The Beginning

Leaving for Bogota on January 1.

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.

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.

Nearly a year ago, I boarded a plane to Bogotá.

I was hopeful.

Excited.

Scared.

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.

With some of my students.

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.”

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.

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.

At Machu Picchu.

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.

In leaving all that, many believed I was putting my life on hold.

   

But they had it all wrong.

In leaving, I was finally able to begin truly living.

I traveled.

Explored ancient ruins at the heights of the Andes Mountains.

Swinging into the water in Costa Rica.

Witnessed breathtaking Caribbean sunsets.

Scaled active Costa Rican volcanoes.

Sipped wine on the Chilean coast.

Hiked through the Colombian jungle.

Saw the Panama Canal.

Met Pablo Escobar’s brother.

And so much more.

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.

Living in such a world, our hearts are the only reliable compass.

Watching a Caribbean sunset.

I followed mine here—to South America.

But now find it pointing north.

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.

Last year, before embarking on this crazy adventure, I wrote that “…there can be no courage without fear and no real reward without risk.”

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.

Watching over Bogota.

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.

Tomorrow, I will board a plane that will take me home. What awaits me there, I don’t know.

But something tells me I’ll be able to handle it.

Passing the Torch

Tasha Miley.

I am leaving Colombia in 34 days.

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.

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.

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 Lauren Doll helped me. Much to my delight, Tasha was accepted into the WorldTeach Colombia for 2012 and is now preparing for her January 2012 departure.

“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.”

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.

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 donate to her cause—every dollar helps.

Also, like her Facebook support page and check out her blog to stay up to date with her goings on throughout the year.

John Quincy Adams once said, “If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” 

A year ago, I had no idea that in taking this chance, I could inspire others to do the same.

I am starting to see what this whole leadership thing is all about.

My time in Colombia will soon pass—but there will be others. 

Election Day

Soldiers on patrol in Bogota.

Every day, when I walk down to catch the bus to school, I pass Museo Militar de Colombia, 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.

Today, when I walked down to the tienda 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.

It has been a rough couple of months for Colombian democracy—according to Colombia Reports, 41 political candidates were assassinated this year and many feared more attacks would occur today. To discourage alcohol-related violence, the government enacted ley seca (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.

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, 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.

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.

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.  

Guest Blogger: Bryanna on Barú

Bryanna Plog

I created this blog to chronicle my experiences living and teaching English in Bogotá—therefore, my posts have focused on my life here in Colombia's capital. 

But—as I've mentioned before—I am not here alone. 

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. 

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 Barú on the Caribbean Coast.

But enough jabber from me. Bryanna will take it from here.

*                                      *                                       *

The 5 S’s of Santa Ana: A Look at Living and Teaching on Isla Barú

 By Bryanna Plog

Setting.  Students.  Sweat.  Shouts.  Surprises. 

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?)

"Downtown" Santa Ana.

Setting

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.

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.

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.

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 underdeveloped despite its proximity to the tourist mecca of Cartagena.  I teach 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade at Institución Educativa de Santa Ana, in the rural community of Santa Ana, Isla Barú. 

Playa Blanca...bet you wish you were here.

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). 

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. 

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 Decameron.  This was the first site in Colombia that WorldTeach volunteers taught and I am proud to be a small link in the continuing program.

Bryanna with some of her students.

Students

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.

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.

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^th grade only really the front row of students can see what’s written on the board.

Institucion Educativa de Santa Ana

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

A sixth grade classroom.

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.

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.

How students play soccer in the coastal heat is beyond me.

Sweat

Of course, while my life revolves around teaching and my students, on the surface, what defines my experience most is the climate.

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.

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.

An impassioned softball player during a game in Santa Ana.

Shouts

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.

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.

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.

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.

No electricity... no problem (as long as you have headlamps)

But that brings us to the point that life for volunteer English teachers on the island is pretty good. 

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. 

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. 

Appreciating the unexpected... and important lesson.

Surprises

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.

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.

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.

And whether that is encouraging a student to solve their problems in another way other than fighting, whether showing students that they can 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.

Right now, the combination of setting, students, sweat, shouts, and surprises seems to be helping us all move in the right direction.

----

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 http://bryannaplog.blogspot.com/. 

Thanks to Mike for having me as a guest blogger!

Video: English Day at Nueva Esperanza

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.

Even yours truly addressed the entire school to tell them why it is important to learn English.

This time, I actually took videos of the goings on, splicing them together in this video chronicling the day.

Enjoy!

9-11 Remembered

News report of the attack,

Slowly, I opened my eyes.

Blindly, I smashed my alarm clock into silence and collapsed back onto the bed to squeeze in a few more minutes’ sleep.

It was Tuesday, my least favorite day of the week.

But it wasn’t just any Tuesday.

It was September 11, 2001.

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.

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.

“There was a bombing in New York,” my mom said as she picked at her yogurt cup with a spoon.

“Really?” I said. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

The Twin Towers smoking.

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^th 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.

Just then, the World Trade Center buildings collapsed in a cataclysmic, yet oddly ordered manner. It looked like something out of a disaster movie.

To my 14-year old self, it was terrifying.

But I was more confused than scared.

Why would anyone do this? I wondered.

Bush and Uribe, former Colombian president.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But that’s not what I want to focus on today.

A heroic response.

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.

We are citizens of an increasingly globalizing world; our decisions and actions matter.

And they carry consequences.

That is one thing we ought never forget.

From Burlingame to Bogotá

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.

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.

Burlingame High School

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.

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.

Juan Rey

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.

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.

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.

I guess that’s what this year has been all about.

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.

I owe it to them to do something.

But just because there is little I can do doesn’t mean that there is nothing I can do.

And I am doing my darnedest to change something.

Video: High Hopes

To give you guys a more visual idea of what exactly I am doing down in Colombia, I created this video, High Hopes.

Hope you enjoy it!

My Last Move

La Candelaria

Today I said goodbye to Ciudad Kennedy, hopped in a taxi, and headed to my new home in La Candelaria.

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.

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.

View down the street.

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.

That’s got to mean it’s safe, right?

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.

Time to go unpack.

The Debit Card Debacle

It all started the day my debit card stopped working.

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.

Crap, I thought, just work already.

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.

Banco de Bogotá 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

But I should have known better—nothing is ever simple in Colombia.

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.

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.

I didn’t bother to ask why.

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.

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.

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.

With crisp Colombian pesos in hand, I headed straight for the bar.

Kids, don’t ever lose your debit card in Colombia. It’s a pain in the culo.

A look back, a leap forward

So… it’s August.

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.

Okay, that was three things.

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.

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 tienda; 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.

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 colectivo 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.

Despite these consummations, my greatest victory is simply the fact that I am still here. I am doing it; I am living in Colombia, a country where most foreigners are afraid to go, working in a neighborhood where few gringos have gone before.   

And now I find myself at the final stretch.

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.

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.

Since my recent post 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.

In the mean time, I’ll keep an eye on that finish line.

A Conference in Cartagena

The moment I stepped off the plane at the Cartagena airport, I was encompassed by a strange, sweltering sensation. My body began to secrete driblets of moisture and even the air seemed to be contaminated by some kind of alien property.  

What was it?

Wait…could it really be…heat?

Indeed, it was.

With Bogotá’s utter absence of warmth, I had forgotten that climates such as this even existed.

I was in Cartagena—the pride of the Colombian Caribbean coast—for the WorldTeach Mid-service Conference. All of the volunteers from all over Colombia would be descending upon the coastal city and over the next two three days, discuss our progress thus far, exchange teaching ideas and simply catch up with one another—many of us had not seen each other since WorldTeach orientation back in January.

Super secret WorldTeach business

Since what actually went on during our meetings is highly classified information, I will tell you a little bit about my impressions of Cartagena.

First and foremost; I could not believe it was in the same country as Bogotá. Climate differences aside, Cartagena had an absolutely different feel than Colombia’s capital. It was, in a word, laid back. Whereas in Bogotá people seem to always be in a hurry to get somewhere, those here hung out on the streets, socializing and gossiping. With the overbearing and oppressive heat, who could blame them for just wanting to chill?

Secondly, the people themselves were distinct from those residing in Bogotá. During the Spanish colonization of Colombia, a large number of African slaves were brought to the coast; today, most costeños, as they are called, are Afro-Colombian; much different than Bogotá’s white and mestizo majority. Although I might pass for Colombian in Bogotá (if I sit down and don’t talk), here there was no fooling anyone about my gringocity.

Cartagena coast

Thirdly, the place was filled with gringos. Being Colombia’s main tourist city, there were a lot of non-Colombians walking around. Since the city is used to catering to gringo desires, for the first time since I arrived in Colombia, I was offered sex and drugs by some wretched-looking hookers on the street corner near our hostel.

Let's just say they called me a bad name when I said, “No, thank you.”

Although we didn’t have a lot of time to play tourist, one day I had the chance to walk along one of the old Spanish walls. Back in the day, Cartagena was the most important port for exporting plundered South American gold back to Spain. Naturally, it became an attractive target for English and French pirates and after renowned English explorer/pirate, Sir Francis Drake, sacked the city and made off with 107,000 Spanish Eight Reales (or $200 million in today’s U.S. dollars), the Spanish began an exhaustive effort to fortify the city against future attacks.

On the old Spanish walls

As I strolled over the old walls, I imagined what it would have been like to be there centuries earlier with pirates pounding with cannon balls the very place I walked. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to visit the famous Castillo San Felipe de Barajas, the Spanish colonial fort overlooking the city. Next time.

Overall, my trip to Cartagena was enjoyable albeit brief; I hope to return later this year to see more of the beautiful, historic city.

Video: Halfway Home

Since my recent posts have been a bit verbose, I thought I'd give you all a break from reading with this short video about my recent travels in Colombia, Chile, Peru, and Costa Rica!

Enjoy!

Summer Travels Part 2.5: Travel Troubles

The defective cab looked a lot like this

Waking up early on a Saturday, I quietly gathered my things and slipped out of the hostel dorm room so as not to wake my anonymous roommates. After paying my bill, I asked the hostel receptionist if she could call me a taxi.

“Oh, we can’t do that,” she said.

“Why,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Slightly irritated, I threw on my travel pack, now weighed down with alpaca attire, and headed out to try my luck hailing a cab on the streets. Loitering on a busy street corner, I attempted to hail the passing taxis, but to no avail.

Like a lost duckling, I wandered further down the street and came across a doorman for a nice-looking hotel.

“Buenos días,” I greeted him with a smile, “Me puedes llamar un taxi?”

“Claro,” he said, turning to look down the street. He held out his hand and a vacant taxi miraculously appeared, pulling to the curb.

“Él es mi amigo,” the doorman assured me.

I nodded and said, “Mil gracias, Señor.”

I threw my bag in the back and got in. Looking at my watch, I was pleased to see that it read 8 a.m. My flight was at 11 a.m., so I should get to the airport with plenty of time to spare.

Over the next ten minutes, the taxi navigated the Lima maze, speeding ever closer towards the airport. Like most taxi rides in Latin America, it was faster and more reckless than the average gringo was comfortable with, but after seven months in the region, I was used to it.

Suddenly, my head whipped forward when the driver slammed on the breaks and nearly rear-ended a bus, killing the engine. When the driver repeatedly failed to restart the engine, he got out and popped the hood. After a few minutes of messing around with the engine, he got back in the car and once again failed to restart the car.

The driver got out and pushed the dead car to the side of the road. I debated whether I should get out and help the guy, stay where I was or get out and try to find another, less broken taxi to take. I decided to stay where I was and give the driver another couple of minutes to get the vehicle running.

Jorge Chavez Airport, Lima

Again, the driver popped the hood, doing God knows what to the engine. Much to my delight, this time when he turned the ignition, the engine roared to life.

With the same reckless abandon as before, the driver floored the accelerator and we were off. Twenty minutes went by and I knew we had to be nearly there. Praying to the automotive gods that the vehicle would make it the rest of the way, I cursed them when the engine died, yet again—this time in the middle of a busy thoroughfare where a speeding bus could kill us at any moment.

The driver got out to do his thing with the stubborn engine and after three failed attempts, finally managed to get it running. I glanced at my watch and winced; it was almost 9 a.m. and I had an international flight to catch.

I would be cutting it close.

Much to my gringo delight, the Jorge Chavez International Airport finally appeared and the taxi dropped me off at the international terminal.

Entering the terminal, I was horrified to see an enormous line running way passed the check-in area and nearly out the door. Getting in the back of the line, I feared I wouldn’t reach the front in time. As the line slowly inched forward, I happened to look up and noticed the flight departure screen.

Next to my flight number it read: demorado.

My flight was delayed.

Although I was at first relieved, it soon turned to worry when I realized that I couldn’t afford to have my flight delayed—I only had an hour and fifteen minutes to make the connection to Costa Rica in Bogotá.

By the time I had checked my bag and made it through security and customs, it was 10:30 a.m. With my flight now delayed, I headed over to a random gate to sit down and watch the flight information monitor.

Bogotá Airport International Terminals

After 11 a.m. came and went and the screen continued to read demorado, I grew more and more impatient. I figured that as long as the flight left by 11:45 a.m., I would still be able to make my connection in Bogotá; however, every passing minute made it more likely that I would be quite completely screwed.

Sure enough, noon came and there was still no change in my flight’s status. At 1:00 p.m., the monitor finally changed, telling me which gate my flight would depart from.

When I arrived at the departure gate and asked what had happened, they simply told me that the plane “had arrived late.” I told them that I would be missing a connection because of the delay and they told me to talk to their people in Bogotá to rectify the situation.

I sat down, bubbling with frustration, and another hour passed before the airline made the first call to board. We finally took off just after 2:00 p.m., three hours after we were supposed to.

A few hours later when we landed in Bogotá, I had missed my connection by nearly three hours. Exiting the plane and walking down a long corridor, I came to a crossroads: customs or connecting flight?

Although I wasn’t sure who exactly I needed to talk to, I decided it was best to stay in the departure area, so I passed under the connecting flight sign. Entering the international departure terminal, there didn’t appear to be anyone from the airline to talk to. Luckily, a helpful security guard directed me to a departure gate where there were people from the airline working.

I approached the desk and mustered every bit of my Spanish abilities to try to explain the situation and ask if they could put me on another flight to Costa Rica. The attendant called her supervisor and told me to wait for her to arrive. Since the airline people were distracted by a flight they had just begun boarding, I sat down to wait for the supervisor.

The luggage I lost

Thirty minutes later, the supervisor was nowhere to be found and I once again went up to talk to the airline attendant. With unmistakable annoyance, she told me to wait until they had finished boarding the flight and then she would help me.

I took a deep breath and nodded, figuring that getting mad wouldn’t get me what I wanted.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally finished boarding the plane and I returned to the desk. I stood there for a moment like an idiot, waiting for her to acknowledge my existence. When she didn’t, I again told her what I wanted. She took my boarding pass, passport and luggage claim ticket and spent the next fifteen minutes pattering away at her keyboard. She printed out a new boarding pass for a later flight and handed it to me. When I asked her if my luggage would also make it on my new flight, she nodded in reassurance that it would.

With my travel troubles apparently resolved, I spent the next three hours killing time in the Bogotá airport. At 9:30 p.m., I finally got on the plane to Costa Rica.

The plane landed in San José, Costa Rica just after midnight, sixteen hours after I had left my hostel in Lima. Exhausted, I trudged through customs and made my way to baggage claim. I waited, chatting with a girl from New Zealand I had met on the plane, but twenty minutes passed without any luggage coming out.

At 12:30 a.m., the conveyor belt came to life and I watched intently for my bag to pop out. As the passengers began to filter out after claiming their luggage, soon only me and New Zealand girl remained.

Eventually, the conveyor belt turned off and a man from the airline came over to tell us that our luggage had been lost.

Finally arrived in Costa Rica!

At this point, my eyes should have turned green, my muscles exploding through my shirt as I mutated into the Incredible Hulk. But rather than breaking into a furious rage, I instead began grinning like an idiot.

Having already been damned by the automotive and aviation gods, it made perfect sense that the gods of baggage reclamation would also forsake me.

After filling out a lost luggage form, I left the airport with nothing but my small carry-on backpack filled with a few books and an alpaca scarf I’d purchased in Peru.

Just before 2:00 a.m., I finally arrived at the hotel where my family was staying.

Por freaking fin.