tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68869337559834747732024-02-19T07:53:03.903-08:00The Tall GringoA Year Living and Teaching in ColombiaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-36687644344576194302011-12-09T09:40:00.000-08:002011-12-09T09:40:27.796-08:00The Beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUfIY4bwEDClMrtYkju8io_eD4ZbVPhp7aw3kWI6xyqVkSTSIVDJB71_z0BZZdbDbPjPuedX1cG2VyhPbItmd6RgbYW3xPu8zKFan3fruKPbArtZ8UGCBn81uJBddTzHm6rjxYLgFV5k/s1600/DSCN0870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUfIY4bwEDClMrtYkju8io_eD4ZbVPhp7aw3kWI6xyqVkSTSIVDJB71_z0BZZdbDbPjPuedX1cG2VyhPbItmd6RgbYW3xPu8zKFan3fruKPbArtZ8UGCBn81uJBddTzHm6rjxYLgFV5k/s320/DSCN0870.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving for Bogota on January 1.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span lang="EN-US">Many years from now when I sit down to tell my grandchildren about my year in Colombia, I will tell them that it was one of the best, worst, and greatest years of my life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I will speak of how I followed my heart to a distant land in hopes of making the world a little better, a little brighter. Although I found reality to be sobering, I nevertheless stayed the course.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Nearly a year ago, I boarded a plane to Bogotá. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">I was hopeful. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Excited. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Scared. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">When I arrived, my unchecked enthusiasm slammed headfirst into the stonewall of a dysfunctional education system. I found the abundant talk and little follow-through to be aggravating. I found it incomprehensible how such an invaluable resource could be allowed to go underutilized for an entire year. Despite it all, I did the best I could with what I had. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie-Os1sddVqx9h243-RguyoMhQjwXbch2AmIqp8yNXe5X9dQxXgFhbdZwhO1pjNVfhRG1Ugacsp37fNHTKeeH1hiAV7pMU838DMx0X-RIPIwr_X9n27Fu77R4doy28XVXxxHJLHTWILPI/s1600/DSCN1295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie-Os1sddVqx9h243-RguyoMhQjwXbch2AmIqp8yNXe5X9dQxXgFhbdZwhO1pjNVfhRG1Ugacsp37fNHTKeeH1hiAV7pMU838DMx0X-RIPIwr_X9n27Fu77R4doy28XVXxxHJLHTWILPI/s320/DSCN1295.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With some of my students.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Mark Jenkins once wrote, “Adventure is a path. Real adventure—self-determined, self-motivated, often risky—forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way, you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind—and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">It is a scary thing to walk where you have never walked before—to leave the comfort of familiar shores in pursuit of something greater than yourself. I set out to change the world but ultimately found it to be the other way around. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Away from everyone I knew and loved, I experienced true loneliness. But rather than let it break me, I learned to become a more independent, self-sufficient individual. After growing up in one of the most privileged communities on the planet, I saw what it was like to live in one of the most underserved.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFS0q2V8SQz1ncEOluqz2xJrVLJs5Uzj1M5HloaDmJdg5-PNn2TvIyf9fUUxh7sOnj1uv3TF9CvZSYKIeOOhiEq-HzpjOSZMRDZ_OhOTvXR6c86tqU5HDTecI3AFwPTnpqAJHIPDBX_A/s1600/At+Machu+Picchu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFS0q2V8SQz1ncEOluqz2xJrVLJs5Uzj1M5HloaDmJdg5-PNn2TvIyf9fUUxh7sOnj1uv3TF9CvZSYKIeOOhiEq-HzpjOSZMRDZ_OhOTvXR6c86tqU5HDTecI3AFwPTnpqAJHIPDBX_A/s320/At+Machu+Picchu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Machu Picchu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like today had I remained in my cubicle. I would have gotten promoted, found my own San Francisco apartment, maybe even met someone. I sacrificed that life, along with tens of thousands of dollars in lost wages to go work for free in a country where I could very well have lost that which I can never get back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">In leaving all that, many believed I was putting my life on hold.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">But they had it all wrong.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">In leaving, I was finally able to begin truly living.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">I traveled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Explored ancient ruins at the heights of the Andes Mountains. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9c4yiMfn6hIlRUSW4Wc1nq0dW-HZr4rZjBtDKAYANQ3aS6BvJ3DS4JxowwfXMypmcskLmYGjtFxdstJS-6XrJqkircaialgXFp10rPU43PDAZ5NDTQe4EszvED_t4pbL4TosGBLg86A/s1600/Spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9c4yiMfn6hIlRUSW4Wc1nq0dW-HZr4rZjBtDKAYANQ3aS6BvJ3DS4JxowwfXMypmcskLmYGjtFxdstJS-6XrJqkircaialgXFp10rPU43PDAZ5NDTQe4EszvED_t4pbL4TosGBLg86A/s320/Spring.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swinging into the water in Costa Rica.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Witnessed breathtaking Caribbean sunsets.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Scaled active Costa Rican volcanoes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Sipped wine on the Chilean coast.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Hiked through the Colombian jungle.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Saw the Panama Canal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Met Pablo Escobar’s brother. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">And so much more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">But the most rewarding thing about this year were the people I met along the way—inspiring individuals who taught me to look at life differently. That there is more than one way to lead a good life. Nobody has all the answers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Living in such a world, our hearts are the only reliable compass.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCzmQdJOhJFsewwupT1IESS4QUrFwcB5FYCy62PPj9Wd1UQ5zevz4AfuJDW6y2OVa05ziUy53G7Nb-0-NqIuhK0tCzA0_-oeTW0o2FfrFpIoQsxFmVDKXGSb1ZEcicBC4Tfc19W5R8w4/s1600/307804_10101086997939263_5204178_72471690_506892941_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCzmQdJOhJFsewwupT1IESS4QUrFwcB5FYCy62PPj9Wd1UQ5zevz4AfuJDW6y2OVa05ziUy53G7Nb-0-NqIuhK0tCzA0_-oeTW0o2FfrFpIoQsxFmVDKXGSb1ZEcicBC4Tfc19W5R8w4/s320/307804_10101086997939263_5204178_72471690_506892941_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching a Caribbean sunset.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">I followed mine here—to South America. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">But now find it pointing north.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">I am ready to go home to the land that I love, to rejoin the friends and family I miss, and begin the next chapter of my life. Although I don’t know where life’s winds will take me, I will always look back on my time in Colombia with infinite gratitude for allowing me to reclaim something I lost.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Last year, before embarking on this crazy adventure, I wrote that “…there can be no courage without fear and no real reward without risk.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">After a year in Colombia, I have learned to summon the courage to face any fear and that is, in and of itself, the ultimate reward.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamj9FEa54fS9d4t8XA8d9pFOhQqpFZg8DJ6EMsq0o32Lv2wuy1uxsSrCOM1QTuxPseYd5EvN6LI2erWv57HoxzjTwdMkwuanbEYQaDNOJslXWWBMxne6OlkYCX9x36GCy-m2f42iqj54/s1600/DSCN3633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamj9FEa54fS9d4t8XA8d9pFOhQqpFZg8DJ6EMsq0o32Lv2wuy1uxsSrCOM1QTuxPseYd5EvN6LI2erWv57HoxzjTwdMkwuanbEYQaDNOJslXWWBMxne6OlkYCX9x36GCy-m2f42iqj54/s320/DSCN3633.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching over Bogota.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">I am fired up. I am ready to begin my adult life in earnest; kick some butt and establish myself in the working world; become economically independent; form new relationships; maybe even find someone crazy enough to share it all with me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Tomorrow, I will board a plane that will take me home. What awaits me there, I don’t know. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">But something tells me I’ll be able to handle it.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com8Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-70641682430300128682011-12-06T20:57:00.000-08:002011-12-06T20:57:27.618-08:00Guest Blogger: Zach from Pintando Caminos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFi4wdKAf-86SpJZAOpJjZg_D9kAySFpCx0qFDL73FDgir6dHlRTyiTiwAlAEfJ7qgxH8PbBrSP6EIsYJ5b_RIyCvezHpTTZbJ1kFWdB09qGj4kOaPW8Rya2MIkfcczCZB62sTS1Cm448/s1600/SAM_2369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFi4wdKAf-86SpJZAOpJjZg_D9kAySFpCx0qFDL73FDgir6dHlRTyiTiwAlAEfJ7qgxH8PbBrSP6EIsYJ5b_RIyCvezHpTTZbJ1kFWdB09qGj4kOaPW8Rya2MIkfcczCZB62sTS1Cm448/s320/SAM_2369.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My friend and former WorldTeacher, Zach Binsfeld asked if he could write a blog post to promote the non-profit organization he now works for, Pintando Caminos. His foundation helps underserved Bogota youth with after school programs, giving them the support they need to succeed in life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here it is...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Investing in the Future<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">By Zach Binsfeld<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The other day when I was at the organization where I work (Pintando Caminos),Valeria, who is in 3rd grade, approached me to say thank you for helping her with a school project she had been working on so she wouldn't fail English. It turns out, she told me, that after spending a couple days working with us in our homework help program her project got the best score in the class - and she passed English. I felt warm in my chest and about as happy as can be, because I knew that she had done all the hard work of learning on her own. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">All I had done was help her understand the instructions and focus a little, and encourage her. These are things that her teachers in her school – with limited resources, classes of 40 or more students, and sometimes just 2 hours of class per subject, per week – often are unable to do. So when she thanked me I told her I was proud of her. I really was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFdmiGOX4yF255_mRwwhMjmltWrCpcwDU39iaG_3qxcgXxN8Pj0OAr664Zft-4wS1mFMTy5r1d4TdGXxprM7ZuXBl3kswMSlBZuGVI71iSXD7T9mMwDfTggu3bu7spYNlg6LBihsq_I4/s1600/SAM_2304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFdmiGOX4yF255_mRwwhMjmltWrCpcwDU39iaG_3qxcgXxN8Pj0OAr664Zft-4wS1mFMTy5r1d4TdGXxprM7ZuXBl3kswMSlBZuGVI71iSXD7T9mMwDfTggu3bu7spYNlg6LBihsq_I4/s320/SAM_2304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Valeria wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. I know she’s perfectly capable, but when I look at her longing eleven-year-old eyes I can’t help but wonder if she’ll make it, if she’ll really be given access to the kinds of opportunities that allow her to break cycle of poverty that has trapped her family for generations. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder the same for the other boys and girls. Years from now, will I learn that Valeria and her friends have grown into healthy young men and women, who are bettering themselves and working hard to realize their dreams and the dreams of their community? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Or will I find another succession of desperate adolescents who have replaced hope with the sad truth of our present reality, who spend their nights surviving and escaping their pain by any means necessary? I never try to answer this question because I know it’s purpose is to motivate me into action rather than get me to speculate about an uncertain future – and because I know that its answer depends on how we collectively respond as fellow humans.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The truth is that small initiatives like Pintando Caminos don’t have the power to change the whole world, or a whole country, or even one community. That depends on the people in those communities, and on the direction we take as a global society. But places like Pintando Caminos represent what we hope to achieve in the future. They show us that there are people willing to invest their time and energy in the most important sustainable resource we have – our children – and our children are eager to demonstrate that if we give them the opportunity they are ready to learn and share with the world the wisdom and simplicity of their youth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgf1_Mh6Y0sliJHycdW9TjI3rb2-CfiRTAjBSKFRh1UgCwCBqwUdlEuWd9NYvOPPic0LnBYNrj_dIknD9bfD3IuqgGeDTs0-btDuwKJ1BNdVUUiV9CXigVi1x1TFtwJP88ARKD3KG6sZk/s1600/SAM_2340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgf1_Mh6Y0sliJHycdW9TjI3rb2-CfiRTAjBSKFRh1UgCwCBqwUdlEuWd9NYvOPPic0LnBYNrj_dIknD9bfD3IuqgGeDTs0-btDuwKJ1BNdVUUiV9CXigVi1x1TFtwJP88ARKD3KG6sZk/s320/SAM_2340.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I’m the first to admit that one more youth organization in one more oppressed neighborhood in one more difficult city in some other country is not going to solve the world’s problems, but I can also say with confidence that Pintando Caminos is eliciting the best out of children like Valeria. I am learning from them that such places serve as examples of a future that has the potential to become reality if we only work hard and long enough out of love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The most profound gift that such organizations give – to all of us – is hope for a better tomorrow. But the most tangible gifts that Pintando Caminos gives to the kids its serves is the self-value and self-confidence that come from having full stomachs and the chance to thrive as learners, and, as kids who like to play and laugh and explore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Zachary Binsfeld<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">For more information on Pintando Caminos, or to donate, visit our project page: </span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.globalgiving.org/projects/better-life-than-war-and-poverty-for-bogota-youth/">https://www.globalgiving.org/projects/better-life-than-war-and-poverty-for-bogota-youth/</a></span></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6WhOzamJxnE" width="560"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-72709118377846494992011-11-23T19:07:00.000-08:002011-11-23T19:09:15.509-08:00Salud, Dinero, Amor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.emujeres.net/img-articulos/2008/8/Salud,%20Dinero%20YY%20Amor%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.emujeres.net/img-articulos/2008/8/Salud,%20Dinero%20YY%20Amor%20.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In Colombia whenever someone sneezes, another will say, <i>salud</i> or health.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you sneeze a second time, they will say, <i>dinero</i> or money.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The third time you sneeze, they say, <i>amor</i> or love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Salud</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> is having good health—a strong and able body and absence of sickness.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dinero</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> is having the means to provide for oneself—not necessarily lavish but comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And <i>amor</i> is what it’s really all about—having those who you care deeply for no matter what.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Thanksgiving I am going to be thankful for these three things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Salud, dinero, amor</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The only three things I’ll ever really need.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com2Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-28974466740992203002011-11-21T09:51:00.000-08:002011-11-23T13:34:54.170-08:00The End of Service Conference<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVc0eCkVY9C1NcFqYlhZTzOTEpx98OALuJVjf8TG6x2Keq3QGQpvdNepxoVzvIolTZk0Xqg45CZQQbQgY3Uc-BDYewBoKMQtIoASuam4bSBk0IrXFF15P3ku4P5XyBUh3nd5vj5IdKjG8/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVc0eCkVY9C1NcFqYlhZTzOTEpx98OALuJVjf8TG6x2Keq3QGQpvdNepxoVzvIolTZk0Xqg45CZQQbQgY3Uc-BDYewBoKMQtIoASuam4bSBk0IrXFF15P3ku4P5XyBUh3nd5vj5IdKjG8/s320/005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manizales, Colombia.<span id="goog_343518721"></span><span id="goog_343518722"></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend I flew to Manizales in Colombia’s Zona Cafeteria to attend the WorldTeach End of Service Conference. Arriving on Friday morning, it felt good to be back—I hadn’t been there since my visit back over <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/04/semana-santa-in-colombias-coffee-region.html" target="_blank">Semana Santa</a>. Since we had to wake up at 4 a.m. to catch our 6 a.m. flight, we spent most of the day napping—the conference was scheduled to begin in earnest the following day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That night, we went to a local theater to watch the Manizales volunteers perform songs with their students in English as part of a presentation with Manizales Billingue, WorldTeach’s partner in the city. Decked out in their holiday costumes, the kids were adorable enough to make even the Grinch smile. They sang English songs to the theme of the “last day of school.” Afterward, all of the volunteers sang alongside the students as they intermittently waved at their families in the audience. Overall, it looked like the kids had the time of their lives, getting their two hours and forty-five minutes of fame.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8EBkTxTbyogyh3r49GDLZZygK2cAjg6ys_bDRomnniLuWG19Xme3jr3hbPIST5h2SL6fz8VL7iBnUll3Y6ZlTpX-RZPa7CP_Esjj9BNWXiLUYwlXedsrZTOiUs3ksAiCQwcmqIbcnZI/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH8EBkTxTbyogyh3r49GDLZZygK2cAjg6ys_bDRomnniLuWG19Xme3jr3hbPIST5h2SL6fz8VL7iBnUll3Y6ZlTpX-RZPa7CP_Esjj9BNWXiLUYwlXedsrZTOiUs3ksAiCQwcmqIbcnZI/s320/002.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Universidad Catolica de Manizales</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When the show ended, we went out to grab a drink with some of the Manizales volunteers. It was strange hanging out, knowing that we would soon part ways, possibly for forever. We had all come a long way since our first days at <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/01/arrival_15.html" target="_blank">Santa Cruz</a> during WorldTeach Orientation—many of us now spoke decent or excellent Spanish, we were comfortable being in Colombia, and had overcome countless challenges throughout the year.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, we were not all there—due to budget issues, WorldTeach was holding two separate conferences, one for the volunteers on the coast (Baru, Cartagena, Monteria, Soledad) and one for the interior (Bogota and Manizales). Luckily, I had been able to say my goodbyes to the coastal volunteers during my <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/10/la-costa-chronicles-part-1-getting-iced.html" target="_blank">October visit</a> to La Costa.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After a long night, the next morning a rolled out of bed and dragged myself to Universidad Catolica de Manizales, where we were meeting for the conference. Although many of us were very…er… sleepy, we had a productive day talking about our experiences teaching. It felt good hearing that I was not the only one who has had a frustrating year trying to punch through the Colombian bureaucratic BS to actually accomplish what I came here to do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj063fS_y_5ALCrcQTA_GlPVrB_eQ-4j_KXruP-4_CuUeDYplQAFWMziXwB-oB6jQzscTBfGq_GUgYdK054lKSHl1cDfQFcUJ12-fhtTUf3SH4RseSH5zsMIb9KHR3HB5zLhtkc2Y6tNkM/s1600/010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj063fS_y_5ALCrcQTA_GlPVrB_eQ-4j_KXruP-4_CuUeDYplQAFWMziXwB-oB6jQzscTBfGq_GUgYdK054lKSHl1cDfQFcUJ12-fhtTUf3SH4RseSH5zsMIb9KHR3HB5zLhtkc2Y6tNkM/s320/010.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I made it!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We also had practical sessions covering resume-writing and how to leverage our experience in Colombia as we pursue our next professional endeavors. Although helpful for obvious reasons it also pressed the issue in my mind just what the heck I am going o do when I return home for good in three weeks. But more on this later.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That evening, our field director, Tara, sent us on a scavenger hunt-esque mission o follow clues spread throughout the main plaza that would, in theory, lead us to a final secret destination. Sadly, the game soon fell apart when confusion about leaving behind discovered clues causes many of the groups to hit dead ends. Then, as if to spite us, God made it rain on us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Luckily, I was wise to Tara’s evil plan and knew that they were making dinner at the hostel/house where the Bogotanos were staying. Sure enough, we arrived as Tara and Lynn were finishing up preparing our Thanksgiving dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Gradually, the other volunteers trickled in, each more soaked than the last. When everyone had finally arrived, we enjoyed some awesome Thanksgiving food and our last night together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeg7QYVMaK-x40Vv1d2SVmOKXQjxhkjyDkOoGW9WFSJ1xV4t6oTHwXfp6Rpov3uJrM8s9LY45bISzWdu1_B1Ghj7KLUpj2oSP4lOID1uBNxD6AFSh9IxY4qcUs-PQRz27l1uboAItDT0k/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeg7QYVMaK-x40Vv1d2SVmOKXQjxhkjyDkOoGW9WFSJ1xV4t6oTHwXfp6Rpov3uJrM8s9LY45bISzWdu1_B1Ghj7KLUpj2oSP4lOID1uBNxD6AFSh9IxY4qcUs-PQRz27l1uboAItDT0k/s320/011.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The Bogota and Manizales volunteers.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sunday morning came and along with it, the final day of the conference. After an enlightening ice breaker game of “Never Have I Ever”, we commenced with the final sessions of our WorldTeach careers. We talked about readjusting to life back in the states and the things we were looking forward to back home. At the end we all received plaques commemorating our year of service in Colombia.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Later, we headed to Juan Valdez café to have one last hang-out and take a group photo. After that, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, it was time for the four Bogotá volunteers to go back to our lovely mountain home—but the weather would ensure a complicated return.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When we arrived at the tiny Manizales airport, we learned that our flight had been canceled. Not only that, but we would need to take a nearly two hour bus ride to catch a flight in the in the neighboring city of Pereira.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYrC_sC0gpYBLYq-FQnHLIqhfCo02E1rLTkuXYGdnN_CUvncdCytrixIWYISBQ8J1p1iRhDfl7D6U-BC-Je6kAmF662TeCs96uhXw8CGc9oM2EQhRDgn1zkq_tXOIOCV73ZV6QMpFU89s/s1600/016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYrC_sC0gpYBLYq-FQnHLIqhfCo02E1rLTkuXYGdnN_CUvncdCytrixIWYISBQ8J1p1iRhDfl7D6U-BC-Je6kAmF662TeCs96uhXw8CGc9oM2EQhRDgn1zkq_tXOIOCV73ZV6QMpFU89s/s320/016.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">On the bus to Pereira.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Given the region’s frequent mudslides, I felt that I’d rather take my chances flying through inclement weather, but choice is a luxury Colombia rarely affords.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We loaded onto a questionable-looking bus, given apologetic juice boxes and ham sandwiches, and sent out our merry way through the rain-soaked Colombian countryside. Although it was hardly a smooth ride, I somehow managed to drift in and out of sleep for most of the two-hour journey. Finally, the bus pulled in to the airport in Pereira.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After spending the next few hours waiting around at the Pereira airport, it was time to board the plane back to Bogotá. Passing through the boarding room, I encountered one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in South America: a vending machine that sells beer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZtMZOkp7aRO9bCfTtbEPXfN_UcfmxAeOUNEZLdOMaytQuooniAsoSDr8RaDzpCHARhqeJ-FkFV2FJbHt2qgS8v2TKhFCNjFg89zip0aOunT2LNffLhORNlhEo0ovD4t-k1JScYgLnyw/s1600/017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZtMZOkp7aRO9bCfTtbEPXfN_UcfmxAeOUNEZLdOMaytQuooniAsoSDr8RaDzpCHARhqeJ-FkFV2FJbHt2qgS8v2TKhFCNjFg89zip0aOunT2LNffLhORNlhEo0ovD4t-k1JScYgLnyw/s320/017.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Awesomeness incarnate.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I will repeat that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vending machine</i> that sells <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beer</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="goog_343518741"></span><span id="goog_343518742"></span>Move over, Machu Picchu.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At any rate, we got on a scary propeller plane in the dark and took off for Bogotá. Thirty minutes later, after I had barely made it through a single music album on my iPod, we landed at El Dorado International Airport.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, our bus ride to Pereira took four times longer than our actual flight to Bogotá.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Colombia is like that.<span id="goog_572287746"></span><span id="goog_572287747"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Manizales, Caldas, Colombia5.067132 -75.5182879999999844.975307 -75.698197999999991 5.158957 -75.338377999999977tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-23170189774982597882011-11-15T13:27:00.000-08:002011-11-15T13:37:04.283-08:00Operation: Sorpresa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRNFB0lmmfks8JdC9WsfBby5j_Bs1341vfakTvuhTB-jnklmS7EgZqgatemOkadurMx9l600b7TdFmSl08A93SIxawTqO4wneHYI6u3ykBr2IeHV2j697u3MSD6IaImS4SYwOTcAo5XO4/s1600/Protesters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRNFB0lmmfks8JdC9WsfBby5j_Bs1341vfakTvuhTB-jnklmS7EgZqgatemOkadurMx9l600b7TdFmSl08A93SIxawTqO4wneHYI6u3ykBr2IeHV2j697u3MSD6IaImS4SYwOTcAo5XO4/s320/Protesters.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Student protesters blocking the road in Bogota.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One day back in September, my brother Jimmy sent me a proposition via Facebook. My mission—if I chose to accept it—was to fly home for a weekend in November to surprise my mom for her 50<sup>th</sup> birthday. Financing the operation was my dad, who was planning a big birthday bash to celebrate my mom’s half-century of existence.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">For me, it was a no-brainer—a chance to go home after 11 months away, to return to the land of good Mexican food, my golden retriever, and free refills. I booked transport back to arrive in California on November 11, the day of the party.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Being such a high-stakes mission, success would be contingent on secrecy and I stressed to my dad and brother the importance of keeping the knowledge of my sneaky return on a need-to-know basis. I told only my friends Derek and Brian, whom I recruited to assist with the logistics of picking me up from the airport and giving me a safehouse to hide out in until it was time to go to the party.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the two months leading up to the party, I commenced a campaign of disinformation to mislead my mom. Utilizing Facebook, Skype, and even <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/11/passing-torch.html">this blog</a>, I sowed the seeds of doubt in my mom’s mind that I would be coming home any earlier than December 10<sup>th</sup>. After learning that the number of people in the know about the operation was growing well outside of the desirable parameters, I became alarmed—my younger brother Danny told me he knew, followed by my cousin Kenan, and even my cousin Jennifer living in Spain. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHPl8s8sNhuJc74WhBJSfx0PU55hZcpbdoC5cICm_0oU77Y0M7jjy1nQ3SY0-GkyCMScYANTRR8ebO88NIK-20nBE8QoE9d2s3xOfyQqmU5Y1-j-m8p4zlqfED4kNB2k1mZ3SFNJidLI/s1600/Mom+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHPl8s8sNhuJc74WhBJSfx0PU55hZcpbdoC5cICm_0oU77Y0M7jjy1nQ3SY0-GkyCMScYANTRR8ebO88NIK-20nBE8QoE9d2s3xOfyQqmU5Y1-j-m8p4zlqfED4kNB2k1mZ3SFNJidLI/s320/Mom+and+Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom surprised to see me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Worried that our secret mission was compromised, I contacted Jimmy to see what the heck was going on. Dad, he told me, was either under the influence of some psychotropic drug, or he was just excitedly telling people about my premature homecoming and then forgetting about it.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">As the days drew ever closer to zero hour, my mom exhibited no suspicious behavior to suggest she was wise to our evil plan. So utter was her ignorance that I became paranoid and began to suspect that she had found out long ago and my family was conspiring to make me think that she was still in the dark.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Finally, the day of the operation arrived. On Thursday, November 10 at 20:00 hours, I left my Bogotá apartment, taking a taxi to the El Dorado International Airport. Along the way, the operation faced its first roadblock—literally. Student protesters demonstrating against the Colombian government’s education policies crowded the street bearing banners and waving patriotic flags. The taxi driver cursed when he realized we weren’t going anywhere if we stayed on the Septima and decided to turn left onto a TransMilenio-only road, breaking about a half-dozen traffic laws in the process.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But in Colombia, traffic laws are more like suggestions, anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Much to my relief, we made it back onto a legal road without dying and, having circumvented the protesting hordes, were now relatively home-free; however, recent rain had flooded the main thoroughfare to the airport and we were delayed by a police checkpoint controlling traffic as it passed over the inundated road. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6v6qgouD9riI9ufslJlYtg43llqxqVyy4P7D3viQQcfo6hnuP4oGjDOG77q11y5s5Gyh910q-O5aujDz5zhckdorsw4oH-Q1qoNiI6k_yqHfSnZpTbvQMgc-Z7Jrou5LjET6hsm34jQ/s1600/Me+and+Jimmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6v6qgouD9riI9ufslJlYtg43llqxqVyy4P7D3viQQcfo6hnuP4oGjDOG77q11y5s5Gyh910q-O5aujDz5zhckdorsw4oH-Q1qoNiI6k_yqHfSnZpTbvQMgc-Z7Jrou5LjET6hsm34jQ/s320/Me+and+Jimmy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my brother and fellow conspirator, Jimmy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At 21:00 hours, I finally made it to the airport, awkwardly lugging everything I owned in Colombia with three large bags. My plan was to bring home everything now and return with a light travel pack to finish up the final month.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After checking my luggage, I proceeded through the security checkpoint and headed to the departure gate. The first leg of my journey would take me to JFK International Airport in New York and from there, to San Francisco. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">There was an unusual amount of security in the departure lounge at my gate. To enter the lounge, I had to show my passport and boarding pass to an airline attendant, subject my carry-on luggage to a thorough hand-search, and allow myself to be frisked.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">My redeye flight from Bogotá to New York was uneventful and uncomfortable. With an aisle seat, I had nothing to lay my head against, making falling asleep impossible. I passed the time listening to my iPod and watching the plane’s northward progress on the little screen in front of me.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When we touched down in New York, my heart began to pound—this was the first time I would step foot on American soil in nearly a year. Exiting the plane, I headed to immigration, where a large line had already formed. After almost an hour of waiting, I approached the immigration window and gave the immigration officer my passport. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcu-TbwUPc_BHZ2A0aYxCi0ZV9kIqeLf-ruteJ5X5Oopc4YPzVQ-ilqaA6fmmtd9FXnWwm5WDhYxNxem0o0-SmsqQL7Bq0o0P3zykp0oL07B9ex70cAGf12siWeAU_CVr08m98L0h8Pc/s1600/Dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcu-TbwUPc_BHZ2A0aYxCi0ZV9kIqeLf-ruteJ5X5Oopc4YPzVQ-ilqaA6fmmtd9FXnWwm5WDhYxNxem0o0-SmsqQL7Bq0o0P3zykp0oL07B9ex70cAGf12siWeAU_CVr08m98L0h8Pc/s320/Dancing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing with my mom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>“Good morning,” I greeted.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The officer half scowled and said, “Take off your glasses.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I removed my glasses and he held up my passport to compare my face with the passport photo.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">He handed me back my passport.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Thanks,” I said, “Have a good day.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The frowning officer said nothing and moved on to the next person in line.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">New Yorkers.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Having made it through immigration, I headed to the domestic terminals, taking a tram to the other side of the airport, exiting the building, and walking through the chill November air to arrive at yet another security checkpoint. After being violated by TSA’s Superman x-ray vision machine, I finally arrived at the departure gate for my flight to San Francisco.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">There were several iPad 2s set up at tables near the gate and I passed the time playing around with one, also taking the opportunity to send a message to Derek to let him know that I was now in-country. Sitting there, surrounded by my countrymen, I could not help but feel out of place—after a year of being the odd gringo out in a country of Spanish-speakers, it felt strange hearing only English being spoken. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Hungry, I went to a little food place to grab a quick breakfast and was immediately horrified by the prices. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKK3uDd1TnRET2jglQ_P1BhS4eXMeDsy8ilXUVcLgEOOffQDeEEOrcySUbsE4OXSce0IDKE7Pm9Q3bKtnLPgF7UyWguXn44hRz52MNfnwhp_vtMvwyS_4A5A-a8CBq3whKtga0bmYiWVc/s1600/Derek+with+the+gauro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKK3uDd1TnRET2jglQ_P1BhS4eXMeDsy8ilXUVcLgEOOffQDeEEOrcySUbsE4OXSce0IDKE7Pm9Q3bKtnLPgF7UyWguXn44hRz52MNfnwhp_vtMvwyS_4A5A-a8CBq3whKtga0bmYiWVc/s320/Derek+with+the+gauro.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek pouring the aguardiente.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>$5.99 for an egg and sausage bagel? </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That was like $10,000 pesos! Spoiled by cheap Colombian food prices, I was now one stingy gringo.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">A little while later I boarded the plane to San Francisco, this time ending up with a window seat. I found myself sitting next to two men, one a tech guy from Silicon Valley and the other who I initially took to be a talkative old grandfather type. The three of us made small talk for a while, first about the awesomeness of tablet-devices (iPads, Amazon Fires, etc.). Eventually, the conversation progressed in typical fashion to what we all did for a living. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When I asked the older gentleman what he did, he responded with, “I have a website called Prophecy.net.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Oh,” I said, not fully understanding, “What do you do on your website?”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“I make prophecies,” he replied.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Oh, cool,” I said, wishing I hadn’t opened this door.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The old man began telling me his life story—primarily how twenty years earlier God had chosen him as a medium to communicate with mankind about the coming Armageddon. Possessed by the Holy Spirit, he had been compelled to write four books about prophecy and the coming End of Days. When I asked him when the world was scheduled to expire, he only said, “Within my lifetime.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Seeing as how the guy was probably pushing 65, it did not bode well for my future plans.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUCwoVkKf4tMJCGzoYPTMwoArBL2hwprlEk68wG7q_JajxD2DawduyKY5b4vV8xHBZV45UJyQnJ-Phz_nWQ93lFQ7pfTgbpQr73CEFwpdGaFn-omhFRjZPLMlboc53-X2CGpCn_7x4AE/s1600/298636_10100443898595487_3600099_55137746_944445450_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUCwoVkKf4tMJCGzoYPTMwoArBL2hwprlEk68wG7q_JajxD2DawduyKY5b4vV8xHBZV45UJyQnJ-Phz_nWQ93lFQ7pfTgbpQr73CEFwpdGaFn-omhFRjZPLMlboc53-X2CGpCn_7x4AE/s320/298636_10100443898595487_3600099_55137746_944445450_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White people dancing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Luckily, the other guy in our aisle distracted the man long enough for me to slip on my headphones and whip out my kindle. The rest of the way home, I half-listened to the old man’s matter-of-fact attitude about being the Voice of God and the coming destruction of all that we know and love.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After nearly twenty hours of travel, I finally arrived at San Francisco International Airport and, miraculously, all of my checked bags made it without incident.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It was14:00 hours on 14 November 11<sup>th</sup>. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The day of the party.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">My friend and fellow conspirator, Derek picked me up from the airport and we made a B-line for In-N-Out to accomplish one of the mission’s secondary objectives—securing awesome American cheeseburgers. There, my friend Brian met up with us and afterward, we went to his apartment to hide out until the party. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That night, we drove to a street near my parents’ house and called my brother to see if my mom had already left for the party. As luck would have it, she had and he and my dad were still at home. I decided to risk the whole operation to go say hello to my golden retriever, Gerico.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I’m not sure how dog memory works, but Gerico was definitely excited when he saw me. Although I had been gone eleven months, in dog years, that was almost seven years. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Luckily, he didn’t have a heart attack.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It was 18:00 hours and my dad said we should wait until more people arrived before launching the surprise attack, so we decided to bide our time at the local microbrewery near where the party was being held. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">At 19:00 hours, we headed over to the party, located at a local banquet hall near Burlingame’s largest park. Our plan of attack was to enter through the backdoor, slither through the kitchen, then I would sing happy birthday to my mom. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Arriving at the building, I could see lights on and hear people chatting inside. We called Jimmy and he came out the back door with the DJ. The DJ told me he would make an announcement to get everyone’s attention, and then it was my time to shine. My drunk little brother, Danny, ran around the side of the building and tried unsuccessfully to startle us.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Everyone took their positions.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It was go time.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Derek and Brian waited with me in the kitchen as the DJ got everyone’s attention, letting everyone know that there was going to be a surprise. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-05eAiyTEYXhfKdDZg3GgIselywH77YewCMEflP_Iw3UAZLDvCjWUJ2dcJfmG_h3FO8RnzwIQ8Lz-E6FbtXdnNQ2NLuUAY9IkojNhwt89CSkJnds6SpKcskr7lgk9CRDr9AoIiOfowvk/s1600/The+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-05eAiyTEYXhfKdDZg3GgIselywH77YewCMEflP_Iw3UAZLDvCjWUJ2dcJfmG_h3FO8RnzwIQ8Lz-E6FbtXdnNQ2NLuUAY9IkojNhwt89CSkJnds6SpKcskr7lgk9CRDr9AoIiOfowvk/s320/The+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mission Accomplished.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Then I began to sing, “Happy Birthday.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Walking out into the main room, I saw my mom along with the rest of the guests. She looked right at me, then back at the DJ, the visual not having registered. Then she looked back at me, her eyes lighted up, and she charged me like a mother goose discovering one of her long-lost goslings.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Operation Sorpresa was a raging success. And quite literally because we all raged quite hard that evening, thanks to the open bar and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aguardiente</i> I had smuggled in from Colombia.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Mission Accomplished. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com1Burlingame, CA, USA37.5841026 -122.366082537.564303100000004 -122.40243600000001 37.6039021 -122.329729tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-19972262446821509122011-11-09T21:39:00.000-08:002011-11-09T21:42:01.690-08:00Life, Death, and Everything in Between<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6MNkfm45EYwZcqtGuP-m9hi9A-C8T9fII5gxabbw1ija237emGFme1Psp23Ksv8Y8wQ8StpQXvkSPF4y51CmdVpdMhtGlFhWMmrGBYF-7DeV4UGeoWggSoHCinc1ccULXkkdoVphncs/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6MNkfm45EYwZcqtGuP-m9hi9A-C8T9fII5gxabbw1ija237emGFme1Psp23Ksv8Y8wQ8StpQXvkSPF4y51CmdVpdMhtGlFhWMmrGBYF-7DeV4UGeoWggSoHCinc1ccULXkkdoVphncs/s320/IMG_0094.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Aunt Marsha when I was 2.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I recently learned that my great aunt passed away at her home in San Bernardino, California. Aunt Marsha, as we called her, was a kind and warm woman who would do anything for those she loved. When my dad was young, he and his mother (my grandmother) lived with Aunt Marsha and her husband, Robbie, in San Bernardino, California. She was like a second mother to him.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Since we lived pretty far away from Aunt Marsha, I only saw her a few times in my life. The first time when I was two, the second when I was 5, and the third, two years ago, when I went down to check on her with my dad after Uncle Robbie passed away. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Aunt Marsha was a good woman and I will never forget her.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I just want the world to know that.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Although the struggle of coming to terms with our own mortality is as old as time itself, it is the single most difficult thing we can ever do. In the United States, it seems that rather than face it, we turn away from it and act as if we will live forever—often leading us down a road filled with shallowness and vanity. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In Colombia, life and death are in a constant state of flux and the certainty of uncertainty gives people no choice but to stare mortality in the face. Living among Colombians these many months, I have come to appreciate their outlook—that life is so brief, and death so permanent that we cannot afford to squander the precious time we are afforded. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Plan for tomorrow, but live for today.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I like the sound of that.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-58979285020438071352011-11-06T19:08:00.000-08:002011-11-06T19:08:30.470-08:00Passing the Torch<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiECj5zvw2Ig38OK5TBJM-7cYIx1U-zhDCFITNxm3iPtgcm-UbuGzeEBMiQfrx9W4VO8Rm_WzGT6VdzQCIOFnmgbPV7aG9uELUP1-lJEHvl6uaKDPsBcnGDFx1QgzkZcuRAmpTLv_fBRCw/s1600/Tasha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiECj5zvw2Ig38OK5TBJM-7cYIx1U-zhDCFITNxm3iPtgcm-UbuGzeEBMiQfrx9W4VO8Rm_WzGT6VdzQCIOFnmgbPV7aG9uELUP1-lJEHvl6uaKDPsBcnGDFx1QgzkZcuRAmpTLv_fBRCw/s320/Tasha.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha Miley.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I am leaving Colombia in 34 days.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Looking back at all that has transpired, I can hardly believe that my time here is almost up—my contract with WorldTeach will end and I, along with the other volunteers, will return home.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Although my Colombian story is coming to an end, for others, it is only just beginning. In January 2012, a new group of WorldTeach volunteers will arrive in Colombia to claim the torch and carry it forward into a new year. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Months ago, one of these soon-to-be volunteers, Tasha Miley, contacted me through my blog asking about WorldTeach and my experiences in Colombia. Taking her under my wing, I helped her through the application process just as <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2010/12/pre-departure-few-thank-yous.html">Lauren Doll</a> helped me. Much to my delight, Tasha was accepted into the WorldTeach Colombia for 2012 and is now preparing for her January 2012 departure.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“I am excited about the opportunity to experience living and teaching overseas and I know that it will be both a rewarding and challenging experience,” says Tasha, “I have always felt that it is my purpose in life to make positive change. I just think that everyone in this world has the ability to make the world a little bit better off. I am hoping that I can do just that with my teaching position in Colombia.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Tasha is currently finishing up her final semester at American University in Washington, D.C. and shortly after graduating in December, will board a plane to Bogotá. In Tasha, I see the same passion that brought me to Bogotá—a conviction that a better world is possible and a desire to actively work to make it a reality. It is comforting knowing that our work to combat Colombian inequality will continue through such capable people as Tasha. I have absolute confidence in her abilities and know that she will kick serious butt when she gets down here.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But in order to make this possible, Tasha needs your help—she is currently raising money to help cover the costs of living and teaching in Colombia. If you would like to help her, please <a href="https://www.wepay.com/donate/tashaworldteachcolombia">donate</a> to her cause—every dollar helps.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Also, like her <a href="http://www.facebook.com/tashaincolombia">Facebook support page</a> and check out her <a href="http://tashamiley.blogspot.com/">blog</a> to stay up to date with her goings on throughout the year. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">John Quincy Adams once said, “If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">A year ago, I had no idea that in taking this chance, I could inspire others to do the same. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I am starting to see what this whole leadership thing is all about.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">My time in Colombia will soon pass—but there will be others. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-11512657113471621372011-11-03T19:59:00.000-07:002011-11-03T20:10:29.487-07:00The Art of Waiting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7j3Z5MPZNm6bpt4z3bPYg1R3hHHziggznXB8GjH9DpuGmJn2TUdImZW2sB55rdV1XjyRoZrZzaHptOQH7aohROitUVZ_18J_IpghNcIfvjnXmnpYbWv18YlNaKTpaBeJq-qe3w1zCFrU/s1600/32008_899803843753_3214921_48962602_6512676_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7j3Z5MPZNm6bpt4z3bPYg1R3hHHziggznXB8GjH9DpuGmJn2TUdImZW2sB55rdV1XjyRoZrZzaHptOQH7aohROitUVZ_18J_IpghNcIfvjnXmnpYbWv18YlNaKTpaBeJq-qe3w1zCFrU/s320/32008_899803843753_3214921_48962602_6512676_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't let the dimples fool you: this is one crafty kid.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I have always been pretty bad at waiting for things.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Once, as a child, I asked for a computer game for my birthday. As the days crawled ever closer to August 28<sup>th</sup>, I could not stand the anticipation and decided to go snooping one day when my parents were out. After digging around in their closet, I found a rectangular gift, neatly wrapped up in birthday-themed wrapping paper—it had to be the game.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Unable to resist temptation, I took action. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Cue <i>Mission Impossible</i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-GEJri7HuI">music</a>. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Surgically peeling off the tape on one side, I carefully removed the game box from the wrapping paper. Next, I opened the box, took out the game disk, and went downstairs to install it on my computer. My heart began pounding when I heard a car pull up to the curb. Creeping to the window, I peered through the curtains and saw that my mom’s minivan had just arrived.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I was out of time. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiPeXjqbfKDaDUGqOqHwNk-UJy0JknsUoVcF5tKooT6JwiK7s_RcVHISihYes2n5-gLFczPtLDV7vRf2QpnP-FMOKrjdRR-SdNde2miCihAerf8HAYIX0K_qbnf5GuDdfNZ5xhwfSU2U/s1600/Mission-Imossible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiPeXjqbfKDaDUGqOqHwNk-UJy0JknsUoVcF5tKooT6JwiK7s_RcVHISihYes2n5-gLFczPtLDV7vRf2QpnP-FMOKrjdRR-SdNde2miCihAerf8HAYIX0K_qbnf5GuDdfNZ5xhwfSU2U/s320/Mission-Imossible.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avoiding mom's detection.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Running back to my computer, I swept up all of the evidence and brought it into my parent’s room. I replaced the game disk with a random CD, put the case back inside the box and slipped it back inside the wrapping paper, resealing the gift with the same tape.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Hurrying back downstairs, I sat down at my computer just as my mom stepped through the door.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“What are you playing?” she asked, walking in with some groceries.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I kept my cool and responded as ambiguously as possible, “A game.” </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">To her, all my games looked the same and she accepted my answer, unaware of what a nefarious little shit her son was.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But all these years later, after living in Bogotá for eleven months, I have become a master in the art of waiting.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I heard somewhere that Bogotanos spend more than half their lives waiting for and on public transportation. Given Colombia’s penchant for inefficiency and Bogotá’s sheer enormity, I believe it.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Looking back over this year, I have probably spent a good chunk of my time waiting—for the bus, on the bus, and in line to buy bus passes. And that’s just TransMilenio. I have also spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting for the <i>colectivos</i> that take me to and from school.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaI_mJcliyBMiBI_CADee3i0TtPQzmoVjS9-SsC-gS_ujj3lzhM3T7xoR35iXGW2km7oo2-fjCoxs67O1HNf2N3gnVeGCAj9PkJjwLa2-ywdFPsZgmEWpwYm-gY49iCAjJbKGhjfh6gU/s1600/transmilenio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaI_mJcliyBMiBI_CADee3i0TtPQzmoVjS9-SsC-gS_ujj3lzhM3T7xoR35iXGW2km7oo2-fjCoxs67O1HNf2N3gnVeGCAj9PkJjwLa2-ywdFPsZgmEWpwYm-gY49iCAjJbKGhjfh6gU/s320/transmilenio.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TransMilenio at rush hour.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In being forced to wait for, well, <i>everything</i>, many gringos can go crazy. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But I’ve found a way to compensate.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Crammed amongst a sea of sweaty people in a TransMilenio bus at rush hour, I search for my <i>happy place</i> like in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXrRivLdueE">Happy Gilmore</a>. Entering a state of quasi-consciousness, I think simultaneously about everything and nothing. In this state, it does not bother me that a tiny 85-year old woman has her face awkwardly smashed against my stomach; that a fat, hairy man’s B.O.-sodden armpit is shoved in my nose; or that I know this will be my lot in life for the next 30-40 minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Learning how to wait is one of the greatest gifts Colombia has given me.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But you should probably still make sure that my other gifts remain well-hidden.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-14339599150310707842011-10-30T16:45:00.000-07:002011-10-30T16:45:47.047-07:00Election Day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVb5apyLLdyWppOpPeh0-7XDMwhaoF0QTNIUytXntktAY-zgHWBGEOSuYndMSJQe3o2ti1eP4pNVDzM2pGVEImrHWcX6rf1qB3dEuIuQPxqNcuST37w6hg1eOE53UF24xJVWbIUyVc-98/s1600/Soldiers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVb5apyLLdyWppOpPeh0-7XDMwhaoF0QTNIUytXntktAY-zgHWBGEOSuYndMSJQe3o2ti1eP4pNVDzM2pGVEImrHWcX6rf1qB3dEuIuQPxqNcuST37w6hg1eOE53UF24xJVWbIUyVc-98/s320/Soldiers.JPG" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldiers on patrol in Bogota.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Every day, when I walk down to catch the bus to school, I pass <i>Museo Militar de Colombia</i>, the country’s main military museum. Soldiers with automatic rifles stand guard at either end of the street leading up the museum to protect against those who might attack it. Colombia is, after all, still in the middle of a decades-long civil war and any military installation—even a museum—is a potential target.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Today, when I walked down to the <i>tienda</i> to buy some groceries, I encountered twice as many military guards and several police units on patrol. The increased security came as no surprise because today was Election Day in Colombia for local and regional offices.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It has been a rough couple of months for Colombian democracy—according to <a href="http://colombiareports.com/colombia-news/news/20052-polls-close-in-colombias-local-elections.html">Colombia Reports</a>, 41 political candidates were assassinated this year and many feared more attacks would occur today. To discourage alcohol-related violence, the government enacted <i>ley seca</i> (dry law), prohibiting the sale of alcohol Saturday evening through Monday. If nobody knew before that there were elections going on this weekend, they certainly found out when they learned they were unable to buy alcohol to celebrate Halloween last night. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Luckily, today’s elections came and went without any major attacks save for an attempted assassination in the Arauca department in northeast Colombia. This morning, the convoy of Representative Albeiro Vanegas Osorio<span style="float: none;">, vice president of Colombia’s House of Representatives, came under attack by gunmen. Although Representative Osorio survived the attack, his driver was killed. Despite this and a few other acts of violence, the Colombian government said that there was an 86% drop in attacks compared to the last local elections in 2007.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Besides direct violence, corruption is probably the biggest threat to Colombian democracy; however, the Colombian government took steps to curb it. The government canceled 4 million identity cards (nearly 10% of eligible voters) suspected of being involved in electoral fraud. Even so, in at least one town in northern Colombia, there were more registered voters than actual residents.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Although Colombia is technically one of Latin America’s most long-lasting and stable democracies, the complicated nature of Colombian politics is enough to make even a Political Science major’s head spin. Regardless, Colombian democracy will live to fight another day and that’s more than many countries in this region can say. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-87368581346065084852011-10-27T21:58:00.000-07:002011-11-04T10:34:08.508-07:00La Costa Chronicles Part 3: Sweatin’ in Santa Marta<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw60IJL1dlRKRUVukvLLw6BYx9EcXI0j7lCrKMzkJT8RSqLBaGuJgmsbUx5ao2TjQkO_6ue0389T130yQ1uaJxYGoofxTBqWQ9WaRxUjXv7GnZCfDUL9VgdmV1xfSBVEVoce-9VyuYqj4/s1600/Dreamer+Hostel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw60IJL1dlRKRUVukvLLw6BYx9EcXI0j7lCrKMzkJT8RSqLBaGuJgmsbUx5ao2TjQkO_6ue0389T130yQ1uaJxYGoofxTBqWQ9WaRxUjXv7GnZCfDUL9VgdmV1xfSBVEVoce-9VyuYqj4/s320/Dreamer+Hostel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dreamer Hostel, Santa Marta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We arrived in Santa Marta just before sunset after a five-hour bus ride down the coastal highway. Along the way, we had befriended some fellow American travelers, bonding over our mutual fear of premature death instilled by our happy-go-lucky driver’s penchant for dancing at the wheel.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Glad to still be counted among the living, Derek and I exited the bus and carried our bags inside the hostel. My first impression of <i>The Dreamer Hostel</i> was, “wow.” The hostel felt like a villa, with an open-air interior surrounded by nation-themed dormitories. We were assigned to Spain. There was an Italian restaurant, a bar, and even a swimming pool. Compared to the hostels I was used to, this was a major upgrade. And for all of this, it only cost about $11 USD a night.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After meeting up with my fellow WorldTeach volunteers, Pam and Katie, we sat down to eat at the Italian restaurant. As far as hostel food goes, it was actually pretty good. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWgcqhkyp07f2tIN_Us88Ro-u0AvmfO9War_tro2cK54_RPB7NZlLUTHr8tUAFB-3s3bsdVZX-gwg7-cynnl3B6X6i6gNOwz-e2DLgg-Q9gNmdR8wfuDFxS0os22_beGIm_CigGOnOkA/s1600/291106_10100563098373173_3218870_57837960_1967206353_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWgcqhkyp07f2tIN_Us88Ro-u0AvmfO9War_tro2cK54_RPB7NZlLUTHr8tUAFB-3s3bsdVZX-gwg7-cynnl3B6X6i6gNOwz-e2DLgg-Q9gNmdR8wfuDFxS0os22_beGIm_CigGOnOkA/s320/291106_10100563098373173_3218870_57837960_1967206353_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting Iced by Pam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I had spaghetti, in case you were wondering.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">By the time we finished eating, a group of hostel-goers had gathered for trivia night and we joined them. Broken up into teams, we competed to answer questions about Colombia, Santa Marta, and general world history. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the middle of the game, Pam came up to me with a bag of Goldfish crackers Derek had smuggled into the country and asked if I wanted some. Goldfish are my weakness, my brain food, and I had missed them dearly living in such a Goldfishless country.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Of course, I said yes.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-48HB1udPsQ4fTB7rXQhmLULa5eAMZXe5pe0-TjN6WkiloSiekoVhaJlS5deSXiU-YxbYUxi3hszoy_Lwe6eJ8cSyRnrJtjv24F2E9TGB3flf74nPFErk5yDXitoImHBOFVcS4Dga0s/s1600/DSCN4444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-48HB1udPsQ4fTB7rXQhmLULa5eAMZXe5pe0-TjN6WkiloSiekoVhaJlS5deSXiU-YxbYUxi3hszoy_Lwe6eJ8cSyRnrJtjv24F2E9TGB3flf74nPFErk5yDXitoImHBOFVcS4Dga0s/s320/DSCN4444.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parque Tayrona entrance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But when I reached into the bag to scoop up some of the little cheddar delights, my fingers found themselves touching a cold, hard bottle.</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I looked up at her and said, “Seriously?”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">She nodded and said, “Gotcha.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Damn the Smirnoff gods… I had just been Iced again!</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Confused but amused Europeans and Australians watched as I took a knee and polished off the Smirnoff Ice in one large chug. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The next day, Derek, Pam, and I hopped on a <i>collectivo</i> bus headed towards <i>Parque Nacional Natural Tayrona</i>, a national park near Santa Marta, where we planned to hike through the coastal jungle and spend the night on hammocks by the beach.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The bus dropped us off in a small village and we walked up a paved road to the park’s entrance. Although there was only a small group of people waiting to buy passes, it took us more than an hour to move to the front of the line—efficiency is not one of Colombia’s strong suits.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJ2uxWHqKG5Jnmy6rML16d7xBnq394RrOhe2E25-9zljsyXcdMeLzttVDsln_n9E9yg_vgM2r4mwt398DQXW9WfWn1sEP28l6i67TSXyC9VtmjLfQN0SrWcL4sLZeQIm0FiXeAweWTYA/s1600/Hiking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJ2uxWHqKG5Jnmy6rML16d7xBnq394RrOhe2E25-9zljsyXcdMeLzttVDsln_n9E9yg_vgM2r4mwt398DQXW9WfWn1sEP28l6i67TSXyC9VtmjLfQN0SrWcL4sLZeQIm0FiXeAweWTYA/s320/Hiking.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek and Pam hiking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When we had finally registered our passports and gotten our passes, we waited around some more for a sketchy bus to drive us and some other hikers up to the staging area. The staging area turned out to be a surprisingly well-kept campground and we passed through it to head to the main hiking trail.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Although we had only just begun, I was already drenched in sweat—on Colombia’s Caribbean coast sweat is, like death and taxes, a fact of life. It is everywhere—covering your arms and legs, under your brow, and dripping down your back. There is little you can do to escape it—save for hiding out in air conditioned shopping malls.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Unfortunately, we were fresh out of shopping malls.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Sweat aside, it was a scenic and enjoyable hike. Along the way, I got to see some monkeys and way too many industrious leaf-cutting ants. We made our way through the dense jungle and soon ran into the coast, where we followed the trail along the beach. Walking on the beach next to the thick jungle made me feel like I had been teleported into an episode of LOST. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXy6YbSnPDdDhTSQ0ODiwGOnOZeYqQUakQcEzHoNTypkQ9omgkfWJU3QWLrYQQZkm4cp-2phKmZdEJRJqKYp4v39nUOgr2ea90wsf3Jv7d0hRZlQwg6ZX8EfvBsz9zi5xcucfBbEErV-E/s1600/DSCN4538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXy6YbSnPDdDhTSQ0ODiwGOnOZeYqQUakQcEzHoNTypkQ9omgkfWJU3QWLrYQQZkm4cp-2phKmZdEJRJqKYp4v39nUOgr2ea90wsf3Jv7d0hRZlQwg6ZX8EfvBsz9zi5xcucfBbEErV-E/s320/DSCN4538.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabo San Juan, Parque Tayrona.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Luckily, there were no smoke monsters in the vicinity.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After stopping to eat lunch on a large rock next to the ocean, we continued down the trail, passing through camping areas and locally-run <i>tiendas</i> selling everything from water to coconut rice. Finally, we arrived at our destination: <i>Cabo San Juan</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i>Cabo San Juan</i> is essentially a large, outdoor hostel. You pay to spend the night in either a hammock or tent and there is a restaurant that provides meals. You can also buy beer at their <i>tienda</i>. Although it was nearly dusk, Derek, Pam, and I were determined to drink a hard-earned beer and swim in the warm Caribbean waters. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXX8g5BDg2gpjOgmfGXtFiu7JJKi_ZOuKb5IYfGTfevVMqW5Tv6ugRfPdrYDI7Zgv6bMfGEoNlmM2JZOx5KiiDEFbVTEbLlMyaDkLM17Nirbxfvb2xN1mb1OKD5DcyCXuL_GTxAk3ZnM/s1600/DSCN4485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXX8g5BDg2gpjOgmfGXtFiu7JJKi_ZOuKb5IYfGTfevVMqW5Tv6ugRfPdrYDI7Zgv6bMfGEoNlmM2JZOx5KiiDEFbVTEbLlMyaDkLM17Nirbxfvb2xN1mb1OKD5DcyCXuL_GTxAk3ZnM/s320/DSCN4485.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking in Parque Tayrona.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Beers in hand, we hung out in the water, befriending some Canadian and American backpackers who also happened to be staying at <i>The Dreamer Hostel</i> in Santa Marta. By random chance, one of the American girls heard me mention WorldTeach and she said she was friends with Adam—she had gone to college with him. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">South America is indeed a small world. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When the sun finally set, the bugs came out in full force, and we retreated to shore.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That night, we ate dinner at the restaurant where everyone else had congregated. I had a traditional Colombian dish of chicken with rice and papas—not bad. We befriended a pair of American travelers and hung out with the other people from our hostel, playing some card games under the restaurant’s lights. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A_bnnwwsrlnW0C8LWZRTxlzpRuCwH9FmJCxsFHbPKkgiGq8fjj0UGpQEJ4N4l6syELwzFrvARMtv5-EAmWVAZ1QfmqaxxiQW0fPccmP1COrfrYQ_zgnGS93yluMyzJphDNSYGka9oww/s1600/DSCN4556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A_bnnwwsrlnW0C8LWZRTxlzpRuCwH9FmJCxsFHbPKkgiGq8fjj0UGpQEJ4N4l6syELwzFrvARMtv5-EAmWVAZ1QfmqaxxiQW0fPccmP1COrfrYQ_zgnGS93yluMyzJphDNSYGka9oww/s320/DSCN4556.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our furry escort.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When it was finally time sleep, we headed to our hammocks, which were densely packed under a thatch-roof structure. Although some drunk guy had stolen my hammock, I managed to find a free one and claimed it as my own. This hammock-sleeping experience was much less relaxing than the one I’d had on Playa Blanca. For starters, <i>Cabo San Juan</i> was much more crowded and we were packed so tightly together that you were screwed if anyone near you was a snorer. Adding to the sleep impediments was a vociferous donkey that made annoying donkey noises all throughout the night. As if to add insult to injury, God decided to send a tropical storm our way, sending down torrents of pouring rain down against the thatch roof—making it like trying to sleep under Niagara Falls. Eventually, the snoring, the donkey, and the rain formed a twisted jungle lullaby and I drifted off to sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">By the next morning the rain had passed and we rolled out of our hammocks to catch some breakfast before taking off. Since Pam needed to be back in Santa Marta in time to catch a bus to Cartagena later that day, we headed out early.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkEFWvDQoSi4dnPUPIxcbJWBRLRNbSRhdEMagJrgwSHLCrJhtf2fK4pUM8kU9zHtOjflsrNmnsgwhwEEMqjtGneYyBtmkwPIh9McBaV7UMis5adAcHC9BozWCZF7zUPohbYn8yS4eMWU/s1600/With+Derek+at+Tayrona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkEFWvDQoSi4dnPUPIxcbJWBRLRNbSRhdEMagJrgwSHLCrJhtf2fK4pUM8kU9zHtOjflsrNmnsgwhwEEMqjtGneYyBtmkwPIh9McBaV7UMis5adAcHC9BozWCZF7zUPohbYn8yS4eMWU/s320/With+Derek+at+Tayrona.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Derek in Parque Tayrona.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As we backtracked through the jungle, passing the homes of the locals that worked in the park, a small dog decided to tag along, following us as we walked along the beach. Every time we stopped to drink some water, the dog waited and looked back at us. After we had gone a few miles, I began to worry that the dog would not be able to make it back home, but once we left the beach for the interior, our furry escort decided he had gone far enough and peaced out.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We had been walking for a while when I realized that we were not on the same path that we had gone in on. I normally have an above-average sense of direction and knew we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. We were passing over a muddy mess of a road covered with horse crap and mud holes. The path was also slippery and if you fell, you would literally be eating… well you know.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After a few hours of hiking, we were relieved to see that we had made it to the staging area. We took another sketchy bus down the hill and returned to the hostel in Santa Marta.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2GoqS9YuiZEAiqX0R6sni7MbgHd85JYjC5moZlFVHIyjsprRJm6LdEjGoWZvSEn_-Ly9J3SeBpgmWmd-MXko4xXU1ELmLRst0XRg08SNfN210zPELJfuE7lzBzcizP8fVWcqPOH7GD8/s1600/With+Pam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2GoqS9YuiZEAiqX0R6sni7MbgHd85JYjC5moZlFVHIyjsprRJm6LdEjGoWZvSEn_-Ly9J3SeBpgmWmd-MXko4xXU1ELmLRst0XRg08SNfN210zPELJfuE7lzBzcizP8fVWcqPOH7GD8/s320/With+Pam.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my nemesis, Pam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That night, Derek and I headed to the nearby town of Taganga to meet up with my friends Alyssa (my Baruvian Icer) and Nina. I had heard many things about Taganga, the foremost being that it was a fun party town. When we arrived in the small seaside pueblo, I thought someone must have been mistaken—the place was run down and full of trash, much like southern Bogotá. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We headed to “downtown” Taganga, where there was a concert going on in a park by the beach. Amidst the Colombian crowd, we hung out and listened to salsa and reggaeton and watched the locals pull some crazy dance moves. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Later, we headed to a bar on the cliff side that was supposed to be fun. When we entered the bar, the first thought that entered my mind was, <i>Welcome to</i> <i>Gringolandia</i>. The place was filled to the brim with gringos of every shape and size; roughneck Australians, overly dressed Englishmen, and wasted Americans.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcNAuHmsX8mSv5jhVxWWMY32AkxmL4vifDV4CIp4_-d8kCbrnfw5ReqVVY9J_1LDEgQsvHNoXC9WPUNLIs9XaQkhIDVq9hi44DjCWPwWRxEN7ib-rM6pREpPQuIYN2HSgWX2wx_rvAgw/s1600/DSCN4515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcNAuHmsX8mSv5jhVxWWMY32AkxmL4vifDV4CIp4_-d8kCbrnfw5ReqVVY9J_1LDEgQsvHNoXC9WPUNLIs9XaQkhIDVq9hi44DjCWPwWRxEN7ib-rM6pREpPQuIYN2HSgWX2wx_rvAgw/s320/DSCN4515.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Parque Tayrona.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I bought a beer and turned to join my friends on the dance floor, when a shady Colombian approached me to offer what he claimed was a good deal for coke. I ignored him and continued on to my friends. Despite being an overly gringo affair, it was a fun night and we had a good time dancing on the open-air terrace overlooking the Caribbean. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The next day, I lounged in a hammock back at the hostel, surprisingly not hungover and enjoying the sun’s warmth. I tried not to think about the fact that the next day I would be returning to stormy, freezing Bogotá and appreciated the day as best I could.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Soon, it would be back to the grind.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com1Santa Marta, Santa Marta (Distrito Turístico Cultural E Histórico), Magdalena, Colombia11.24725 -74.20166-28.384848499999997 -133.967285 50.8793485 -14.436035000000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-56221643218288194412011-10-21T18:27:00.001-07:002013-04-15T15:40:50.953-07:00La Costa Chronicles Part 2: Kickin’ it in Cartagena<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wotWaek8gnUsjdPff9nH41Kol-FTW87_RCcu3AqLcBQp8LQf9SuVZMa0XE4ewoNHcR3NMc7RQsF0BReLB3O2jzfjTaEi1iq6q76LkQ_XkMk6lH3LqtkHFXLxeIIjGnjOREV5sFpnI7c/s1600/Sunset.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wotWaek8gnUsjdPff9nH41Kol-FTW87_RCcu3AqLcBQp8LQf9SuVZMa0XE4ewoNHcR3NMc7RQsF0BReLB3O2jzfjTaEi1iq6q76LkQ_XkMk6lH3LqtkHFXLxeIIjGnjOREV5sFpnI7c/s320/Sunset.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun about to set near Cartagena.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Standing on the old Spanish wall watching the sun set over the tranquil Caribbean waters, I sensed a pervasive romantic feeling in the air—one that seemed to penetrate the skin and simultaneously fill one’s being with both hope and despair—like looking upon the girl of your dreams and knowing you could never have her.<br />
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In Cartagena—within the old city, at least—an unshakeable sense of history transports you to another time; when the city was the main Spanish port for exporting plundered South American gold back to Spain; when the warning bells would sound, signaling an impending English attack. But you are also reminded of the city’s darker side—when it served as the South American hub for importing African slaves. Nevertheless, Cartagena—like a beautiful girl with a complicated past—draws you in without letting go, a siren that, if you aren’t careful, can consume your very soul.</div>
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When the sun finally vanished over the horizon, I headed back to the hostel to await my friend’s arrival.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1Z5yEVYcgWNp-zvFGXY2nSkRiALgz1TxlF_QPireuq8p83Mc3BLJf4FBTBgX_aRbdLknNkCFQhv52ktIEIhVqcxVg8owRb9VQGcoiQSPmrhXEVooyEYK2Gw-ks0yi86rsME6xYc8IsM/s1600/Old+City.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1Z5yEVYcgWNp-zvFGXY2nSkRiALgz1TxlF_QPireuq8p83Mc3BLJf4FBTBgX_aRbdLknNkCFQhv52ktIEIhVqcxVg8owRb9VQGcoiQSPmrhXEVooyEYK2Gw-ks0yi86rsME6xYc8IsM/s320/Old+City.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old City.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The day after I picked up my friend and former college roommate, Derek, from the airport, we headed into the old city’s narrow streets to find something to eat. Despite the relatively early hour, the city was already bustling with tourists and street vendors setting up their wares. Pushy people waiting outside restaurants accosted us in broken English in hopes of convincing us to eat at their establishment. </div>
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Passing a bar, one guy said in decent English, “Come to party here tonight brother. We have lots of pretty girls for you.”</div>
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Without stopping, I threw him a “No, gracias. Estoy bien.” (the most useful Spanish phrase a gringo can know in Cartagena)</div>
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After breakfast, we headed back to the hostel to pick up my friend, Jessica, and set off for the day’s main activity—touring <i>Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas</i>. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSSrzry5Z3JlIouw_dl3vq3umTTh1KqS-wnuvNWhwQJ0fxiWQRPdphRwT7almIAV56yuLJ7cHQh_rRuxY_Mq-uFTpOhvG6WrLCsCemmQdpld2Sq25cbu2vc48rj9n7_Mm4hgN2uokByo/s1600/Cartagena+Fort.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSSrzry5Z3JlIouw_dl3vq3umTTh1KqS-wnuvNWhwQJ0fxiWQRPdphRwT7almIAV56yuLJ7cHQh_rRuxY_Mq-uFTpOhvG6WrLCsCemmQdpld2Sq25cbu2vc48rj9n7_Mm4hgN2uokByo/s320/Cartagena+Fort.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derek and I in front of Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i>Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas</i> sits on the hill of San Lázaro overlooking Cartagena’s Old City. Built in 1536 to defend the city against pirate attacks, it was one of the most impregnable defensive military structures the Spanish ever built in the Americas. Walking up the steep incline to the cannon-studded parapets, I could clearly see why.</div>
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My inner history geek rejoiced as we descended into the fort’s dark tunnels—old soldiers’ quarters and what must have been a jail for prisoners of war. Closing my eyes, I imagined what it would be like to be in this very spot hundreds of years earlier, the fort shaking under the relentless bombardment of English cannons. </div>
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Exiting the tunnels and ascending to the cannon-fortified walls, I decided that I’d rather be the one defending the fort than someone trying to attack it—I couldn’t imagine the attackers faring well against such a strategically-superior structure. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QxV8Tsl3pmyq7ne7AyC1xF0jMbroBjPIsJdWzpRfQKjO4Z95jXFMmBJArle_8Mty8eY_wjxSP3KgCy3KAvpRyPbSbL7VKntK5IqZD7iCPkqwkNVNKpUD3PujQyBxE9Sifp3oBjZBOeE/s1600/Tourists.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6QxV8Tsl3pmyq7ne7AyC1xF0jMbroBjPIsJdWzpRfQKjO4Z95jXFMmBJArle_8Mty8eY_wjxSP3KgCy3KAvpRyPbSbL7VKntK5IqZD7iCPkqwkNVNKpUD3PujQyBxE9Sifp3oBjZBOeE/s320/Tourists.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beware the elderly Canadian armies!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Although the English may have failed to take the fort centuries earlier, today a camera-wielding horde of English-speaking white people had succeeded in storming the position after paying a meager $16,000 pesos at the ticket kiosk. Well-dressed and looking way to well-off to be backpackers, these older gringos could have only originated from one place—cruise ships.</div>
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My suspicions were confirmed when an older man wearing a bike helmet meandered over to where we were sitting and asked me, matter-of-factly, “What ship are you from?” </div>
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“I’m not from a ship,” I said, “I live here.” </div>
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He gave me a fish-eyed look and paused, as if waiting for me to tell him that I was just kidding.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP0kHTFXhtxrnOiXehfvYUfX7Ra7phUxMkRsCnrtZDP5rkP-FbGtxIvbClFfvHSI3h2BJGDdNGCgdPw3LPUgfJsQMjWVU_P9pO_16ijVBG1_s5-MBKGyV3kbflwvNEyV-6V4xv__mo8O0/s1600/Tunnels.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP0kHTFXhtxrnOiXehfvYUfX7Ra7phUxMkRsCnrtZDP5rkP-FbGtxIvbClFfvHSI3h2BJGDdNGCgdPw3LPUgfJsQMjWVU_P9pO_16ijVBG1_s5-MBKGyV3kbflwvNEyV-6V4xv__mo8O0/s320/Tunnels.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the tunnels.</td></tr>
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“Really?” He said. “What do you do here?”</div>
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“I teach English in Bogotá,” I replied, “I’m in Cartagena for vacation.”</div>
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“How cool,” he said, “Well, I am gonna go take a ride down through the old city. Our ship guide says it’s a bad idea, but I think he’s just being overly cautious.”</div>
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Before I could tell him that the ship guide was absolutely right and that it was a terrible idea to attempt to ride a bike through the Darwinistic nightmare of a Colombian city, he had already turned to head back down to the fortress entrance. On the back of his helmet I spotted the red maple leaf of the Canadian flag. Canadians—that made perfect sense.</div>
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That night, we sat out on our hostel’s balcony overlooking the centro’s streets. After befriending a roughneck Australian, his Canadian girlfriend, and a quiet Norwegian guy, we decided to go grab a drink nearby. Since it was Monday, our options were limited, so we settled for the bar with the cheapest drink deals in the main square near the clock tower. </div>
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Outside the bar, a swanky fellow with a creepy beard approached us and said in less-than-good English, “You want drugs and girls? I got them.”</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR6QpxOG1oZCTu6rjdnaF8xw-sb6RFw7VZ-BhpORNjcspBvbkKBFpY6dCdBaMF9smReiohZsW3l_AWrsIBAD_vUGXbgZrAyUpfsa0K_vyF_3rZ0aJ3f2cznAH-cBaDjs1FVt4jU9Ggvg/s1600/Fort+Walls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR6QpxOG1oZCTu6rjdnaF8xw-sb6RFw7VZ-BhpORNjcspBvbkKBFpY6dCdBaMF9smReiohZsW3l_AWrsIBAD_vUGXbgZrAyUpfsa0K_vyF_3rZ0aJ3f2cznAH-cBaDjs1FVt4jU9Ggvg/s320/Fort+Walls.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the fort walls.</td></tr>
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After politely declining the gentleman’s gracious offer, we went upstairs to the rooftop bar. The place was deserted save for an old gringo and two younger Colombian women and we took over a corner table and ordered a bottle of rum and some Coca-Colas.</div>
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Drink in hand, I went to the balcony to look out at the city. With the full moon shining overhead and the city lit up below, I couldn’t help but smile. All I needed was someone to share it with, and it would have been a perfect moment.</div>
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A Colombian woman appeared next to me and leaned on the balcony to take in the view. I looked at her and said, “Hola.”</div>
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“Hola,” she said.</div>
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I made small talk with her in Spanish for a few more minutes and when I asked her what she did for a living, she replied, “Soy un compañera de amor.”</div>
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Awesome … I had just spent the past few minutes making small talk with a Cartagenian prostitute. </div>
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When I told her I was not interested in her services, she peaced out so fast, I swear she left a dust trail. From the table, my friends laughed at my expense.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzxvnU0fKxzegJL9eqadYPFBbGFTZjlfm1htKpYEbA1a049i6zlbqd9Ertv_t2PJ1WSeUX2fx4Q0hb_AJtH_mkJlG59Ixj-J4eX4qoM1JDaG_qLerEpYNr4XvBO4QDU55zdCimJ7wCxA/s1600/Night.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzxvnU0fKxzegJL9eqadYPFBbGFTZjlfm1htKpYEbA1a049i6zlbqd9Ertv_t2PJ1WSeUX2fx4Q0hb_AJtH_mkJlG59Ixj-J4eX4qoM1JDaG_qLerEpYNr4XvBO4QDU55zdCimJ7wCxA/s320/Night.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cartagena at night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As a gringo in Cartagena, it is common to be constantly offered illegal drugs and prostitutes, a reality that bothered me a lot while I was there. I get it, a lot of gringos come to Cartagena for these things, but I found it hard not to feel insulted every time someone assumed I was interested in such things. Staying at hostels on the coast and being among backpackers, I soon realized that a good number of them were indeed interested in cocaine and other illegal drugs, but more on this later.</div>
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The next day, Derek, Jessica and I took a bus an hour away from Cartagena to see one of the region’s most up-and-coming tourist attractions—<i>Volcán de Lodo El Totumo</i>. After making its way down an unusually well-maintained highway, the bus turned onto a gravel road, following it a ways until we arrived in front of what appeared to be a giant termite mound.<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZMQijH2aaOBQA_NnORAQi40qR1MMfNJDFkdIgkXvoEEuJEnpy-kOSX3G-TIC2RIR4DD22K7o9J8ad5fqv22LP0jkmruO3inAdkbyAGIDxcxKK6Cd1B8qtqaWOhVeASa5ych_LK28vBM/s1600/Mud+Volcano.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZMQijH2aaOBQA_NnORAQi40qR1MMfNJDFkdIgkXvoEEuJEnpy-kOSX3G-TIC2RIR4DD22K7o9J8ad5fqv22LP0jkmruO3inAdkbyAGIDxcxKK6Cd1B8qtqaWOhVeASa5ych_LK28vBM/s320/Mud+Volcano.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Volcan de Lodo El Totumo.</td></tr>
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Exiting the bus, we got in line to ascend the rickety wooden stairs to the volcano’s peak. The line moved slowly, but we eventually made it to the top and beheld one of the strangest sights we had ever seen. Several mud-lathered people sat submerged up to their chests in a silvery, sloppy mud, reminiscent of dinosaurs trapped in a tar pit. Some locals stood by the pit holding way too many cameras and taking pictures of the mud-covered tourists. </div>
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After waiting nearly a half an hour, we finally made it to the pit’s entrance point. I handed my camera to one of the locals and slipped into the mud. Being inside the El Totumo mud volcano was one of the most awkward yet awesome experiences of my life. The mud pit’s consistency made it so you could not sink below your chest and maneuvering yourself in the stuff was like trying to swim in half-melted butter. </div>
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Lying on my back, one of the locals gave me a mud “massage”, which was more akin to torture than comfort, but there was no way to turn them down. Once the three of us had been sufficiently mud-tortured and covered in mud, we simply stood (without actually standing on anything) there like flies trapped in Jell-O. I kept an eye on the guy with my camera to make sure it didn’t end up on Colombian eBay and he took pictures of us hanging out in the mud.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6MatSn-k3heqyjKvdvel7v-aiKAE-i6h34Z1tAwqQre-JcB0BRn1afsgJIyMsSIK0G275RT7XWlArQfdYPPquzV-CHXiBTcYZK-YyaZxg5AVD0BgsPUXq46rdHej45PW-XRRT1ugEug/s1600/Muddy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6MatSn-k3heqyjKvdvel7v-aiKAE-i6h34Z1tAwqQre-JcB0BRn1afsgJIyMsSIK0G275RT7XWlArQfdYPPquzV-CHXiBTcYZK-YyaZxg5AVD0BgsPUXq46rdHej45PW-XRRT1ugEug/s320/Muddy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the mud with Derek and Jessica.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When we decided that we had had enough, we climbed out and headed down another set of wooden stairs. Now resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger in <i>Predator</i>, we waddled down to a nearby lake to rinse off. </div>
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In the water, a local woman sporting a small bucket began to toss water on me. As my height prevented her from splashing my upper body and head, I squatted down to make it easier, but drew the line when she told me to take off my shorts and waded deeper into the lake to rinse the rest of the mud off my body alone.</div>
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Since the lake was too shallow to swim in, I sat looking around at the others rinsing off around me. I saw another guy close to my age fall victim to the bucket lady and when he declined her attempts to bathe him, she said that there were piranhas and alligators in the lake—therefore it was best for her to do the job. </div>
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Piranhas or not, the lake was better than being molested by an old Colombian lady.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPHZA_pOj4yVs17m_XTb13EvQykDCieMdPRFox9EN_JUcJyMx5-IJnGGRkcf99VUo8Lmba1krH4-HprCuLdzBP2NITwnm8jyWczWqgp1-LsSfT5KikY2Tsqmv6yIsQoIw73xraTlulwQ/s1600/Beach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPHZA_pOj4yVs17m_XTb13EvQykDCieMdPRFox9EN_JUcJyMx5-IJnGGRkcf99VUo8Lmba1krH4-HprCuLdzBP2NITwnm8jyWczWqgp1-LsSfT5KikY2Tsqmv6yIsQoIw73xraTlulwQ/s320/Beach.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">About to pick a fight with the ocean.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When we were reasonably cleaned-off (I would continue to find mud in my ears over the next several days), we returned to our bus where the locals were holding our cameras hostage until we paid them for their services. I told the guy to wait as I entered the bus to retrieve my money and when I returned, massage-torturer guy and bucket lady were there, demanding their cut of the gringo peso pie. After paying to get my camera back and being guilted into paying the other two opportunists, I boarded the bus and we left the mud volcano in our dust.</div>
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The bus drove a ways back towards Cartagena then turned onto a dirt road, through a poor-looking pueblo and stopped at a beach called Playa Mansanillo. The bus let us out and the tour guide said we had a half an hour to hang out on the beach until lunch was ready. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR7layZD6I4e8D7VcuNKtLpexV2h_S3PyYJl5KH2V__dtq48rBfdTnhQPus7TLV6ooZvBsfEfB47vM3Jxqb-2j-VB9MXvotz1r5HD9eI2bwBIjDEAV-mZf2mO9GtMnbtYxYwQNSzit_E/s1600/Lunch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR7layZD6I4e8D7VcuNKtLpexV2h_S3PyYJl5KH2V__dtq48rBfdTnhQPus7TLV6ooZvBsfEfB47vM3Jxqb-2j-VB9MXvotz1r5HD9eI2bwBIjDEAV-mZf2mO9GtMnbtYxYwQNSzit_E/s320/Lunch.JPG" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating Colombian food by the water.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Derek and Jessica hung out on the beach while I went to face the Caribbean waves—battling the ocean has been one of my favorite pastimes since childhood. The warm Caribbean waters felt like a bathtub and I swam out far enough to see the tall towers of Cartagena in the distance. </div>
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When lunch was ready, I came back to shore and we enjoyed a traditional coastal Colombian meal of chicken, coconut rice, and fried plátano. After lunch, the bus took us back to Cartagena. </div>
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Although I was loving my time in Cartagena, it was time to move on—the next day Derek and I would head further down the coast to Santa Marta, where we would meet up with my friend and fellow volunteer, Pam, and check out some Colombian jungle.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Cartagena, Bolivar, Colombia10.3873369 -75.519663110.3850549 -75.5222631 10.389618899999999 -75.5170631tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-79654747950350263192011-10-17T20:59:00.000-07:002011-10-19T07:20:11.197-07:00La Costa Chronicles Part 1: Getting Iced on Isla Barú<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><i>Last week was a national holiday week in Colombia and I took the opportunity to explore part of Colombia’s northern Caribbean coast. My travels brought me from the white beaches of Isla Barú to the colonial city of Cartagena to the jungle beaches near Santa Marta. I will be writing a three-part series chronicling my coastal travels. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i>Here is part one… <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcVAQhrE7iOtCWCYkhWjqdLnV9ZAf4VyTqnwCaeaLOf92_SEi2qERlFRcz-KgOGA3q0i2HwguIoF9i2wbeaqWSpiNtNOhz6nXV6DYvZ2b_oUAdkZjsqFYvgb0Lcc5AWR6vzVgIbzdmVA/s1600/Canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcVAQhrE7iOtCWCYkhWjqdLnV9ZAf4VyTqnwCaeaLOf92_SEi2qERlFRcz-KgOGA3q0i2HwguIoF9i2wbeaqWSpiNtNOhz6nXV6DYvZ2b_oUAdkZjsqFYvgb0Lcc5AWR6vzVgIbzdmVA/s320/Canoe.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the canoe with Adam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The taxi dropped me off in the main square of Pasacaballos, an Afro-Colombian pueblo forty minutes outside of the sprawling Colombian touristropolis of Cartagena. The humidity wrapped itself around me like an oppressive alpaca blanket and I scanned the plaza in hopes of finding sanctuary in shade. Unfortunately, the pueblo’s denizens had already claimed every last precious patch, forcing me to face the relentless Caribbean sun on a vacant bench in the plaza’s center. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">As I awaited my friends’ arrival, I studied the town I now found myself in. The sheer demographics of those milling about told me that I was a long way from Bogotá—whereas Bogotá is largely white and <i>mestizo</i>, this town appeared to be 100% Afro-Colombian. Although in Bogotá I can sort of blend in if I dress humbly and keep my mouth shut, here I stood out like a sore gringo thumb.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">A trio of school children walked by, shyly smiling at me as they passed.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Hola,” I said, giving them a friendly gringo wave.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">At that, they snickered and scurried away.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsivGVKU-5og37SzoZlg_48dpvsJIP-MIvesyPZYdCFJe5gqD0tv6z2Jwe5jrmhVZYxEEyNI0FcsXnIylj-gFK-OgwArSl3F5RFePeni-FQRsYuFja6Om1V2w2txruhYOoYTHiYgNbQxk/s1600/Crossing+to+Baru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsivGVKU-5og37SzoZlg_48dpvsJIP-MIvesyPZYdCFJe5gqD0tv6z2Jwe5jrmhVZYxEEyNI0FcsXnIylj-gFK-OgwArSl3F5RFePeni-FQRsYuFja6Om1V2w2txruhYOoYTHiYgNbQxk/s320/Crossing+to+Baru.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing over to Baru, the moto taxis waiting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After a few more minutes of taking in the town, I spotted my friends, Adam and TL, approaching and stood to great them. Adam and TL lived on the nearby island of Barú and taught in the poor pueblo of Santa Ana—they had crossed the channel to help me make the passage over to the island for a visit.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We passed several street venders on our way to the canal selling chilled fruit juice and empanadas while local children stood amused by the tall gringo and company passing through their neighborhood. All the while, the Caribbean sun continued to rain fire upon our backs. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When we arrived at the canal, I spotted a gang of grungy men waiting by a jumble of canoes. My friends told me that normally, people took the ferry to cross the channel, but that it was faster and cheaper to cross over by canoe.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Looking down at the canoes lying moored by the shore, I was fairly certain that nobody’s mother would approve of them setting foot on one. But after ten months of living in Colombia, I had already done plenty of things my mother would not approve of (the first being deciding to live in Colombia in the first place), so I said to hell with it and came aboard. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The canoe ride across the channel turned out to be more pleasant and less eventful than I expected. Whether Latin American Poseidon took mercy on our gringo souls or we just got lucky, I don’t know, but we made it to the other side without incident.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoXBUUnOD4ajBhbl2serYYEvkf_4TUxuS8EDX-A-qRr3shN8F7BvtTWiox-7OFoM0f-UoEEGn-s84rr6xGs1XHT6XAVptpEMgeuy1bQRjaRX6gteNKXdw82PnpmUpgAAY3u_NKRJfEpU/s1600/Baruvian+Classroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoXBUUnOD4ajBhbl2serYYEvkf_4TUxuS8EDX-A-qRr3shN8F7BvtTWiox-7OFoM0f-UoEEGn-s84rr6xGs1XHT6XAVptpEMgeuy1bQRjaRX6gteNKXdw82PnpmUpgAAY3u_NKRJfEpU/s320/Baruvian+Classroom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WorldTeach classroom in Santa Ana.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After safely arriving on Isla Barú, we commenced the second and final leg of the journey to Santa Ana: moto taxis. On Colombia’s Caribbean coast and especially on Isla Barú, moto taxes are the primary means of getting around. We talked to three moto taxi drivers and after negotiating the fare, jumped on the back of weathered dirt bikes and took off towards Santa Ana.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now, I am no stranger to dirt bikes—back home, my family owns several and frequently takes them out on the dirt trails in the Lake Tahoe National Forrest—but riding on the back of a moto taxi along the unkempt roads of Barú was one of the most adrenaline-filled and comical experiences of my life. Without a helmet and lugging my heavy travel pack, I did my best to anticipate the driver’s turns and the unexpected bumps to prevent falling to my untimely gringo death. Since I stood more than a foot taller than the driver and could see clearly over his head, it seemed like the motorcycle was driving itself. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">By the way he was driving, it might as well have been.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">With the wind rushing into my face, I absorbed the beautiful landscape around me—so much green—and the pristine Caribbean waters glistening in the distance. It all made me smile, until I swallowed a bug and learned to keep my mouth shut.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDythaxwy1xMihxUvCAFYVPKL0KXgp5dNXdMPyvMUv4eg76sW_Mk-QLgeTkGjiuAA96l-XsnljoquIK0TDcB-ij-0pynTCfLumbVUccFfdNiJByb4XDfiEqW4Df1NaWIsbOKThPkV6q4/s1600/Baru+Students.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDythaxwy1xMihxUvCAFYVPKL0KXgp5dNXdMPyvMUv4eg76sW_Mk-QLgeTkGjiuAA96l-XsnljoquIK0TDcB-ij-0pynTCfLumbVUccFfdNiJByb4XDfiEqW4Df1NaWIsbOKThPkV6q4/s320/Baru+Students.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TL with some of her students.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After twenty or so minutes on the moto taxi, we arrived in Santa Ana at the gates of <i>Instituto Ecologico Barbacoas</i> where the WorldTeach volunteers live and some work on Barú. We passed through the walled compound and I marveled at the open-air classrooms—those would never fly in freezing Bogotá. Although school had ended for the day, we encountered a few students milling about and TL introduced me to a few of hers.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We entered the teacher quarters and I reunited with several other WorldTeachers I had not seen since the midservice conference back in July. Many of them were on their way out to nearby Playa Blanca, where that night we planned to have a beach party and spend the night on beachside hammocks.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Before heading to Playa Blanca, I wanted to check out Santa Ana and meet some of the locals the other volunteers had befriended. While the others took off for Playa Blanca, Adam, TL, and <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/10/guest-blogger-bryanna-on-baru.html">Bryanna</a> stayed to give me the grand tour of Santa Ana. Half-joking, I asked my friend Alyssa to have a beer waiting for me on the beach, and she said she would.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAftbDl1fksnYkznu2H7dmd1RCeKFTJZ0vxilXX9WsWcag_GLkphsZ_uYON5ourMd6Hc7PrgubgGw1OENou4QHEm5NckBvA7guEpVy20o2s-bGG2qwvakLKBAGUguhlYxg0czwxaZnK14/s1600/Santa+Ana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAftbDl1fksnYkznu2H7dmd1RCeKFTJZ0vxilXX9WsWcag_GLkphsZ_uYON5ourMd6Hc7PrgubgGw1OENou4QHEm5NckBvA7guEpVy20o2s-bGG2qwvakLKBAGUguhlYxg0czwxaZnK14/s320/Santa+Ana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Santa Ana, next to the puddle-pond.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Exiting Barbacoas, we backtracked a bit down the dirt path and arrived at a tienda next to a pond-sized puddle that had formed on the road. There, we began the tour.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Walking through the impoverished pueblo, I felt like I had passed through a portal into a distant African village. The dirt road was dotted with muddy cesspools of greenish goo that was reminiscent of the primordial soup and was such a muddy mess that not even the most well-endowed 4-wheel vehicle could hope to navigate it—hence the abundance of moto taxis, which were nimble enough to pass over the few dry paths.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We passed several young children running around and playing in their underwear—clothing made little sense in the oppressive heat. Some of the children had bloated bellies resulting from malnutrition—a tough sight to take in.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXsimWha2yIYj1Hr3NZGBYW1VXS6o4ilEH_CtXV7aEAOpCWSo2iBLeqCy-0tRYMtXplYGfPGRyoJZmDBT7XJahefcd7VGrK2gTyra6AeV8Jql5rvsKfVxHP12387QTHB__ju8prLEJ04/s1600/Green+Goo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXsimWha2yIYj1Hr3NZGBYW1VXS6o4ilEH_CtXV7aEAOpCWSo2iBLeqCy-0tRYMtXplYGfPGRyoJZmDBT7XJahefcd7VGrK2gTyra6AeV8Jql5rvsKfVxHP12387QTHB__ju8prLEJ04/s320/Green+Goo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The green goo of Baru.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">One of the things that struck me most about Santa Ana was how everyone seemed to know everyone and that they all knew the volunteers. They waved and said hola to us as we passed and stopped to chat here and there. Living in Bogotá, I have not been able to become part of any real community. Granted, when I am at my school or walking through the neighborhood from the bus stop, students always and parents occasionally say hello; however, as I do not live in Juan Rey and it is not exactly safe to hang around the neighborhood after school, I haven’t been able to experience the same community feel as the volunteers on Barú. I was also amazed by how safe Santa Ana was despite its poverty—my friends told me they could walk around town well after dark without fear of being robbed, or worse. Since Santa Ana was so small and everyone knew everyone, no one could possibly hope to get away with criminal activity. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I found that fact refreshing.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG9hy5M-Kv8m3_vEvcQV52yMr2_8iwDSSDbypKlZF6FSK1iNvVPeOeo6-9L3x5cVKTTXb9J8YlMhBV97K3xDC6RBtw__tOYLlxh8oQ8xFLK7XxXN7BCV0ub5n0avu83bGSkZyEzPnbvQ/s1600/Playa+Blanca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG9hy5M-Kv8m3_vEvcQV52yMr2_8iwDSSDbypKlZF6FSK1iNvVPeOeo6-9L3x5cVKTTXb9J8YlMhBV97K3xDC6RBtw__tOYLlxh8oQ8xFLK7XxXN7BCV0ub5n0avu83bGSkZyEzPnbvQ/s320/Playa+Blanca.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Playa Blanca.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After Santa Ana, we hopped back on moto taxis to head to Playa Blanca. If I thought the road was bad before, I was in for a surprise—the previous night’s rain had turned much of the road into an impassable nightmare. Luckily, we made it through unscathed, albeit muddied, and arrived at Playa Blanca.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Playa Blanca is more and more becoming a major tourist destination—most people take daily ferries from Cartagena to spend the day and return at night. Much to my delight, we arrived just before sunset and most of the tourists had already left. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"> </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We walked down the sandy beach to find the rest of the group, who had gotten there a few hours earlier. As we passed small thatched huts, people approached us to offer hammocks to spend the night in. Besides that, the beach was all but deserted.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We met up with our friends, grabbed some drinks, and waded into the warm Caribbean water just as the sun began to set. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrrlSxuLl7fZdA9R3vXbdkfeeIMT1CFnXPZlxdMprfZxp3IjpJKbIztBGIaXm_pj-cyrbMWwKHGI28uXXF-aelVV9PYRphu-qrF-IpnJG4cQ0A6IBjrgPIAOboIQozRNEdRbwKBzJwfc/s1600/307804_10101086997939263_5204178_72471690_506892941_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrrlSxuLl7fZdA9R3vXbdkfeeIMT1CFnXPZlxdMprfZxp3IjpJKbIztBGIaXm_pj-cyrbMWwKHGI28uXXF-aelVV9PYRphu-qrF-IpnJG4cQ0A6IBjrgPIAOboIQozRNEdRbwKBzJwfc/s320/307804_10101086997939263_5204178_72471690_506892941_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the sunset by Playa Blanca.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Alyssa told me she had bought me a beer and that it was in her backpack near the hammocks. Like a naïve child, I left the water to retrieve my beer from her pack. When I unzipped it and reached inside, what I pulled out was not a beer… but a Smirnoff Ice. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">You guessed it—I had just gotten iced in Colombia—it wasn’t the first time and, much to my chagrin, would not be the last. For those unfamiliar with the cultural phenomena of icing, click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiFOPRJk65o">here</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After taking a knee and polishing off the disgusting sugary beverage, I returned to the water and witnessed one of the most breathtaking sunsets I had ever seen. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That night, we ate dinner at a small, family-run “restaurant” on the beach and sat around playing games and having a good time. The best part about it was that we had the entire beach to ourselves—giving the illusion of being on an isolated tropical island. Later, we fell asleep in hammocks on the beach to the sound of the surf gently lapping against the shore.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynqJW3FsAA_Isv3Q5_jxN2757xZJ7NkszKTu6mM5yp3bKSspZsEJvD5Z-Z6WTrewzVIfIGUz1Xq1snUzAt6jm4yHfqCJw3Piy3Ujm8HFszMZF4Y2NzWK6S4kM1Xurj6-GzBMtwedM1Tc/s1600/Double+Fisting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynqJW3FsAA_Isv3Q5_jxN2757xZJ7NkszKTu6mM5yp3bKSspZsEJvD5Z-Z6WTrewzVIfIGUz1Xq1snUzAt6jm4yHfqCJw3Piy3Ujm8HFszMZF4Y2NzWK6S4kM1Xurj6-GzBMtwedM1Tc/s320/Double+Fisting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Double-fisting coconut rums!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The next morning, most of our group headed back to Santa Ana while the rest of us remained on Playa Blanca to enjoy the sun. Local peddlers patrolled the beach selling everything from beaded necklaces to oysters. After hanging out in the water for a bit, we stopped by one of the thatched bars and drank some coconut rums. No joke, the guy actually opened up a coconut, mixed in some rum, and stuck a straw in it. Best invention ever. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Sitting on the beach, drinking a coconut rum, and looking out at the crystalline waters, Bogotá and its freezing mountain rain was the last thing on my mind. I was on vacation for the next week, and I was determined to enjoy every second of it.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Next stop, Cartagena.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Isla Barú, Cartagena De Indias (Distrito Turístico Y Cultural), Bolivar, Colombia10.25007 -75.583129999999983-29.475051 -135.34875499999998 49.975191 -15.817504999999983tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-34895035193753937252011-10-04T16:36:00.000-07:002011-10-04T19:24:57.411-07:00Guest Blogger: Bryanna on Barú<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DCPfjHVdK-MOfVLG2AO2Qpl3oQwGle6hOrkMnxJH3DevcAZHrmHAKnm3LSRGRAKWvNNILcuMpu9KllwAdjY46cnUx5TmFBvixMBnUT9vTuADnRZ3GnajK7ath0bIbOsQraB2vH59z0Q/s1600/172630_565333520380_44903634_32670863_2847668_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DCPfjHVdK-MOfVLG2AO2Qpl3oQwGle6hOrkMnxJH3DevcAZHrmHAKnm3LSRGRAKWvNNILcuMpu9KllwAdjY46cnUx5TmFBvixMBnUT9vTuADnRZ3GnajK7ath0bIbOsQraB2vH59z0Q/s320/172630_565333520380_44903634_32670863_2847668_o.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryanna Plog</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I created this blog to chronicle my experiences living and teaching English in Bogotá<span style="font-size: 12pt;">—therefore, my posts have focused on my life here in Colombia's capital. </span></span><br />
<div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">But</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">—</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">as I've mentioned before<span style="font-size: 12pt;">—</span>I am not here alone. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am part of a team of thirty-five volunteers spread across Colombia's different regions and although we face living situations and working challenges as variegated as Colombia itself, we share a common desire to affect positive change through teaching</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">To give you an idea of what some of the other WorldTeach volunteers are up to in Colombia, I asked my friend, fellow volunteer, and talented writer, Bryanna Plog, to write a piece about her experiences teaching in the rural Afro-Colombian community of Santa Ana, Isla </span>Barú on the Caribbean Coast.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But enough jabber from me. Bryanna will take it from here.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">* * *</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>The 5 S’s of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Ana</st1:place></st1:city>: A Look at Living and Teaching on Isla Barú</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> By Bryanna Plog</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Setting. Students. Sweat. Shouts. Surprises. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These five things have not only defined my experience teaching English and living in Colombia but also help explain my experiences here—what I have enjoyed, struggled with, and learned from life here. (Plus, who doesn’t like blog posts defined by alliteration?) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdD3Tg1Db7Xl5ugYR87SA7uwl1uyh0ATh6OhvCGB-hrOuGfnOnfCrf8ZIZJ3MHj1z2LdjlZSj0hPheT3cMeCq8khz7ydQmr9y8PSywLKRzTeSIAcF2Lmv7u4mOrmQ9ZGKCwtBhlcnJ9-4/s1600/What+we+might+call+%2527+downtown%2527+Santa+Ana%252C+population+just+under+5000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdD3Tg1Db7Xl5ugYR87SA7uwl1uyh0ATh6OhvCGB-hrOuGfnOnfCrf8ZIZJ3MHj1z2LdjlZSj0hPheT3cMeCq8khz7ydQmr9y8PSywLKRzTeSIAcF2Lmv7u4mOrmQ9ZGKCwtBhlcnJ9-4/s320/What+we+might+call+%2527+downtown%2527+Santa+Ana%252C+population+just+under+5000.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Downtown" Santa Ana.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Setting<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">First, let me set the scene. Palm and jacaranda trees blowing in a hot breeze. Green bushes grow densely thanks to the rainy season where months before there was only khaki dirt lay. Honking donkeys and lowing cattle move through the streets, which are simultaneously rutted with mud and covered in dust.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Colombia is divided into fairly distinct regions, geographical features creating the borders, but climate, history, ethnicity, and more have shaped the different personalities of the diverse areas in Colombia.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And the coast of Colombia is no Bogotá (or Medellín or Cali…). Colombia has two distinct coasts, the more rural and remote Pacific Coast and the more developed Caribbean coast.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I speak in vast generalities of course because where I am currently living and teaching, through the same volunteer teaching program as Mike, WorldTeach, is certainly <i>under</i>developed despite its proximity to the tourist mecca of Cartagena. I teach 6<sup>th</sup>, 7<sup>th</sup>, and 8<sup>th</sup> grade at Institución Educativa de Santa Ana, in the rural community of Santa Ana, Isla Barú. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyqLdLOz8KPDB1C5iqX39FAyT8yUbGIs38t4DbOvUTsr7xqlZndjsFZH-OKKMvb5kBflRT4Ke0C-X9h_W1-ztHkFTp_g661-K0AVIu_tdz78bbHaSUfNfKcOPOVNJM_e3sdYKF0zW5J0I/s1600/Bet+you+wish+you+were+here+-+Playa+Blanca.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyqLdLOz8KPDB1C5iqX39FAyT8yUbGIs38t4DbOvUTsr7xqlZndjsFZH-OKKMvb5kBflRT4Ke0C-X9h_W1-ztHkFTp_g661-K0AVIu_tdz78bbHaSUfNfKcOPOVNJM_e3sdYKF0zW5J0I/s320/Bet+you+wish+you+were+here+-+Playa+Blanca.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playa Blanca...bet you wish you were here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Located about an hour and half south of Cartagena (by the often exhilarating and energy-draining route of bus, ferry, and motorcycle taxi), on the upside I can boast about living on a Caribbean Island for a year. The downside of our remoteness and natural beauty are the ups and downs for the town on relying on tourism and fishing (as well as a good chunk of cash coming in from the fun/harrowing motorcycle taxis). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Because while the town of 5000 is not much to look at in itself (nice to walk around but is not exactly a tourist attraction), we are located only 20 minutes from Playa Blanca, which is assuredly THE beach for white-hatted retirees with money to burn and dreadlocked backpackers to visit as part of their Cartagena experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Without any paved roads (think billowing dust when it is dry and deep ruts of mud and pond-sized puddles after a rain), and streets dominated by small concrete houses, dozens of small shops, the ever-present traffic of donkeys, cows, and pigs, and the pumping sound of African- influenced champeta and vallenato music, Santa Ana is not exactly mentioned in the Lonely Plant guidebook. However, Santa Ana is certainly a community where a basic knowledge of English can help a family earn more money at the beach or get a job in Cartagena or at the mega all-inclusive (read: exclusive) resort on Playa Blanca, the <a href="http://www.decameron.com/eng/colombia/decameron_baru/overview.html">Decameron</a>. This was the first site in Colombia that WorldTeach volunteers taught and I am proud to be a small link in the continuing program.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXkJe1V-EWi2NFqjn-aFy1h8H8N3J14iTGDsZ-mgKrdg6e0Y4C3ssX3rSddI5SvH4wAgdRNCRqKOAhIv0agaktdq8oZOeD2jSnfR0UJNxQ6lwDGRmSaBvgXoZEacY2lmarXq8CmnoKVQ/s1600/Bryanna+with+some+of+her+sixth+and+seventh+grade+students.+Photo+by+IESA+student.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXkJe1V-EWi2NFqjn-aFy1h8H8N3J14iTGDsZ-mgKrdg6e0Y4C3ssX3rSddI5SvH4wAgdRNCRqKOAhIv0agaktdq8oZOeD2jSnfR0UJNxQ6lwDGRmSaBvgXoZEacY2lmarXq8CmnoKVQ/s320/Bryanna+with+some+of+her+sixth+and+seventh+grade+students.+Photo+by+IESA+student.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryanna with some of her students.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Students<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The reason I am here is for the students. In short, I am a great believe in the power of education in changing communities and countries for the better. So I find my self in a sweltering classroom at the public school in this town of 4,500, asking students not to get frustrated, teaching the grammar structure of the present progressive and house vocabulary. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The school houses around 800 students – grades 6-11 in the morning (6:30-12:30) and 1-5 in the afternoon (12:30-5:30). Because of our proximity to Cartagena, the school is supported by many different foundations and gets money from random corporations. Our shiny new bathrooms (2010) bear a sign thanking Exxon-Mobil. Our army-green backboards on our concrete cancha (for soccer and basketball) are painted with the Jeep logo, thanks to donations of chairs and paint one random afternoon in March. We have a very nice library with air conditioning, a computer lab that got internet for the first time this year (also thanks to Jeep), and two classrooms with TVs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There are thousands of schools without such resources, yet I still look around and know we could improve. The grounds are almost impassable after a rain, desks are in short supply and those we have are broken, the concrete floors and walls are bare of anything to inspire learning (such as maps, posters or student work), we have no science, art, or vocation labs or resources to think of, and the lights and fans don’t work in many classrooms. This last point means that I have a lot of classes that all congregate claustrophobically up front in order to sit under the working fans and that on dark, rainy morning in one class of 7<sup>th</sup> grade only really the front row of students can see what’s written on the board.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXUyLy9BM9Wt5UiMtrax1SFpWIakNnK43-vkUkChgMJgXWIu69PqfjwrbctakaB5qSBWd1wiIn5VazllRtTjFvVmYSdZHs6vMQlApF96QAlxAYW_LXkU_ji_G2wtAa5tI14EfwH3FKdo/s1600/Institucion+Educativa+de+Santa+Ana.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXUyLy9BM9Wt5UiMtrax1SFpWIakNnK43-vkUkChgMJgXWIu69PqfjwrbctakaB5qSBWd1wiIn5VazllRtTjFvVmYSdZHs6vMQlApF96QAlxAYW_LXkU_ji_G2wtAa5tI14EfwH3FKdo/s320/Institucion+Educativa+de+Santa+Ana.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Institucion Educativa de Santa Ana</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Individually, I love my students, who can (when they want to) be sweet, caring, generous, and humble. Unfortunately, they don’t have a lot of great role models demonstrating these characteristics. Domestic violence and abuse are more common than I want to think about and while not bragged about, unfortunately accepted and students live a hard life no matter what. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Teachers here have it rough too and only a few put in all the work they should or come to work every day because they care about students. Almost all the teachers aren’t from Santa Ana (Colombia’s public school system, like many, places teachers nationally) and live in Cartagena. Santa Ana is definitely not a first-choice school for most – because they have to commute from Cartagena every day and its reputation of having lazy and badly-behaved students. So we have cyclical problem of assigning teachers who do poorly in their exams to their last choice of Santa Ana.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Still, that just gives us all an opportunity to be examples perhaps to not just the students (“what, teacher, you are not going to yell in my face?”) but to the teachers as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And what I like best about living in Santa Ana is that I can walk through the streets of the town (careful to avoid the piles of cow dung and the rivers of sludgy green water trickling down the middle of the streets) or off in the direction of the beach (and enjoy green hills, fields, and an amazing array of birds – while avoiding both donkeys and large Decameron charter buses racing down the roads) and meet my students. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXVxFU4OH8A2n9S0-g738ycxyu46h4hA7j8Vdgx-JZlECiey0F9G4bWMwcWAsNAebSdQ95zVXRWxvm837LOappJtmOyQre0HL4WqexVBSGEpb_0PmhIoZzEULGBfMt64hEAWlySIfOY0/s1600/A+sixth+grade+classroom+at+Institucion+Educativa+de+Santa+Ana.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXVxFU4OH8A2n9S0-g738ycxyu46h4hA7j8Vdgx-JZlECiey0F9G4bWMwcWAsNAebSdQ95zVXRWxvm837LOappJtmOyQre0HL4WqexVBSGEpb_0PmhIoZzEULGBfMt64hEAWlySIfOY0/s320/A+sixth+grade+classroom+at+Institucion+Educativa+de+Santa+Ana.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sixth grade classroom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As the only gringos in town, even kids that aren’t my students shout “Teacher!” “howareyoufinetsankyou!” or “morning!” (no matter the time) at me as I drip with sweat strolling past small shops and concrete houses. Tiny primary school students in their blue tartan Barbacaos pinafores give me shy smiles. My middle schoolers duck away with wide, wry grins and whisper their response to my “how are are?” worried if their peers will think they’re not “vancano” (cool) if they greet their teacher. Sullen high schoolers still in their red pants and worn ivory shirts break into a smile in response to my encouraging grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">No matter if I am taking the bus to Cartagena, walking to the store, or at Playa Blanca, I am always “Teacher.” A label I am proud to wear and a title I hope I earn in and out of the classroom here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ1Upw68QlXiVo2Av6sqnfIN93x20Dsx1FySMs6XGURHjOj6O51DgQAAlWH90dsDKNiRZES15w6d7LMWRGJvNi_TSb2jSzz1XmTK788NP0oc6IOByTXyWRRWX04MoKGeAJcoT_k3ds7s/s1600/How+students+play+soccer+in+the+coastal+heat+is+beyond+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ1Upw68QlXiVo2Av6sqnfIN93x20Dsx1FySMs6XGURHjOj6O51DgQAAlWH90dsDKNiRZES15w6d7LMWRGJvNi_TSb2jSzz1XmTK788NP0oc6IOByTXyWRRWX04MoKGeAJcoT_k3ds7s/s320/How+students+play+soccer+in+the+coastal+heat+is+beyond+me.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How students play soccer in the coastal heat is beyond me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sweat<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, while my life revolves around teaching and my students, on the surface, what defines my experience most is the climate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">On the coast, there are two seasons, the hot and humid and wet rainy season, and the even hotter but still humid but dry season. Temperatures thankfully rarely creep over the 100 degree mark, but the humidity gets you every time. Checking weather.com can just be depressing, especially because we know that we’re always a little hotter, a little more humid, and have less breeze than Cartagena. The page loads. “86°, feels like 95.” “88°, feels like 107.” 91°, feels like 112.” 92°, feels like you’ll simultaneously shrivel up in the waves of heat and drown in your own sweat.” You couldn’t pay me to take a hot shower here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I sweat as I do my breakfast dishes, certainly as I walk to school. I wipe sweat off my face and neck as I teach and rinse it off at my sink after getting back from school or on an evening walk. I also sweat in the figurative sense planning for classes, trying to encourage students to study, to do better, to care. I break a sweat as my motorcycle barely avoids a cow in the road. And then I go back to regular sweat as it soaks through my clothes as I cook dinner and enjoy an evening in front of my fan.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_nEilbyYaH646n6DUquFx3mwOpFg6E39dgF_cJHKfot50B0Wt0fZzOgdY3rMVgo_-rxdfC_2Elg_JcViD5_ULN3IHlYqYBb0DbeMZHNVhJU6Ci1gCMWtzYN72yxXbzedm8Gia5ogGGQ/s1600/An+impassioned+softball+player+during+a+game+in+Santa+Ana+-+soccer%252C+kickball%252C+and+softball+always+bring+both+shouts+of+joys+and+the+competitive+yells+to+argue+a+play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_nEilbyYaH646n6DUquFx3mwOpFg6E39dgF_cJHKfot50B0Wt0fZzOgdY3rMVgo_-rxdfC_2Elg_JcViD5_ULN3IHlYqYBb0DbeMZHNVhJU6Ci1gCMWtzYN72yxXbzedm8Gia5ogGGQ/s320/An+impassioned+softball+player+during+a+game+in+Santa+Ana+-+soccer%252C+kickball%252C+and+softball+always+bring+both+shouts+of+joys+and+the+competitive+yells+to+argue+a+play.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An impassioned softball player during a game in Santa Ana.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Shouts<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Coastal Colombians shout a lot more than I am used to from U.S. Americans. I have to keep reminding myself that it is not always, strictly speaking, yelling at someone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I do hear a lot of happy shouts in town. Students squealing for joy as they play soccer or kickball in the street. Babies bumping up and down on their mothers’ laps. Greetings and conversations shouted between friends at 10, 20 or 50 feet apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But there are a lot of not-so-happy shouts too. Couples arguing or parents yelling at their kids. Vendors or mototaxi clients arguing a price with enthusiasm. My students yelling across the classroom after someone steals their pencil, or fighting with each other after a disagreement over a soccer call during break.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Still, I think the happy shouts dominate. The loudest and happiest happen after dark. Nights where the electricity had for whatever reason gone out with a clunk, plunging the entire town into a homogenous black blanket. I sit on my bed, sweating with no fan, reading a book with a headlamp or using some of my precious computer battery minutes. Suddenly my fan goes on, the lights of the town appear and a loud jubilant cheer shoots through my window. Electricity back on and the happy shouts reflect the town’s appreciation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFjt9bPrXhYEJbLx_fY6jVWF1sL8bZJh7JqbaDi0NIB0_T_BjLsmB8nSQZ1sY-_e6K9c54juP18Aw3ASU7ILnp0UBExSjKqHFjmv6N3Ufwc_Jd24QPo09VzvaSO5a0nyoyPgZ0Hv671k/s1600/No+electricity%252C+no+problem+-+as+long+as+you%2527ve+got+headlamps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFjt9bPrXhYEJbLx_fY6jVWF1sL8bZJh7JqbaDi0NIB0_T_BjLsmB8nSQZ1sY-_e6K9c54juP18Aw3ASU7ILnp0UBExSjKqHFjmv6N3Ufwc_Jd24QPo09VzvaSO5a0nyoyPgZ0Hv671k/s320/No+electricity%252C+no+problem+-+as+long+as+you%2527ve+got+headlamps.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No electricity... no problem (as long as you have headlamps)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But that brings us to the point that life for volunteer English teachers on the island is pretty good. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The eight of us here all live in the “Villa” on the campus of Barbacoas, the charter school in town, and get to enjoy most all the creature comforts of any U.S. city and wealth. When it works, we have running water in our rooms and kitchen, electricity to power our fans and refrigerator, our computers and lights, and even wireless internet in the teacher’s lounge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We also have food delivered to our kitchen with stove and oven every week, with a salary (okay, more like a living stipend) that is only a little less than half of what some other teachers at my school make - and I don’t have to pay for accommodations, a lot of my food, or provide for a family. It can be easy to forget when I go back to eat lunch and relax in front of my fan after school that many of my students go home to little food or love, or head to work to help out their families. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRJmFDmceW59yFg9J5g-o5t7roTMZ6A0MeM9qmPI8D6H0GBpJa-EmKmm3Xpq9yXn3bd9aH_CgkGIK_4V0b8puAcDiR8J7hYh_oaoA6KoY9dlyqrWbG_QrhfxSYIdwIgJgYacsLoeyXWg/s1600/Apreciating+the+unexpected..one+thing+Santa+Ana+has+taught+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRJmFDmceW59yFg9J5g-o5t7roTMZ6A0MeM9qmPI8D6H0GBpJa-EmKmm3Xpq9yXn3bd9aH_CgkGIK_4V0b8puAcDiR8J7hYh_oaoA6KoY9dlyqrWbG_QrhfxSYIdwIgJgYacsLoeyXWg/s320/Apreciating+the+unexpected..one+thing+Santa+Ana+has+taught+me.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Appreciating the unexpected... and important lesson.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Surprises<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know what I was expecting from life in Colombia. Certainly I knew the stereotypes were not the daily life of the majority (or anyone) in Colombia. But it is the surprises that help me through the hard days, that help me appreciate my amazing life here all the more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It can be something as little as my favorite juice (passion fruit) at the school cafeteria. The running joke of how many frogs my roommate and I have found in our room since January (upwards of 70). A random hug or note from a student. A cool breeze after a rain. A student who had struggled in class passing a test. A gift of mangos from a man whose students go to my school though I don’t actually have them in class.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a community. And a community that I feel honored has accepted that a group of strange North Americans with strange customs and a strange language will come every year with the best intentions to try to help just a little.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And whether that is encouraging a student to solve their problems in another way other than fighting, whether showing students that they <i>can </i>do the work and be creative, and maybe even also teach a few words and phrases in English, I hope our intentions are becoming something concrete that will change and improve the future of the town, and with it the country, region, and world.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Right now, the combination of setting, students, sweat, shouts, and surprises seems to be helping us all move in the right direction.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">----<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">To hear more about my experiences (including individual posts about my school, frogs, heat, Cartagena, Afro-Colombians, my trip to the Amazon, and more, I invite you to visit my blog at <a href="http://bryannaplog.blogspot.com/">http://bryannaplog.blogspot.com/</a>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks to Mike for having me as a guest blogger!</span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Isla Barú, Cartagena De Indias (Distrito Turístico Y Cultural), Bolivar, Colombia10.25007 -75.583129999999983-29.475051 -135.34875499999998 49.975191 -15.817504999999983tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-6498349378841413362011-09-26T20:57:00.000-07:002011-09-26T20:59:14.929-07:00Freelance Work Published in South American Living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nexwBOcLQwnkx4BO1mHOXtCys6Eciq7H4A4ONgYPSpCRfOakoRXBI3r1sYmZdSsHj-g2v7qjd_EAzvQ98grF7BtWoCieglS-bv14AxeAgjDHeAY5i95wC3I2qdICg04Fl8rPkFZqlJk/s1600/SAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nexwBOcLQwnkx4BO1mHOXtCys6Eciq7H4A4ONgYPSpCRfOakoRXBI3r1sYmZdSsHj-g2v7qjd_EAzvQ98grF7BtWoCieglS-bv14AxeAgjDHeAY5i95wC3I2qdICg04Fl8rPkFZqlJk/s320/SAL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Prior to my summer travels, the editor of <a href="http://www.southamericaliving.com/">South America Living</a> approached me to see if I would be interested in doing some freelance work for her while I was in Chile. The job would entail collecting information on the places I visited, as well as taking photos in order to create travel guides for the website. Excited for my first paid freelance offer, I gladly accepted and completed the job, collecting information and taking photos while I was in Valparaíso and Viña del Mar, Chile.<br />
<br />
Today, the website ran the city travel guides based on my freelance work!<br />
<br />
Check out the guides here:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.southamericaliving.com/travel-guide-to-valparaiso-chile/">Valparaíso</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.southamericaliving.com/travel-guide-to-vina-del-mar-chile/">Viña del Mar</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com1Chile-35.675147 -71.542968999999971-54.998731000000006 -93.390668999999974 -16.351563000000002 -49.695268999999968tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-32627061722855908192011-09-21T16:22:00.000-07:002011-09-22T07:08:18.841-07:00Beating the Bogotá Blues<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkwnd2qCSBLB5VVxRrfixfbaTl4HgtWEftE_EGRGT_IXVchHbtRu2kaaVKzO0cwxvcuWrclbB4E2esk1_hpME68nu1vqvunpUuz7MDT-yu-Op8U1gix49ryI5lTbRqk8b9labS4UY_2w/s1600/FatSkinny+Jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkwnd2qCSBLB5VVxRrfixfbaTl4HgtWEftE_EGRGT_IXVchHbtRu2kaaVKzO0cwxvcuWrclbB4E2esk1_hpME68nu1vqvunpUuz7MDT-yu-Op8U1gix49ryI5lTbRqk8b9labS4UY_2w/s320/FatSkinny+Jesus.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fat-skinny Jesus will haunt your dreams.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There is something about Bogotá, with its endless rain, smog-choked air, and unrealistically crowded thoroughfares that can cause even the most gleeful gringo to dissolve into a lugubrious puddle of sadness and tears. I should know; I’ve been living here a while and have experienced becoming the aforementioned puddle more than just a few times.</div><br />
The key to psychological survival in Bogotá is learning how to stay solidified or to regain your solidification after you’ve lost it.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Wow, that came out wrong.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But you know what I mean.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Anyway, after nine months in Colombia’s capital, I have figured out a few tricks for beating the Bogotá blues and, lucky for you, am willing to share. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><b>1. Check out museums—</b>After the initial “living in Bogotá” honeymoon period has expired and you are locked into the daily grind, it can be easy to forget that you are living in the Athens of South America. Bogotá boasts a wide variety of fascinating museums, many of them free to the public. Granted, there are only so many times you can check out Museo de Botero before you start having nightmares about fat-skinny Jesus, but nothing helps beat the blues like a healthy dose of Colombian art.<br />
<br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCv7Tj92Rtb5PquJjeecoTdr-ddbEo8R2NSEHNJWqnKDOIxwCpCL9ZJbfzj6xuerGgK_5_FGVPSJx-LYBT2gW5gtGNJmksvsQNMDZOxYtJmaEiTD5utp7VtM4Ve2qKOdnuR6_E9zx60bI/s1600/Monserrate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCv7Tj92Rtb5PquJjeecoTdr-ddbEo8R2NSEHNJWqnKDOIxwCpCL9ZJbfzj6xuerGgK_5_FGVPSJx-LYBT2gW5gtGNJmksvsQNMDZOxYtJmaEiTD5utp7VtM4Ve2qKOdnuR6_E9zx60bI/s320/Monserrate.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful view on top of the Monserrate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
2. Go to the top of the Monserrate—</b>Although you likely rode the aerial tramway to the top of Cerro Monserrate when you first arrived in Bogotá, returning to take in the breathtaking view of the city can go a long way to curing gringo depression. I especially enjoy the contrast between the city on one side and the lush, green forest on the other. This high up, you are above the smog and able to breathe crisp, clean air, so pause for a moment to take it all in and remember how beautiful a place Colombia truly is.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQ4bTJElpPsx6wCDMU5SyypPVYiP2f_0mgkGQJy4Vd5MM_naz_rJEJ6EY3FmnWZ64QNONYiy4QDpyJXERKtezf756MuR1NwnRVHLbA17GUtDvE2ygavoEyrey_7cRWIcr7JkmONvYJrk/s1600/Crepes+Ice+Cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQ4bTJElpPsx6wCDMU5SyypPVYiP2f_0mgkGQJy4Vd5MM_naz_rJEJ6EY3FmnWZ64QNONYiy4QDpyJXERKtezf756MuR1NwnRVHLbA17GUtDvE2ygavoEyrey_7cRWIcr7JkmONvYJrk/s320/Crepes+Ice+Cream.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gods' nectar.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b><br />
<b>3. Get a Crepes & Waffles ice cream—</b>Without Crepes & Waffles, few gringos would make it through their first three months in Bogotá. Although the food is great, the real reason to go is for dessert. It has been scientifically proven that a Crepes & Waffles ice cream can alter your chemical balance to induce a state of euphoria. Okay, maybe not but I’m sure they are close. My personal favorite is the Hot Chocolate Vanilla—three scoops of vanilla ice cream, almonds, whipped cream, and topped off with hot chocolate syrup. I think it’s intended for a family of five, but I polish off one of these babies every time I feel my morale fading. And boy does it do the trick.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP37y9SQsf8tSlCfpFfc5eouycE8rcZwJDGFK_HWDD3-YB0ZgSbusN1oVApk9Vw7dCdbo2xzicit8rhV4GTOvPWipt9dgxZcJk5yc5mAdhGnOvEaP4sF3xrelrKaVNI_OpFc5pDhKUv2Q/s1600/Skype+Gerico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP37y9SQsf8tSlCfpFfc5eouycE8rcZwJDGFK_HWDD3-YB0ZgSbusN1oVApk9Vw7dCdbo2xzicit8rhV4GTOvPWipt9dgxZcJk5yc5mAdhGnOvEaP4sF3xrelrKaVNI_OpFc5pDhKUv2Q/s320/Skype+Gerico.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skyping with my dog, Gerico.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b>4. Skype with your dog—</b>Seriously, it works. When I reach my lowest point and all I want to do is hop on the next plane home, a quick Skype session with my golden retriever back in California never fails to put a smile on my face. Sure, he has no idea that I am there and my parents have to goad him into sitting in front of the computer with a doggie biscuit, but just seeing his face makes me happy. If you aren’t a dog person, I suppose a cat will suffice. If you aren’t an animal person, humans could work, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj620hRRVxbuLzKN71EjffksQuE1RMdkR-OEuXKjaTGIq6R9-ttJcHkv8js2fpFc7MU_6ZBIwwp2VIa7tnCu_eEuVdBjGFrIjTkR_DB9EmLNB9IZ3ybuI54m6T3U-hZwWoMeC8nu0gGmtw/s1600/Suesca.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj620hRRVxbuLzKN71EjffksQuE1RMdkR-OEuXKjaTGIq6R9-ttJcHkv8js2fpFc7MU_6ZBIwwp2VIa7tnCu_eEuVdBjGFrIjTkR_DB9EmLNB9IZ3ybuI54m6T3U-hZwWoMeC8nu0gGmtw/s320/Suesca.JPG" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing in Suesca.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b>5. Leave Bogotá—</b>Sometimes nothing you can do in Bogotá will cheer you up and the only recourse is to peace out for a while. Luckily, there are plenty of towns within easy bussing distance of Bogotá that can give you a break from the big city. You can go rock climbing in Suesca, hiking in Villa de Leyva, or spend the weekend in Tierra Caliente. Even a day trip to the suburbs of Cota or Chia can give you a much-needed respite from the hectic city. With Colombia’s ample supply of festivo (holiday) weekends, it is not hard to plan a quick weekend getaway.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com2Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-14962886987845954992011-09-14T08:59:00.000-07:002011-09-14T08:59:14.784-07:00Video: English Day at Nueva Esperanza<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjghrWyR1mfShrByIxEa07E6hrVb22kag0JSZtwcAB0AgU5RsKd-9fkPgk2HG1u-289LP_K33qtr-cyDferM2VZikenvoNz0hV2aR6coBbyCuRmhisaZ_FUpZG-LtEVzYVTIDx7FZumjc/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjghrWyR1mfShrByIxEa07E6hrVb22kag0JSZtwcAB0AgU5RsKd-9fkPgk2HG1u-289LP_K33qtr-cyDferM2VZikenvoNz0hV2aR6coBbyCuRmhisaZ_FUpZG-LtEVzYVTIDx7FZumjc/s320/Untitled.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Recently, it was English Day at Nueva Esperanza. A day filled with speeches, performances, and activities intended to get the students interested and excited about learning English. With an array of awesome musical numbers and literary recitations, the students showed they have what it takes to make Teacher Mike smile. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Even yours truly addressed the entire school to tell them why it is important to learn English.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">This time, I actually took videos of the goings on, splicing them together in this video chronicling the day.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Enjoy!</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/wpQ35-bSaH8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com1Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-69618988611055538282011-09-13T08:54:00.000-07:002011-09-14T00:47:07.042-07:00The Tall Gringo in USA Today (Again)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WOFzsEMxH1UBXLl0vegzEQg0aXc8abFhep-zt3x6Ba3puhCha1wusJcBCpc0PQ0NlOYadXmjwJN8i8WfsOXd8wAudu1Tzke0DnsmrLc7EQio7QHCauHWXrYD6wq9Cl-O9Y6K63qcyt4/s1600/usa+today+logo+5.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WOFzsEMxH1UBXLl0vegzEQg0aXc8abFhep-zt3x6Ba3puhCha1wusJcBCpc0PQ0NlOYadXmjwJN8i8WfsOXd8wAudu1Tzke0DnsmrLc7EQio7QHCauHWXrYD6wq9Cl-O9Y6K63qcyt4/s200/usa+today+logo+5.gif" width="200" /></a></div>Following up on <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/04/tall-gringo-in-usa-today.html">my previous post</a> for the USA Today Educate blog, today they published an article I wrote about reconciling the need to make money with the desire to do good.<br />
<br />
Check out my latest article for USA Today <a href="http://www.usatodayeducate.com/staging/index.php/career/will-you-make-a-living-or-a-difference-with-your-degree">here</a>!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-54388869948051567822011-09-11T17:17:00.000-07:002011-09-11T17:24:45.012-07:009-11 Remembered<div style="text-align: right;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0J9defxMwGUEIXkFo58VwjRWZyfj-NCtl4XH3ucVu0qpHmYv967INWIQUJYo6C3bYlK7l1Czf_mauebYi4goKFGbCcEJTShKLQvfd4MFdW7apSmQDYIt2PaRo90f538Nl7DjFxiJpdlA/s1600/TVScreenCNNBreakingNews.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0J9defxMwGUEIXkFo58VwjRWZyfj-NCtl4XH3ucVu0qpHmYv967INWIQUJYo6C3bYlK7l1Czf_mauebYi4goKFGbCcEJTShKLQvfd4MFdW7apSmQDYIt2PaRo90f538Nl7DjFxiJpdlA/s320/TVScreenCNNBreakingNews.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">News report of the attack,</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">Slowly, I opened my eyes. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Blindly, I smashed my alarm clock into silence and collapsed back onto the bed to squeeze in a few more minutes’ sleep. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It was Tuesday, my least favorite day of the week. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But it wasn’t just any Tuesday. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It was September 11, 2001. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">A few minutes later, my alarm’s buzz jerked me back into consciousness. This time I had to wake up or I would be late for school.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">After dragging myself out of bed, I slunk downstairs like an Orc of Mordor to pour a bowl of cereal. My mom sat on a stool in the kitchen watching something on TV. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“There was a bombing in New York,” my mom said as she picked at her yogurt cup with a spoon.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Really?” I said. “How bad is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“I don’t know,” she replied.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1uNgsKQDT6Zqm_101em9Gt8rvqKZ9nW8IWdMwpkJ8Z8Rws9m2RD8gk8I8cyZOYQSV0zCooBxvAqEpZeZH0SZ1wWUQxNhrZ787VdQRZF2tiIZSwyUSvXhO0Kdftg6_emNEkkXATZ4YG4/s1600/9-11_Statue_of_Liberty_and_WTC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1uNgsKQDT6Zqm_101em9Gt8rvqKZ9nW8IWdMwpkJ8Z8Rws9m2RD8gk8I8cyZOYQSV0zCooBxvAqEpZeZH0SZ1wWUQxNhrZ787VdQRZF2tiIZSwyUSvXhO0Kdftg6_emNEkkXATZ4YG4/s320/9-11_Statue_of_Liberty_and_WTC.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Twin Towers smoking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The news showed two large towers smoking and on fire. Although I recognized them, I couldn’t remember what they were called. Five months earlier, I had visited New York City for the first time as part of an 8<sup>th</sup> grade field trip. While there, I had gone up to the top of the Empire State Building to take in the panoramic view of the city, but I couldn’t recall noticing the Twin Towers.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Just then, the World Trade Center buildings collapsed in a cataclysmic, yet oddly ordered manner. It looked like something out of a disaster movie.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">To my 14-year old self, it was terrifying. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But I was more confused than scared.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i>Why would anyone do this?</i> I wondered.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9sWGdKnodPKTemIWSE0uNAiEXYkvJPIetqeKyrXh7RKhAT9TnvmOmaK-dsY4ESBIUIw6vLg6I2R5CJSXzg8T9Ipkit9IeAxp9AD6jWI-u4SOAirvkSqVyouU2-ujen5fUEMq2fKzuQs/s1600/bush-colombia-cp-161514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9sWGdKnodPKTemIWSE0uNAiEXYkvJPIetqeKyrXh7RKhAT9TnvmOmaK-dsY4ESBIUIw6vLg6I2R5CJSXzg8T9Ipkit9IeAxp9AD6jWI-u4SOAirvkSqVyouU2-ujen5fUEMq2fKzuQs/s1600/bush-colombia-cp-161514.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bush and Uribe, former Colombian president.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Ten years later, I woke up in Bogotá and thought about all that has come to pass in the last decade, both for the United States and in my own life. I also thought about how the 9/11 terrorist attacks have affected my surrogate country, Colombia.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The Colombian government was quick to jump on the Bush administration’s “War on Terror” language following 9-11, relabeling the left-wing guerilla groups “narcoterrorists” to garner support for more American money. Although Colombia’s armed groups hardly pose any direct threat to the American people, the U.S. government increased military funding to Colombia tenfold.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Using the “War on Terror” as a pretext and armed with superior American weaponry, the Colombian military cracked down on Colombia’s many armed groups, performing untold numbers of human rights atrocities in the process.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">It is a real shame how many politicians the world over have and continue to use the tragedy of 9-11 as an excuse to advance a right-wing agenda. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But that’s not what I want to focus on today.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlf9uaDn0bEnvt0b66rLD1-MhZXanK6Hs2dxxTwFAajsivndLZ3Bz9XyS6OngpIKR-4dkUEOXrHzLEcof7yy2oqu0SRUK7W9sG_3BVgW1OT6tWKMkQhnAkTpn5iFHKIyToCZTNpPfKJDs/s1600/iwo-9-11-final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlf9uaDn0bEnvt0b66rLD1-MhZXanK6Hs2dxxTwFAajsivndLZ3Bz9XyS6OngpIKR-4dkUEOXrHzLEcof7yy2oqu0SRUK7W9sG_3BVgW1OT6tWKMkQhnAkTpn5iFHKIyToCZTNpPfKJDs/s320/iwo-9-11-final.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A heroic response.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Today, I want to focus on remembering those who needlessly perished ten years ago, to honor their lives as well as those who responded heroically when duty called. Especially during a time when my country appears to be on the verge of a civil war resembling Colombia’s, we must not forget who we are.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">We are citizens of an increasingly globalizing world; our decisions and actions matter. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And they carry consequences.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That is one thing we ought never forget.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-23164267969005078132011-09-10T10:33:00.001-07:002012-03-28T09:11:11.105-07:00From Burlingame to Bogotá<div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div>I come from a small white-collar town called Burlingame twenty minutes’ south of San Francisco. Infested by nuclear families occupying large suburban homes with neat lawns and a sports utility vehicle in every driveway, it is the quintessential upper-middle class American town; a place where nobody locks their doors at night, where one can safely go for an evening stroll, and caravans of soccer moms transport rambunctious children who have no clue how good they have it.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I even won the life lottery when it comes to family; my parents are loving and supportive and remain happily married; my family continues to live in my childhood home; heck, I even have a golden retriever.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KG95XBl6jfD0tBN7pYPy66xOfnqj5sRkCSVoWuaJTyGGCVPMciEMthsUz6YvmmpttR1DgjAT3QrxsFFHoNnBU9atUwyTGRzAALiOnXEls71JLjn6Ol1B-SzqVufp6HK96bfSW2vY7Qc/s1600/Burlingame+High+School.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KG95XBl6jfD0tBN7pYPy66xOfnqj5sRkCSVoWuaJTyGGCVPMciEMthsUz6YvmmpttR1DgjAT3QrxsFFHoNnBU9atUwyTGRzAALiOnXEls71JLjn6Ol1B-SzqVufp6HK96bfSW2vY7Qc/s320/Burlingame+High+School.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burlingame High School</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I went to the stereotypical MTV high school, heavily stratified with cliques ranging from edgy, artistic outcasts to grandiloquent jocks. Many students, including myself, drove our own cars to school every day. Attending college was expected and thus taken for granted by myself as well as my peers. Few would argue that it wasn’t one of the best communities in the country for a thriving childhood.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Every day, when I ride the bus ever-southward into the destitute Juan Rey barrio, I think about home and wonder what I ever did to deserve growing up in such a great place when so many must endure the hardships of southern Bogotá. As I walk the open-air halls of Nueva Esperanza, students come up to give me the special handshake I taught them. Some of the younger ones give me hugs. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCGWsycfj_CGYXQy3stTsk8FFHzlh-dVfa-9VJf_SyjULPe5prveQOJ6p2BwL2Wl_X0T6AQP7blDKqmtytPzbX8aU3OCY6GcJUAjJnoNXliJp1RiwJPkHc7IwT8AUBERvfqgInlnttzs/s1600/Juan+Rey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCGWsycfj_CGYXQy3stTsk8FFHzlh-dVfa-9VJf_SyjULPe5prveQOJ6p2BwL2Wl_X0T6AQP7blDKqmtytPzbX8aU3OCY6GcJUAjJnoNXliJp1RiwJPkHc7IwT8AUBERvfqgInlnttzs/s320/Juan+Rey.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Juan Rey</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I try to contain my frustration with the world. These children are no different than I was at their age. They like to laugh, play, and occasionally, learn. Although they look different and speak a different language, their hearts are unequivocally the same.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And yet they are forced to grow up in a completely different world. One where emaciated stray dogs roam the potholed streets in search of sustenance, where teenage drop-outs rob adults at gunpoint, where the thought of attending college is as starry-eyed as winning a Disneyland vacation. Poverty and violence are as ubiquitous here as excess and security are in Burlingame.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Witnessing this reality every day, I gain a deeper appreciation for the life I have been given. But mere appreciation is not enough. As someone who has been given so much, it is my responsibility to help those who have received so little.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I guess that’s what this year has been all about.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But Juan Rey’s problems run deeper than any mere English teacher can hope to solve. As long as Colombia is run by corrupt politicians who care more about enriching themselves than uplifting the poor, there is little I can do to change anything.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NiQMWwqx8hmkcrfHbQQgyCq4cNjSpsUjfOW9OgNBvrKdc_ul13YF8c_zBK8AYk_S-I8YnZeD9Iq37SYjDzF7vdQ6_wx5v_EA6Se9cC-trrbqralm0pt57gPF5a4ImhZsEGPuLxXBcB4/s1600/Students.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NiQMWwqx8hmkcrfHbQQgyCq4cNjSpsUjfOW9OgNBvrKdc_ul13YF8c_zBK8AYk_S-I8YnZeD9Iq37SYjDzF7vdQ6_wx5v_EA6Se9cC-trrbqralm0pt57gPF5a4ImhZsEGPuLxXBcB4/s320/Students.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I owe it to them to do something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But just because there is little I can do doesn’t mean that there is nothing I can do. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And I am doing my darnedest to change something.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com0Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-79553365581280341092011-09-06T17:35:00.000-07:002011-09-06T17:35:24.557-07:00Video: High Hopes<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">To give you guys a more visual idea of what exactly I am doing down in Colombia, I created this video, <i>High Hopes</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Hope you enjoy it!</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/aUNaVwV-iwo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com4Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-16657707069783936962011-08-31T17:39:00.000-07:002011-09-02T06:11:46.348-07:00The Happy Birthday Hangover<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSLrxTuxPVCwyyfZQOtLnPy9_T19CRxn3SDgwqtsZ3QkAzLC0OODfm305lnwys5aMN1bLd1uOYsIGRIi_uyaDcMyz0Ad22Knz6-gObucX58zehKE6gpDlVN6lBd-R12ecWI-sIw6X3mY/s1600/Pinata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSLrxTuxPVCwyyfZQOtLnPy9_T19CRxn3SDgwqtsZ3QkAzLC0OODfm305lnwys5aMN1bLd1uOYsIGRIi_uyaDcMyz0Ad22Knz6-gObucX58zehKE6gpDlVN6lBd-R12ecWI-sIw6X3mY/s320/Pinata.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gringo v.s. Pinata. Gringo wins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Slowly, I awoke, head throbbing and face burning.
Sitting up, I found myself in bed in my new apartment in La Candelaria. After
dragging myself to the bathroom, switching on the light, and looking in the
mirror, I saw a tired person staring back who sported an ugly black and white
shiner under his right eye.<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I thought to myself, “¿Qué pasó ayer?” (What
happened yesterday?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Heading downstairs to the kitchen/common room, I
saw the aftermath of the previous night’s abandon. Empty beer cans and bottles
of <i>aguardiente</i> abounded. An explosion
of colorful confetti covered the floor, which was as sticky as that of a roach
motel. I spotted the looted carcass of a piñata and knelt down to examine it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Then I remembered…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“You can
come downstairs now!” One of my new roommates called from below. I descended
the stairs and found myself in a happy birthday wonderland; the entire
downstairs area was decked out with birthday decorations, food and drinks, populated
by all of the friends I had made during my time in Colombia. On the table
rested an improvised piñata made from taped cardboard and Ben 10 wrapping
paper.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“What’s in
the piñata?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibP5nA8ryMbXD8e3SMQCnpNbgW9Tm5nPSBzmCnA9PRfiBeRySup1KUsOuBz8gZfRQbEhG5h1Pfiwgw79efQzHAbkI9hpZa652qdnq9b7ao3RCexEgkRx548FyG8mzEDEfejTP0rIn01ck/s1600/Group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibP5nA8ryMbXD8e3SMQCnpNbgW9Tm5nPSBzmCnA9PRfiBeRySup1KUsOuBz8gZfRQbEhG5h1Pfiwgw79efQzHAbkI9hpZa652qdnq9b7ao3RCexEgkRx548FyG8mzEDEfejTP0rIn01ck/s320/Group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Party in the gringo pad!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“It’s a
surprise,” one of my friends replied.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>The party
commenced, which I began with several Aguila cervezas, my Colombian go-to beer.
The whole time, I pondered what fabulous prizes awaited within the makeshift piñata.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>Finally, piñata
time came and one of my friends blindfolded and spun me around 24 times. Now
sufficiently discombobulated, I was ordered to chug a beer before being set
loose on the piñata with the broomstick I now held. Like some kind of blinded
arachnid, I thrust the broomstick in the piñata’s general direction, making a
few lucky strikes, but mostly narrowly avoiding impaling the other party-goers.
Eventually, I managed to knock my cardboard adversary to the floor and with one
final thrust, put the piñata out of its misery, releasing a torrent of assorted
cheap plastic toys. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>All made in
China, of course.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
…leaving the piñata where it lay, I stood up to
investigate the rest of the room. Sidestepping a pool of spilt red wine (at
least I hoped it was wine) on the linoleum floor, I reached into the cabinet to
find some Advil—to turn down the volume in my head, which beat like a boom box
on full power. After popping two into my mouth, I spotted the crumbling remains
of a birthday cake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Of course! The birthday cake…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>An hour or
so after I vanquished the piñata, a slew of random European and Australian
backpackers invaded our apartment. Since they seemed harmless at first, I
thought ‘the more the merrier’ and proceeded to rage with my friends. After taking
a birthday shot of Medellin rum with some Australians, someone turned the
lights off and on to get everyone’s attention. My friend carried a birthday
cake with an active Colombian firecracker towards me as everyone began to sing “Happy
Birthday.” With the firecracker/candle sparkling before me, I instinctively
tried to blow it out, but succeeded only in blowing sparks towards the
partygoers.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgys1ihOHFxET3FWOPCkP9v_9D6Dkr4T4DoDeLVLv-ZckHKmGqFstvx6vFTCqHHurk3RjqcR7ETNOWd92V3gB-cj574JmOML7a0Uz0FVC_WP2wx0hm351TdZDwn3EEXIrngJJ-Mqb11ROo/s1600/Cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgys1ihOHFxET3FWOPCkP9v_9D6Dkr4T4DoDeLVLv-ZckHKmGqFstvx6vFTCqHHurk3RjqcR7ETNOWd92V3gB-cj574JmOML7a0Uz0FVC_WP2wx0hm351TdZDwn3EEXIrngJJ-Mqb11ROo/s320/Cake.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday Cake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“No!” one of
my Colombian friends cried. “Wait.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>It was noob
gringo mistake on my part. My bad. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>After the
firecrackers died down to a point where it could be extinguished, I blew it out
and the cake was served. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>As I stood eating a piece, two Australian backpackers
came up to me and asked if they could use the bathroom. I told them sure and
that it was upstairs, but then thought better and decided escort them. When we arrived at the bathroom, the two randoms loitered awkwardly then
asked me where the best place to do a line would be.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>I fought to
contain my anger. I can’t stand coke-snorting gringo backpackers who treat
Colombia like a drug-themed Disneyland.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“That’s not
cool to do here,” I said, crossing my arms. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>They looked
at me like I was joking, but when I stood my ground, one of them said, “No
problem, bro. Gotta respect house rules.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>As I watched
them go back downstairs, I remembered why gringos have such bad reputations in
Colombia. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
…I dug into a piece of cake with my finger and
took a bite then went back upstairs to take a shower and wash away the previous
night’s excesses. In the bathroom, I found my wallet, opened it, and found it
empty save for my Colombian <i>cedula</i>
(identification card), credit card, and a small ticket. Curious, I removed the
ticket and inspected it for clues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The cover ticket to Candelario…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>After
walking a few blocks from my apartment and ditching the douchebag backpackers,
my posse and I arrived at Candelario, a popular club in La Candelaria. As I
waited in line to enter, I felt something wet land on my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“I think a
bird just shat on you,” my friend said.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>Surreptitiously,
I looked at my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>“Crap,” I
confirmed. No pun intended. When we
finally made it inside, I made a B-line towards the bathroom to clean it up.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXNGL0tTSxiGT7JIqPahvff6BmZ6YoagyrV_RPVplmiJ_zKmpP-DTEA88etQ3G6nnmCIqCWFf_HTHSczg7QBTE0K0Ukds3mS0y-IIT9ikpScXg9_4FpS1qJcEtzf4ejRB3dsLVq2JRjFE/s1600/Candelario.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXNGL0tTSxiGT7JIqPahvff6BmZ6YoagyrV_RPVplmiJ_zKmpP-DTEA88etQ3G6nnmCIqCWFf_HTHSczg7QBTE0K0Ukds3mS0y-IIT9ikpScXg9_4FpS1qJcEtzf4ejRB3dsLVq2JRjFE/s320/Candelario.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Candelario with my birthday posse!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i>Candelario
was lots of fun. We danced and drank and had a jolly good time. By this point I
had had quite enough to drink, but I took it upon myself to ensure the
inebriation of one of my friends and in so doing, damned myself. I decided that
it would be a good idea to buy a bottle of rum to help get him on his way,
going shot for shot. After that, my recollection of the night plunged into a
muddled abyss.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
…I felt refreshed after taking a long, hot shower.
By then my roommates had woken up and I sat down with them to learn about the
rest of my night’s misadventures. Specifically, how I had gotten a black eye
and how exactly I had made it home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
But that’s for me to know and you to never find
out.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com7Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980556 -74.07583334.0915821 -74.7075473 5.1045291000000006 -73.4441193tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-86577649183851044452011-08-26T14:50:00.000-07:002011-08-26T14:53:02.572-07:00My Last Move<div style="text-align: right;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSsbomgnw5fOBPfeeZp-5N3KXPrtkRVczaIMkQqMVha3niI1-Zq29LjEM_L52Htqzpc5eWCE6MT-FJSX-AATP7niB0XLC9mXfHtlS1FlSGyQLYxzkAwczoe2SKRWTKZIw1UR4BM0w1zc/s1600/DSCN3552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSsbomgnw5fOBPfeeZp-5N3KXPrtkRVczaIMkQqMVha3niI1-Zq29LjEM_L52Htqzpc5eWCE6MT-FJSX-AATP7niB0XLC9mXfHtlS1FlSGyQLYxzkAwczoe2SKRWTKZIw1UR4BM0w1zc/s320/DSCN3552.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Candelaria</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Today I said goodbye to Ciudad Kennedy, hopped in a taxi, and headed to my new home in La Candelaria.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">La Candelaria rests at the base of Cerro Monserrate, a mountain that dominates the city center. As the city’s historical district, its architecture is characterized by Spanish Colonial and Baroque styles, most noticeably with the red-tiled roofs and protruding balconies. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">With its plethora of churches, museums, and historically-significant plazas, La Candelaria is also Bogotá’s main tourist zone. Whereas in Usme and Kennedy, a gringo sighting was as common as a Big Foot sighting, La Candelaria is brimming with camera-wielding foreigners. My new apartment is located just around the corner from the famous Museo de Botero and within walking distance of some great restaurants and bars.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIaWXKCmI2ndFXwpGdjqlvRV64nFuloFwXG068rflYsfAe15pvgcJDUtMwhRJ2qxAWdZz9jEsf8WrxoqOD09Xg_T0TDNhAbAykdG7JrZw6tbyZPet7xWDLD9y3xY8-3k7Eywk7CFowZU/s1600/DSCN3555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIaWXKCmI2ndFXwpGdjqlvRV64nFuloFwXG068rflYsfAe15pvgcJDUtMwhRJ2qxAWdZz9jEsf8WrxoqOD09Xg_T0TDNhAbAykdG7JrZw6tbyZPet7xWDLD9y3xY8-3k7Eywk7CFowZU/s320/DSCN3555.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View down the street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Although parts of La Candelaria can be sketchy after dark, my place is on a well-lit street and is relatively safe by Bogotano standards. Just a few doors down there is a permanent post of soldiers with a sub-machine guns guarding the Colombian military history museum. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">That’s got to mean it’s safe, right?</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I am excited to be living in a better part of town where there is much more to do and maintaining a social life is not a herculean task. With just over three months left in my sentence…err… I mean, service, moving here was a necessary change to help me make it to December.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Time to go unpack.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com3Bogotá, Bogota, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-34796642222995965022011-08-21T00:08:00.000-07:002011-08-21T13:02:45.662-07:00The Debit Card Debacle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTuEVVUsaT_ZgmD_IOUoxN4cZ3Q5K3RVxYZPNhk25Bnz4ztEZT7daeTQ-cl0RIWfqyxS5Ev5WGDP9hRTKz2GpxqbJ9a2pZqer4T4o8eDh8gGC_Wg8u2d347IS-UkQNEm0lq2I42iyFo4/s1600/LOGO_BOGOTA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTuEVVUsaT_ZgmD_IOUoxN4cZ3Q5K3RVxYZPNhk25Bnz4ztEZT7daeTQ-cl0RIWfqyxS5Ev5WGDP9hRTKz2GpxqbJ9a2pZqer4T4o8eDh8gGC_Wg8u2d347IS-UkQNEm0lq2I42iyFo4/s1600/LOGO_BOGOTA.jpg" /></a></div>It all started the day my debit card stopped working.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Standing in the locked ATM chamber, I swiped my card through the machine with increasing frustration. I looked over my shoulder and smiled sheepishly at the people forming a line behind me just outside the chamber. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><i>Crap</i>, I thought, <i>just work already</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But every time I swiped the card, the infernal machine would taunt me in Spanish, telling me to try again. After a few more failed attempts, I said to hell with it, put my busted ATM card back in my wallet, and shamefully left the chamber.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2cMFY4JMGr0ZAuA8h3H5Y_xLzENqglf0KraECybj3MXqhlucfECiKqCNWWvfX7S_P4eBPkES_ynzV-tSrTeoJyU71lQd5hdk-AShhM7E3S_nE3ud4iisS9Y07aZ5FKp0p1BignYi0Fc/s1600/BOGOTA1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2cMFY4JMGr0ZAuA8h3H5Y_xLzENqglf0KraECybj3MXqhlucfECiKqCNWWvfX7S_P4eBPkES_ynzV-tSrTeoJyU71lQd5hdk-AShhM7E3S_nE3ud4iisS9Y07aZ5FKp0p1BignYi0Fc/s320/BOGOTA1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Banco de Bogotá </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The next day I went to Banco de Bogotá to get a replacement card. Waiting in line to be helped, I ran through my mind all the things I would need to say in Spanish to communicate my problem—this would surely stretch my Spanish abilities to their limits.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Much to my delight, I was able to tell the bank teller my problem and she passed me on to a banking specialist to take care of my replacement card. After filling out some paperwork, they said I was good to go and I headed out the door to try my new card at the ATM.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Sliding the card, I was happy to see the machine read it without a problem, but when I entered my PIN, it said I had inputted the wrong one. After trying and failing with the PIN a few more times, the machine told me my card was now blocked.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Flustered, I returned to the banking specialist, who told me she had forgotten to give me the new PIN to my replacement card—I had wrongly assumed the PIN would be the same as was with my old card.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now in possession of the new PIN, I tried it with the replacement card, but to no avail—it was still blocked. Since I figured the card would unblock within a day or two, I let it be for the time being.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">A few days later, I went to the ATM at the mall where I work out to see if the card was working. After sliding the card and inputting the PIN, sure enough, the screen said: “blocked.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Annoyed, I shoved the card in my pocket and headed to the gym to blow off steam. After my workout sitting on the bus returning home, I felt in my pocket and realized that my card was gone—it must have fallen out when I changed at the gym. Since the card was already blocked, I didn’t worry that whoever found it would be able to steal money, but dreaded having to return to Banco de Bogotá to try to explain in Spanish what had happened.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the United States when you lose a debit card, all you need to do is call your bank to have a replacement card mailed to your house—I figured it would be a similar process in Colombia.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">But I should have known better—nothing is ever simple in Colombia.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When I returned to Banco de Bogotá, I found myself sitting face-to-face with the same banking specialist as before. I figured it would be the same process as the last time I asked for a replacement card—fill out some paperwork and get a new card on the spot; however, after doing so, the lady gave me a piece of paper showing that my card was blocked and told me to have a good day, as if we were done.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Confused, I loitered for a moment then asked what I was supposed to do. Although I did not understand every word that came out of her mouth, I thought I heard her say something about registering that the card was lost with the police online. Doubting that I had understood her clearly, I returned a few days later with my friend Lynn, who is more or less bilingual. Lynn confirmed that I had heard the woman correctly—I had to register the debit card lost with the police before the bank could issue me a new one. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I didn’t bother to ask why.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When I finally managed to locate the place on the police website where I could report a lost card and filled out the online form, the site rejected the information and did not let me print what I needed to show the bank to get a new card. With the website apparently suffering from technical difficulties, I improvised and printed the screen before submitting the information, hoping that would be good enough.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The next day, I returned yet again to Banco de Bogotá and the same old banking lady looked at me with what I could have sworn was disdain. With a forced smile, she asked if I had the form and I showed her what I had printed out, watching with hopeful eyes as she examined it. Much to my relief, she deemed the form acceptable and went about the process of issuing me a new card.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Finally, she gave me the new card and accompanying PIN and I went to try my luck at the ATM. This time when I swiped the card and entered the PIN, the machine decided to give me my money.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">With crisp Colombian pesos in hand, I headed straight for the bar.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Kids, don’t ever lose your debit card in Colombia. It’s a pain in the culo.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com1Bogotá, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-29706412744410564722011-08-04T22:03:00.000-07:002011-08-10T17:06:08.195-07:00A look back, a leap forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERfMm7RACVqH8HPCMRo_uvP21DWKsOtvFvHDLHUsVv136_Nivw4FVSlIExAE2WQNxIfXCDcPZ0pSFgPG6YdPGqAIdm0-moiG-hNhQ4BwwiNbK87WO5n2aC8ZFfn61Ij8btgsxn3Kw9xc/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERfMm7RACVqH8HPCMRo_uvP21DWKsOtvFvHDLHUsVv136_Nivw4FVSlIExAE2WQNxIfXCDcPZ0pSFgPG6YdPGqAIdm0-moiG-hNhQ4BwwiNbK87WO5n2aC8ZFfn61Ij8btgsxn3Kw9xc/s320/Untitled.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">So… it’s August. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">This means two things; first, I am entering my eighth month in Colombia; second, I will be turning 24 at the end of the month. It also means that I am nearly two-thirds of the way through my service.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Okay, that was three things.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">At any rate, I have been in Bogotá for a while and it seems like as good a time as any to take stock of how far I have come since arriving last January.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">The most obvious improvement has been with my Spanish abilities. To illustrate, when I first arrived in Colombia I could barely order a beer from the local <i>tienda</i>; earlier this afternoon I went to the bank to replace a dysfunctional debit card using, of course, only Spanish to communicate what I needed—something I was not capable of eight months ago. I am also now good enough at Spanish to talk to Colombian girls at the bars, which I must say, is quite awesome.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Another significant change has been my level of comfort with living in a developing country. During WorldTeach orientation, I felt like a daredevil taking the bus in Cota from Hacienda Santa Cruz to downtown (in reality, a very safe area). Today, I regularly navigate Bogotá’s crazy <i>colectivo</i> bus system, entering parts of town many Bogotanos would never even venture to. Although I am always careful, I have learned to overcome the fears of the many potential dangers of being in such a dangerous area—having grown up in a white-collar suburb of San Francisco where people don’t even lock their doors at night, I consider this to be an accomplishment. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Despite these consummations, my greatest victory is simply the fact that I am still here. I am doing it; I am <i>living</i> in Colombia, a country where most foreigners are afraid to go, working in a neighborhood where few gringos have gone before. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">And now I find myself at the final stretch.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Back in high school, I ran the 300 meter high-hurdles for the Burlingame High School Track & Field team. It was an exhausting race; not only did you have to run really, really fast, but you also had to clear a series of not-so-low obstructions blocking the path. The race was won at its most difficult part; the final 100 meters; the final third. Although the finish line was now within sight, this was where most runners made their mistakes, faltering and falling when they were nearly there.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">With 4 months left in my service, I am at the final third, the final 100 meters of my time in Colombia. Although I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, I need to stay focused—I am nearly there. I can practically taste the In-N-Out, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and ground beef enchiladas. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Since my <a href="http://www.thetallgringo.com/2011/07/second-wind.html">recent post </a>expressing my frustrations and disappointments with the way things have been going, I have taken steps to rectify the situation and make sure my students receive the greatest benefit from my presence during the time that remains. I am excited to see how it all pans out.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In the mean time, I’ll keep an eye on that finish line.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com2Colombia4.570868 -74.297332999999981-4.3015870000000005 -81.788024499999977 13.443323 -66.806641499999984tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6886933755983474773.post-14251489464991989862011-07-31T13:14:00.000-07:002011-08-05T12:21:23.590-07:00The Illegal Immigrant<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KCiIwHW6NQG3cjCYIR8ACoa-PU8iXYJ6pwDqN2MfNYLgg054uVFXadgRTwS-6dzJ3c0elcohl_7u772SvPRu-BbQUqunjvCuvyx1k6UvVdJD948oML0vThHPH3bMwOuU3q7AKmqAkqU/s1600/Colectivo_cra_5_Bogot%25C3%25A1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1KCiIwHW6NQG3cjCYIR8ACoa-PU8iXYJ6pwDqN2MfNYLgg054uVFXadgRTwS-6dzJ3c0elcohl_7u772SvPRu-BbQUqunjvCuvyx1k6UvVdJD948oML0vThHPH3bMwOuU3q7AKmqAkqU/s320/Colectivo_cra_5_Bogot%25C3%25A1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A colectivo bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">The high winds of the Juan Rey barrio whipped through the air, rippling my heavy pull-over fleece as I huffed and puffed up the steep incline. Instinctively, I threw a look over my shoulder every five or six steps to watch out for potential muggers. I was in the No Man’s Land between Nueva Esperanza and my bus stop where anything could happen.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Nearly to the top, I spotted my bus slowly chugging along on the road running perpendicular to the one I was currently on. Sprinting the final fifty yards uphill, I managed to wave down the bus in time.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Gasping to catch my breath in the thin Andean air, I boarded the bus, saying “Buenas tardes” to the driver as I handed him the pesos for the fare.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When I turned to take a seat, the driver said, “¿Tu eres extranjero? (Are you a foreigner?)</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Si,” I replied, “Soy de los estados unidos.” (Yes, I am from the United States)</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“¿Cuál parte?” he asked. (Which part?)</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“California,” I said, “San Francisco.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Much to my surprise, in relatively good English, the driver said, “I used to live in California!”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“No way,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Come sit next to me!” the driver invited, “I need to practice my English.”</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">I figured <i>what the hey</i> and sat down in the passenger’s seat.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“My name is William,” he said, extending his hand to shake as he narrowly avoided running over a stray dog that had dared cross to paths with the <i>colectivo</i> bus. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Mike,” I said, shaking his hand.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Over the next hour or so, I listened intently to William’s story of his life in the U.S., jotting down what he said like some kind of wanna-be journalist. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><b> William’s Story:</b></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMT0Ezi_gHN5JtAzMXwvO1WfwHf6u3Q8i-AKaIgfUuUlQXpQEN4b5YpcrYLl12iQkN9YabM7ly821qExPm9sbhU4eamddJLx-4tzRPipfI6cl2w5Nj-5miKz2fj5_k-j2MqmJVNMMubCg/s1600/medellin_colombia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMT0Ezi_gHN5JtAzMXwvO1WfwHf6u3Q8i-AKaIgfUuUlQXpQEN4b5YpcrYLl12iQkN9YabM7ly821qExPm9sbhU4eamddJLx-4tzRPipfI6cl2w5Nj-5miKz2fj5_k-j2MqmJVNMMubCg/s320/medellin_colombia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medellin, Colombia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">William was born in Medellin, Colombia’s second largest city. He spoke of Medellin as being a “magic city” with clean streets and having some of the most beautiful women in the world. His whole life, William was into martial arts and earned a black belt in more than one discipline. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In 2000, William secured a student visa and entered the United States to study martial arts at a special school in California and after securing tourist visas for his wife and two children, they joined him in California. As the days drew ever closer to William’s visa’s expiration date, he feared returning to Colombia, as it was facing escalated turbulence after the initiation of the United States’ controversial <i>Plan Colombia</i> campaign. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">When his visa expired, in hopes of creating a better life for his wife and children, he decided to illegally stay in California, settling down in the San Fernando Valley and finding work as an apprentice electrician. His children began attending public school and soon their English skills surpassed their Spanish abilities.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDq3Nf4EEk9VJTPTwDquKqCjK3eCLLxcKXmYUNE0oP31P7J-QEggqJjo8pJQ67NAGGpfFa7L7TU3RWoKeJJyo4riBBBjTcSk-jy9gFXYpmI6yfhXBu_pfx0jgDeBxKCVC0Vzpy7aML7hQ/s1600/Wpdms_shdrlfi020l_san_fernando_valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDq3Nf4EEk9VJTPTwDquKqCjK3eCLLxcKXmYUNE0oP31P7J-QEggqJjo8pJQ67NAGGpfFa7L7TU3RWoKeJJyo4riBBBjTcSk-jy9gFXYpmI6yfhXBu_pfx0jgDeBxKCVC0Vzpy7aML7hQ/s1600/Wpdms_shdrlfi020l_san_fernando_valley.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Fernando Valley, CA</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In trying to make enough money to both support his family and send money to relatives in Colombia, William worked thirteen-hour days and was paid far less than what the typical American doing the same work received. His work brought him as far south as San Diego and as far north as San Francisco. In fact, he often worked in San Bruno, only two cities over from my hometown of Burlingame. One time, he met <i>The Transporter </i>star, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jason_Statham">Jason Stathom</a>, while working at his home in Beverly Hills, CA. William avoided as much as possible going to San Diego because of the major immigration police checkpoints set up on the highways in that area. Luckily for him, he was never caught.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">As the years went by, William continued to work hard, learned English, and saved more money than he could ever have hoped to in Colombia. But all the while, he lived in fear knowing that without legal documentation, he and his family could be uprooted and sent back to Colombia at any moment. William set his hopes on the talks about the U.S. Congress passing an amnesty law for the country’s 11 million illegal immigrants; he thought that if he just held on a little bit longer, he and his family could become legal U.S. citizens and finally live with peace of mind in what they hoped would be their permanent home.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjztVZfqdHLCK8R4uARJV1fnfiEbodpRhLRt5TfcWXs1be50iEx77TJqrqCTGlAYhgZxeqFfx1MaBeZHl7p2ZTK3_evJ3Ofye8eX3h__4uOoYZ9KWj-7scYIO-rVUiVSbim95wG2WTNnls/s1600/jason-statham-workout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjztVZfqdHLCK8R4uARJV1fnfiEbodpRhLRt5TfcWXs1be50iEx77TJqrqCTGlAYhgZxeqFfx1MaBeZHl7p2ZTK3_evJ3Ofye8eX3h__4uOoYZ9KWj-7scYIO-rVUiVSbim95wG2WTNnls/s320/jason-statham-workout.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason Stathom</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">In 2007, when the economy went the way of Ben Affleck’s acting career, William had an increasingly more difficult time finding work. With construction projects screeching to a halt, firms were willing to work for pennies for the little work that remained. William found himself working even harder than before for significantly less, but he kept going in hopes that the U.S. government would soon make his dreams of citizenship a reality.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">By the end of 2009, with the economy still in the gutter and the immigration amnesty bill way off the U.S. government’s priority table, William decided it was time to return home to Colombia, thus he moved his family to Bogotá. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Luckily, William had been able to save up enough money in the U.S. to purchase his own <i>colectivo</i> bus. Although he works heroically long hours driving the same route through southern Bogotá, unlike most <i>colectivo</i> drivers, he works for himself because he owns his own bus. If it weren’t for his time in the U.S., he never would have been able to afford his own bus, which today allows him to make a decent, honest living… </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Fourteen months after returning to Bogotá, he picked up a tall gringo from California in the least likely of places, a bona fide ghetto in southern Bogotá.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">My life is random, what can I say?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00495330225020466219noreply@blogger.com5Bogotá, Colombia4.5980555999999986 -74.07583334.0443905999999989 -74.3035633 5.1517205999999982 -73.8481033