stumble through the Centro in my American style cargo shorts, flip-flops and T-shirts attracting more attention than I want, but oh-so comfortable in the heat. Though self-conscious in both definitions; being aware of how one fits into the world around them and thus not a completely oblivious idiot, and the more traditionally used nervousness and unnecessary preoccupation and over-analysis of how one is perceived, I frequently fail to include my fashion statements in the neurosis. The other day I was on the Metro to go to play basketball when it was pointed out that with my Red and White shoes, Red shorts, and Blue and White jersey I looked the American flag…..carrying a basketball. Classic Gringo. A day later I unintentionally found myself wearing a Brazil T-shirt, a Brazil backpack, Havaianas, and carrying a soccer ball. It took me a while to grasp why people were greeting me in broken Portuguese. Self-conscious, but still an oblivious idiot in my fashion statements. But I have hair everywhere where it should be, and only show off my augmented yet still saggy junk when socially appropriate.
miércoles, 25 de junio de 2008
Parque Lleras and the Medellin nightlife
The weekends of my previous stays in Medellin were rewards of debauchery for getting up to teach an intra-week 6am English class. Two of my fellow English teaching friends and I would without fail have rum and cokes on our balcony, then stumble up the road to a modern wonder overlooked by the recent selection committee. Parque Lleras. Situated in the center of the ritzy El Poblado, during the day this park is pleasant enough. A statue, a fountain, trees, benches...but then the sun sets, and the bars and restaurants surrounding the park fill up with the beautiful, rich and plastic of Medellin. I would guess there are about 50 high-class bars/restaurants in the 2-block radius of Lleras, all completely packed with suit-wearing yuppie guys and the silicon-filled dresses that accompany them. Not owning a suit myself nor keen on the overly augmented, I would relegate myself to cheap litros of beers in the plaza, and make occasional people-watching strolls to ogle the elites in their bars like cages at a zoo. The plaza would fill up with an equally beautiful, but younger (and cheaper) clientele, so that despite my age nearing 30 I thought it suited me for obvious bank account reasons. The nights would always progress from us three Gringos gawking and drinking, to inevitably one of us having drunk enough to start a random Spanish conversation. The irony of this need to drink and stand around like a herd of mute sheep before starting the social quest of the night is that unlike in the States, in Colombia I have never had an intro to a conversation go poorly. And I have said some pretty butchered and stupid things. The response, though not always bearing romantic fruit, is always warm, curious, and usually followed up shortly with a half shot of guaro in a plastic cup. Drinking and conversations usually continue till past midnight, when the park begins to empty as thick tongues and loose bodies motivate the masses to the nearby discotecas. After a couple hours of dancing to what seems like the same playlist at every bar, every night, my favorite part of the night was the remate (afterparty) at Parque Poblado. This park, despite its proximity to Lleras, has a whole different vibe. The per capita ounce of silicon in Lleras is equaled by the per capita ounce of marijuana at Parque Poblado. An eclectic vibe of alternative thinking students, post-party plastics, pot dealers and upper middle class stoners embodies the park. This is the place that a non-Spanish speaker could come for utterly safe people watching, paralleled only by NYC (except New York is not as safe), or one that does habla Espanol can have some of the more interesting, albeit slightly drunken, conversations. Despite the recipe for violence engendered by the time of 4am, the nightly alcohol consumption of the park needing to be measured in swimming pools, and the mixing of socio-economic groups and political opinions, the park is incredibly pacific and safe. There is a police station located on the premises, but instead of cracking down on harmless marijuana smoke or underage drinking, the police truly embrace their role of being peacekeepers and stay out of the way, but provide security through their passive presence. I am convinced that an after hours park like this in the States would be a disaster. Frat boys who came down from Lleras frustrated they will not wake up to two silicon pillows would fight, police would harass and write tickets, teenagers would over drink and vomit, and the park would get condemned as a cesspool of sin by the upper middle class neighbors. In Colombia though it is a safe, fun and at times even an educational alternative (or compliment) to loud discotecas and late night drunk driving.
This trip, without the company of my Gringo cohorts, I find myself sticking to the Salsa bars and Parque Periodista in my neighborhood in the Centro. This park is to Parque Poblado what Parque Poblado is to Lleras; the slightly more alternative, uglier, cousin. A cloud of low grade marijuana smoke hovers over the park at all times, and if it weren’t for the contrasting odor of urine brought on by a bathroom-less hot spot, I could probably smell weed from my balcony. The style is the US equivalent of Emo rockers, but there music taste hasn’t evolved past liking the once popular 90’s indy-rock and hating the current Colombian or American pop. Dropping hip names of up and coming Euro bands is fruitless, but say you hate Shakira and you are golden. The crowd borders on sketchy, and your typical upper-middle class Paisa would think I am crazy for avoiding a $3.00 cab ride to Lleras, but the education level, laid back style, and insightful conversations make it a culturally interesting hang out for this trip.
Trying to find my niche in a foreign social scene is always a challenge if not impossibility. Given my American status and white skin, I can play the Lleras game, but would never go to its US equivalent. My left wing view points and education makes Parque Periodista good conversational fun, but again, I wouldn’t hang out with the smart, alternatives druggies under the bridge in the States either. The upper middle class stoner argument could be made for Parque Poblado, an undeniably good argument, but there too I am not quite socially at home and can’t make it my go-to spot. Truthfully, being the “tweener” that I am, I love playing to the extremes of both sides of my social spectrum and feel that I get a broader range of cultural experience than I would if I could identify with a social scene that fits who my American self truly is.
This trip, without the company of my Gringo cohorts, I find myself sticking to the Salsa bars and Parque Periodista in my neighborhood in the Centro. This park is to Parque Poblado what Parque Poblado is to Lleras; the slightly more alternative, uglier, cousin. A cloud of low grade marijuana smoke hovers over the park at all times, and if it weren’t for the contrasting odor of urine brought on by a bathroom-less hot spot, I could probably smell weed from my balcony. The style is the US equivalent of Emo rockers, but there music taste hasn’t evolved past liking the once popular 90’s indy-rock and hating the current Colombian or American pop. Dropping hip names of up and coming Euro bands is fruitless, but say you hate Shakira and you are golden. The crowd borders on sketchy, and your typical upper-middle class Paisa would think I am crazy for avoiding a $3.00 cab ride to Lleras, but the education level, laid back style, and insightful conversations make it a culturally interesting hang out for this trip.
Trying to find my niche in a foreign social scene is always a challenge if not impossibility. Given my American status and white skin, I can play the Lleras game, but would never go to its US equivalent. My left wing view points and education makes Parque Periodista good conversational fun, but again, I wouldn’t hang out with the smart, alternatives druggies under the bridge in the States either. The upper middle class stoner argument could be made for Parque Poblado, an undeniably good argument, but there too I am not quite socially at home and can’t make it my go-to spot. Truthfully, being the “tweener” that I am, I love playing to the extremes of both sides of my social spectrum and feel that I get a broader range of cultural experience than I would if I could identify with a social scene that fits who my American self truly is.
A day in the woods
I awoke Monday morning replaying a thought I had on my balcony Sunday night- “I don’t have a damn thing to do today”. Admittedly, I have never been the 9-5 type, and might make a run at the Guinness Book of World Records for fewest total hours worked by age 30 for a debt-free, non-junky; but even for me a completely empty Monday was off-putting. Trying my best to take advantage of a city that is undeniably a place to live and work, not be a tourist, I hopped a bus into the surrounding hillside to explore. I headed toward Santa Elena, a flower-filled pueblo popular among college Paisas as a place to go eat psychedelic mushrooms. Shroom-less and not really sure what I was looking for, I got off at the bus stop that most closely resembled civilization. I felt out of place to say the least, even more so than I am becoming accustomed to in Medellin. I meandered over to a local-filled bar trying to pretend I had a clue what I was doing, though wearing sandals and carrying a soccer ball made it quite obvious to everyone that I didn’t. I quickly sucked down a black, sweet liquid that claimed to be coffee, and asked if there was a hike or a soccer game nearby. Though intrigued by my optimism for a pick up soccer game in the middle of nowhere (in my defense there was at least a soccer field), I was pointed back the way I had came by bus as to where the tourists go to hike. Still not sure what kind of jewel of nature I would find, or even expected, I made my way off the main drag with the lone goal of finding a nice view overlooking Medellin by sunset. I walked along a paved but narrow road suitable for cars, that quickly became far more suited for horses or dirt bikes, and eventually narrowed so much that I wondered how I would fare on my dark return. Knowing I was within meters of a beautiful view, and now minutes of a setting sun, I picked up my pace in hopes of both achieving my previously stated goal, and not spending the night alone in a Colombian forest. Seconds after I had talked myself out of desperately going off the path to bushwhack to the view I was sure was on the other side of a few sets of trees, I finally came upon a beautiful clearing. To my surprise given the hour I had walked in utter solitude, there was a group of local teenagers there that recommended a faster way to get back to civilization, and smartly left before the sun dropped behind the city. I was not so smart, and wanted to revel in the completion of my day’s accomplishment, so I sat mapping out the different barrios in which I had once lived in the distant grid of the lit up city. Eventually I came back to the reality that even the local kids wanted some light to guide their way home, and started to head back.
The decision of whether to cautiously return the way I had come knowing it was to be long and dark, or to follow the advice of some kids who could be waiting for me in the bushes, was my first of many challenges in getting back to the glowing city below me. I opted with the more adventurous, and hopefully shorter route. A half hour later and with the stress of a worried parent just below the surface of an adventurous smile, I was questioning my route….. my choice of the day’s activities….and why I even came to Colombia at all. I then mercifully saw another person walking towards me who assured me that I was on the right path and the comforts of the pueblito were just 10 minutes away. My stress subsided like that of the parent whose child has called with a plausible lie of their whereabouts. No more than 2 minutes later, after specifically asking if there were any forks in the road, I get to a point where I either cut through someone’s farmland or continue on a ever-diminishing trail. Since there was an intended absence of barbed wire big enough even for my huge Gringo body to get through, I opted to go towards the farmhouses. I was happy with my choice as leaving the brush of the forest yielded a slight bit more light, but quickly began to question my judgment when about six harmless but loud dogs came running at me. Worse than the dogs was an awful shriek, not moo, of a cow in the yard that made it very clear to me that this was not a path frequented by many. This was one mad cow that I was afraid of. I quickly retreated and promptly explored my other option only to get myself confused (and thankful not to be shrooming), and almost so turned around that I couldn’t even get back to the salvation of a crazy cow. Feeling I had a better chance riding this bucking cow to safety than bushwhacking my way back to Medellin in the dark, I returned to face my newly acquired Cow-phobia. Again I was put to ease by seeing another more cow-savvy person, and again I was told I was almost to town.
Here is the cultural rub. Something I know and have joked about, but can’t seem to recognize when in the moment. Latinos are horrible with directions. And I mean this with no racism or stereotypes, nor do I mean they can’t follow directions or get themselves where they need to go. It has to do with giving directions. First, no one will just say they don’t know. Their desire to be helpful, friendly and give you the answer you want to hear screws not them, but the one they are trying to help. The direction asker is subjected to the 50-50 directional whim of which hand they point with, then a 1-60 even odds chance of the number of minutes it will take you to walk. My Colombian girlfriend once gave detailed directions to somebody to a place I knew she had never heard of. When I asked her why she sent the poor sap on an impossible goose chase, she said, “I didn’t want to be rude”.
So, now at least an hour from the “10-minute point”, through a heard of angry cows and killer dogs, skirting barbed wire fences and taking multiple different turns I was on a paved street and could smell the empanadas coming from town. That is why I was so surprised to eventually pop out at a corner store that was said to be a 15-minute bus-ride from town. Utterly confused as to where I was, where I went wrong, and what the hell the people that had given me directions were smoking, I stopped fighting it, got a juice and waited for the bus. Given the experience I had, the spot I was standing and the growing suspicion that maybe I really was shrooming, I thought the chances of a bus passing were about as good as the chances of Kobe opting to pass instead of shoot a three to win. But as is my luck with these random adventures, a mystical bus pulled up and I asked the bus driver in desperate and accented Spanish
“Where are you going?”
He replied “where would you like to go?”
“To Medellin” I optimistically stated.
“Lets go to Medellin, then”
I got on the bus, put my headphones back in, and contentedly gorged myself with those tiny caramels that you used to get by the handful at Halloween. Life was good.
The decision of whether to cautiously return the way I had come knowing it was to be long and dark, or to follow the advice of some kids who could be waiting for me in the bushes, was my first of many challenges in getting back to the glowing city below me. I opted with the more adventurous, and hopefully shorter route. A half hour later and with the stress of a worried parent just below the surface of an adventurous smile, I was questioning my route….. my choice of the day’s activities….and why I even came to Colombia at all. I then mercifully saw another person walking towards me who assured me that I was on the right path and the comforts of the pueblito were just 10 minutes away. My stress subsided like that of the parent whose child has called with a plausible lie of their whereabouts. No more than 2 minutes later, after specifically asking if there were any forks in the road, I get to a point where I either cut through someone’s farmland or continue on a ever-diminishing trail. Since there was an intended absence of barbed wire big enough even for my huge Gringo body to get through, I opted to go towards the farmhouses. I was happy with my choice as leaving the brush of the forest yielded a slight bit more light, but quickly began to question my judgment when about six harmless but loud dogs came running at me. Worse than the dogs was an awful shriek, not moo, of a cow in the yard that made it very clear to me that this was not a path frequented by many. This was one mad cow that I was afraid of. I quickly retreated and promptly explored my other option only to get myself confused (and thankful not to be shrooming), and almost so turned around that I couldn’t even get back to the salvation of a crazy cow. Feeling I had a better chance riding this bucking cow to safety than bushwhacking my way back to Medellin in the dark, I returned to face my newly acquired Cow-phobia. Again I was put to ease by seeing another more cow-savvy person, and again I was told I was almost to town.
Here is the cultural rub. Something I know and have joked about, but can’t seem to recognize when in the moment. Latinos are horrible with directions. And I mean this with no racism or stereotypes, nor do I mean they can’t follow directions or get themselves where they need to go. It has to do with giving directions. First, no one will just say they don’t know. Their desire to be helpful, friendly and give you the answer you want to hear screws not them, but the one they are trying to help. The direction asker is subjected to the 50-50 directional whim of which hand they point with, then a 1-60 even odds chance of the number of minutes it will take you to walk. My Colombian girlfriend once gave detailed directions to somebody to a place I knew she had never heard of. When I asked her why she sent the poor sap on an impossible goose chase, she said, “I didn’t want to be rude”.
So, now at least an hour from the “10-minute point”, through a heard of angry cows and killer dogs, skirting barbed wire fences and taking multiple different turns I was on a paved street and could smell the empanadas coming from town. That is why I was so surprised to eventually pop out at a corner store that was said to be a 15-minute bus-ride from town. Utterly confused as to where I was, where I went wrong, and what the hell the people that had given me directions were smoking, I stopped fighting it, got a juice and waited for the bus. Given the experience I had, the spot I was standing and the growing suspicion that maybe I really was shrooming, I thought the chances of a bus passing were about as good as the chances of Kobe opting to pass instead of shoot a three to win. But as is my luck with these random adventures, a mystical bus pulled up and I asked the bus driver in desperate and accented Spanish
“Where are you going?”
He replied “where would you like to go?”
“To Medellin” I optimistically stated.
“Lets go to Medellin, then”
I got on the bus, put my headphones back in, and contentedly gorged myself with those tiny caramels that you used to get by the handful at Halloween. Life was good.
domingo, 8 de junio de 2008
A weekend in a pueblo
For my first weekend in Medellin I opted to forgo the anatomically enhanced Parque Lleras for a pueblo an hour outside of the city. Lleras is a phenomenon like no other in terms of beautiful people per square foot, and in my previous trips I felt like a Gringo kid in a Latin candy store on most Friday nights. But this weekend was for nature, tranquility, and escaping the bustle of the big city, and Lleras deserves a night and an entry of its own. Santa Fe de Antioquia is one of a dozen pueblos within a few hours of Medellin that Paisa city dwellers frequent for long weekends and holidays. These pueblos vary greatly in climate due to the mountainous landscape, and one can literally choose if they want to leave the moderate temperature of Medellin for hot and sunny, or cold and crisp by traveling an hour in either direction. The norm for middle class to elite Paisas is not to go to the pueblo center, but to a finca (Literally “farm” but seems to really just mean “house not in the city”). Every Paisa will at least tell you they own a finca…..and have a cousin in Miami.
The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.
The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.
Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.
The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.
When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.
I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.
With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.
After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.
The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.
The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.
Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.
The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.
When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.
I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.
With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.
After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.
martes, 27 de mayo de 2008
Bogota to Medellin
I arrived to Medellin at 7am after a torturous night on a bus that was obviously designed by bitter Latino midgets to get back at us tall Gringos in the world. As I am sure every Colombia guidebook states, overnight bus travel is not recommended. But the fine print that fails to show up in your “Lonely Planet” is that it is not recommended for people over 5’10’’ with tight knees, not for any former dangers of kidnappings or bus robberies. Groggy, and with the imprint of the fully reclined seat in front of my still on both knees, I fought the urge of adventurous cheapness and forwent the Metro for a cab to my friends apartment in the Centro. 10 minutes and a mere 4 dollars later I got dropped off on a rainy street corner with all my belongings; including a lap top, 2 tourist suitcases, and in case the giant blonde haired Gringo in the Centro didn’t look out of place enough, I had a tennis racket to ensure I looked utterly lost and confused. I was happy to find the apartment with limited laps around the block, even happier with my decision to minimize my rainy walk and public exposure with the taxi ride, and then happiest of all to settle into a deep morning sleep reveling in the forgotten comfort of having both legs fully extended.
I awoke from a dirty mid-afternoon slumber with the regrets setting in of my “odd”, to say the least, choice of abandoning a cushy life in San Diego to revisit Colombia. What if I had over-romanticized it in my more youthful trips? What if it has changed for the worse? And most importantly, what the fuck am I going to do for a month here? In my past trips I had worked, albeit a slacker schedule of 20 hours a week, but it gave structure to the day. My friend, who has hardly left Medellin since I introduced him to the city 4 years ago, now had a whole scene of his own and it was me who was the Spanish weak link and socially dependent on him. A stark contrast to the dynamic between us in my last visit. With the regrets hidden behind an excited smile I left to explore the streets of my favorite big city. I walked through the action packed pedestrian streets of the Centro noting they relative absence of poverty or homelessness. Of course it was far from Rodeo Drive, as the gentrification of a city center that we see in the US, gives way to the classist stratification of neighborhoods in Latin America. But the vibe was that of a middle-class working population and was not poverty-ridden or sketchy as other Latin cities frequently are. I boarded the Metro that I had been so thoroughly impressed by in previous visits, to find that it was still just as impeccably clean with the same culture of respect and pride by commuters. No eating, no drinking, no smoking, no pushing, no running, no yelling; New York’s subways would be happy with just no pissing. I stand in the crowded car looking over the tops of most heads to see eyes darting off me as if they were doing “the wave” at a sporting event. At home I am your average, 6-foot, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, middle class American; here I am a freak. A phenomenon. A mystery. People light up in smiles when I ask a simple question in my good, but accented Spanish, and frequently a question as mundane as “Vos sabes que hora es?” (Do you know what time it is?) will lead to an in depth conversation about why I am here, American politics, and how great Colombia is. They are very nationalistic and take great pride in the improving state of their country.
I got off the Metro and went to a café for some world famous Colombian coffee. The irony of this coffee producing reputation is that the coffee they drink here tastes something like a cup of coffee from Denny’s mixed with luke-warm water and a bunch of sugar…served in a 4oz plastic cup. I’m used to a 20oz Starbuck’s dark roasts with a splash of cream, so here I need a coffee IV constantly running into my veins to reach the same level of caffeination. I sometimes ask them to fill up my American-sized to go coffee mug and get looked at as if I obviously mis-spoke and am pointed in the direction of a dealer of Colombia's other famous export if I want to get that cracked out . I have asked Colombians about this difference in coffee culture and learned two things. One is that Colombia exports all its best coffee to richer countries with greater coffee sophistication and brews only the dregs for its own people. And second, it is just as it is in the non-coasts of the US, that the masses prefer diner or instant coffee and Budweiser, my northwest upbringing of dark roasts and microbrews is not shared by many of my countrymen, let alone a culture with a history of problems far greater than if they want a skinny latte or a mocha.
I left unsatisfied in the caffeine department, but had enjoyed watching the bustle of people on the busy street corner. Next I walked through a residential neighborhood that if you changed the salsa music for N-sync would have passed as any-town, USA. I ended up at the soccer stadium that doubles as a Mecca for all sports, fitness and recreation activities of Medellin. Being a sports-lover myself, when I first stumbled upon this facility I walked through in a slow wonderment, and quickly made plans to just pitch a tent on one of many grassy fields and live there. On this day the rain had driven away a lot of the normal action, but there were still pick up games of slippery street soccer, hard bodies in beach attire playing sand volleyball, European handball games, and organized kids basketball games with parents on the sidelines and orange slices at halftime just like home. Unfortunately my hopes of dropping in on a pick up basketball game were trumped by the kids, and I contented myself being a spectator and fantasizing about how I could have dominated the 12-year old girl’s game I was watching.
Eventually I made my way back home with the regrets that started out the day fading and the plans of how to enjoy this city for the next month dancing in my head. One uneventful day walking through my old haunts, and I had remembered why I made that aforementioned “odd” choice to come here.
I awoke from a dirty mid-afternoon slumber with the regrets setting in of my “odd”, to say the least, choice of abandoning a cushy life in San Diego to revisit Colombia. What if I had over-romanticized it in my more youthful trips? What if it has changed for the worse? And most importantly, what the fuck am I going to do for a month here? In my past trips I had worked, albeit a slacker schedule of 20 hours a week, but it gave structure to the day. My friend, who has hardly left Medellin since I introduced him to the city 4 years ago, now had a whole scene of his own and it was me who was the Spanish weak link and socially dependent on him. A stark contrast to the dynamic between us in my last visit. With the regrets hidden behind an excited smile I left to explore the streets of my favorite big city. I walked through the action packed pedestrian streets of the Centro noting they relative absence of poverty or homelessness. Of course it was far from Rodeo Drive, as the gentrification of a city center that we see in the US, gives way to the classist stratification of neighborhoods in Latin America. But the vibe was that of a middle-class working population and was not poverty-ridden or sketchy as other Latin cities frequently are. I boarded the Metro that I had been so thoroughly impressed by in previous visits, to find that it was still just as impeccably clean with the same culture of respect and pride by commuters. No eating, no drinking, no smoking, no pushing, no running, no yelling; New York’s subways would be happy with just no pissing. I stand in the crowded car looking over the tops of most heads to see eyes darting off me as if they were doing “the wave” at a sporting event. At home I am your average, 6-foot, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, middle class American; here I am a freak. A phenomenon. A mystery. People light up in smiles when I ask a simple question in my good, but accented Spanish, and frequently a question as mundane as “Vos sabes que hora es?” (Do you know what time it is?) will lead to an in depth conversation about why I am here, American politics, and how great Colombia is. They are very nationalistic and take great pride in the improving state of their country.
I got off the Metro and went to a café for some world famous Colombian coffee. The irony of this coffee producing reputation is that the coffee they drink here tastes something like a cup of coffee from Denny’s mixed with luke-warm water and a bunch of sugar…served in a 4oz plastic cup. I’m used to a 20oz Starbuck’s dark roasts with a splash of cream, so here I need a coffee IV constantly running into my veins to reach the same level of caffeination. I sometimes ask them to fill up my American-sized to go coffee mug and get looked at as if I obviously mis-spoke and am pointed in the direction of a dealer of Colombia's other famous export if I want to get that cracked out . I have asked Colombians about this difference in coffee culture and learned two things. One is that Colombia exports all its best coffee to richer countries with greater coffee sophistication and brews only the dregs for its own people. And second, it is just as it is in the non-coasts of the US, that the masses prefer diner or instant coffee and Budweiser, my northwest upbringing of dark roasts and microbrews is not shared by many of my countrymen, let alone a culture with a history of problems far greater than if they want a skinny latte or a mocha.
I left unsatisfied in the caffeine department, but had enjoyed watching the bustle of people on the busy street corner. Next I walked through a residential neighborhood that if you changed the salsa music for N-sync would have passed as any-town, USA. I ended up at the soccer stadium that doubles as a Mecca for all sports, fitness and recreation activities of Medellin. Being a sports-lover myself, when I first stumbled upon this facility I walked through in a slow wonderment, and quickly made plans to just pitch a tent on one of many grassy fields and live there. On this day the rain had driven away a lot of the normal action, but there were still pick up games of slippery street soccer, hard bodies in beach attire playing sand volleyball, European handball games, and organized kids basketball games with parents on the sidelines and orange slices at halftime just like home. Unfortunately my hopes of dropping in on a pick up basketball game were trumped by the kids, and I contented myself being a spectator and fantasizing about how I could have dominated the 12-year old girl’s game I was watching.
Eventually I made my way back home with the regrets that started out the day fading and the plans of how to enjoy this city for the next month dancing in my head. One uneventful day walking through my old haunts, and I had remembered why I made that aforementioned “odd” choice to come here.
miércoles, 21 de mayo de 2008
Back to Colombia
Colombia. A country that evokes images of cocaine, bloodshed, and poverty. A place where political corruption and guerrilla revolution have clashed and combined to strip the image of Colombia down to that of a drug-filled thug haven . Your travel agent probably considers Colombia about as much as an architect considers putting a toilet in your kitchen. But there is something missing from the information the average American has on which to base his/her opinions about Colombia. They are missing the experience of walking the plaza in a Colombian pueblo, of taking the spotless Metro through the safe streets of Medellin, of hiking jungle trails to the remote beaches of Parque Tairona, and most importantly of meeting and enjoying the company of a Colombian.
When I was boarding my flight into Bogota, I met 2 other Americans. I usually have headphones in and a distant stare out the window on airplanes, and pretend to not speak whatever language the chatty frequent flyer next to me speaks. But on this flight something got my headphones off and eye contact made. We shared little in terms cultural background or personal style. One was a 22-year old alternative kid with a lip ring and tattoo; one was a late-thirties businessman from Miami (not the business your thinking). I, myself, am a classic “tweener”. Too clean cut and sporty to be alternative, to liberal and lazy to be a young yuppie. What the three of us shared was the experience of Colombia. There was a look, a clichéd glimmer, in each of our eyes when we spoke about why we were going back to Colombia. Little had to be said, because we each already knew. The people are amazing. Friendly and curious, their warmth and hospitality leads not only to intelligent single serving conversations, but lasting friendships and connections. Of course there are beautiful landscapes, jungles, mountains and beaches, as can be expected, and is even common among many of the worlds developing nations, but it is the day to day interactions and overall pleasantness that I think is the unique and unknown charm that makes those of us that come, want to stay.
In this blog I will describe some of my unique interactions in my daily life in Medellin, Colombia. I will try to paint an honest picture of both the city of Medellin and its people, comically pointing out the ironies and flaws, while noting the unsung ease and grace of the city. This is not a Colombia tourism blog. I actually hope that North Americans and Europeans stay scared and don’t taint the culture, albeit a historically violent one, of Colombia. I write this only to address an American ignorance about a country with a strong middle class attitude and dedication to a safer more prosperous future.
This is the first of 10 blogs that I will write during my visit to Colombia. My first ever blog (but third time in Colombia) will be written to entertain as much as inform, and draw from the travel writing style of Bill Bryson, the sports/pop culture humor of Bill Simmons (The Sports Guy), the self-deprecation of George Costanza and the well-written investigation of truth of Jon Krakauer. Undoubtedly falling short on all levels….except maybe Costanza.
When I was boarding my flight into Bogota, I met 2 other Americans. I usually have headphones in and a distant stare out the window on airplanes, and pretend to not speak whatever language the chatty frequent flyer next to me speaks. But on this flight something got my headphones off and eye contact made. We shared little in terms cultural background or personal style. One was a 22-year old alternative kid with a lip ring and tattoo; one was a late-thirties businessman from Miami (not the business your thinking). I, myself, am a classic “tweener”. Too clean cut and sporty to be alternative, to liberal and lazy to be a young yuppie. What the three of us shared was the experience of Colombia. There was a look, a clichéd glimmer, in each of our eyes when we spoke about why we were going back to Colombia. Little had to be said, because we each already knew. The people are amazing. Friendly and curious, their warmth and hospitality leads not only to intelligent single serving conversations, but lasting friendships and connections. Of course there are beautiful landscapes, jungles, mountains and beaches, as can be expected, and is even common among many of the worlds developing nations, but it is the day to day interactions and overall pleasantness that I think is the unique and unknown charm that makes those of us that come, want to stay.
In this blog I will describe some of my unique interactions in my daily life in Medellin, Colombia. I will try to paint an honest picture of both the city of Medellin and its people, comically pointing out the ironies and flaws, while noting the unsung ease and grace of the city. This is not a Colombia tourism blog. I actually hope that North Americans and Europeans stay scared and don’t taint the culture, albeit a historically violent one, of Colombia. I write this only to address an American ignorance about a country with a strong middle class attitude and dedication to a safer more prosperous future.
This is the first of 10 blogs that I will write during my visit to Colombia. My first ever blog (but third time in Colombia) will be written to entertain as much as inform, and draw from the travel writing style of Bill Bryson, the sports/pop culture humor of Bill Simmons (The Sports Guy), the self-deprecation of George Costanza and the well-written investigation of truth of Jon Krakauer. Undoubtedly falling short on all levels….except maybe Costanza.
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