Guest Blogger: Zach from Pintando Caminos

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.

Here it is...

Investing in the Future

By Zach Binsfeld

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Zachary Binsfeld

For more information on Pintando Caminos, or to donate, visit our project page: https://www.globalgiving.org/projects/better-life-than-war-and-poverty-for-bogota-youth/

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.  

Beating the Bogotá Blues

Fat-skinny Jesus will haunt your dreams.

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.

The key to psychological survival in Bogotá is learning how to stay solidified or to regain your solidification after you’ve lost it.

Wow, that came out wrong.

But you know what I mean.

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.

1. Check out museums—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.

Beautiful view on top of the Monserrate.

2. Go to the top of the Monserrate—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.

The gods' nectar.

3. Get a Crepes & Waffles ice cream—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.

Skyping with my dog, Gerico.

4. Skype with your dog—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.

Climbing in Suesca.

5. Leave Bogotá—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.

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!

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!

The Happy Birthday Hangover

Gringo v.s. Pinata. Gringo wins.

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.

I thought to myself, “¿Qué pasó ayer?” (What happened yesterday?)

Heading downstairs to the kitchen/common room, I saw the aftermath of the previous night’s abandon. Empty beer cans and bottles of aguardiente 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.

Then I remembered…

“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.

“What’s in the piñata?” I asked.

Party in the gringo pad!

“It’s a surprise,” one of my friends replied.

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.

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.

All made in China, of course.

…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.

Of course! The birthday cake…

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.

Birthday Cake!

“No!” one of my Colombian friends cried. “Wait.”

It was noob gringo mistake on my part. My bad.

After the firecrackers died down to a point where it could be extinguished, I blew it out and the cake was served. 


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 fought to contain my anger. I can’t stand coke-snorting gringo backpackers who treat Colombia like a drug-themed Disneyland.

“That’s not cool to do here,” I said, crossing my arms. 

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.”

As I watched them go back downstairs, I remembered why gringos have such bad reputations in Colombia.

…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 cedula (identification card), credit card, and a small ticket. Curious, I removed the ticket and inspected it for clues.

The cover ticket to Candelario…

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.

“I think a bird just shat on you,” my friend said.

Surreptitiously, I looked at my shoulder.

“Crap,” I confirmed.  No pun intended. When we finally made it inside, I made a B-line towards the bathroom to clean it up.

Candelario with my birthday posse!

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 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.

But that’s for me to know and you to never find out.

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.

The Illegal Immigrant

A colectivo bus

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.

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.

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.

When I turned to take a seat, the driver said, “¿Tu eres extranjero? (Are you a foreigner?)

“Si,” I replied, “Soy de los estados unidos.” (Yes, I am from the United States)

“¿Cuál parte?” he asked. (Which part?)

“California,” I said, “San Francisco.”

Much to my surprise, in relatively good English, the driver said, “I used to live in California!”

“No way,” I said.

“Come sit next to me!” the driver invited, “I need to practice my English.”

I figured what the hey and sat down in the passenger’s seat.

“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 colectivo bus.

“Mike,” I said, shaking his hand.

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.

 William’s Story:

Medellin, Colombia

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.

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 Plan Colombia campaign.

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.

San Fernando Valley, CA

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 The Transporter star, Jason Stathom, 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.

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.

Jason Stathom

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.

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.

Luckily, William had been able to save up enough money in the U.S. to purchase his own colectivo bus. Although he works heroically long hours driving the same route through southern Bogotá, unlike most colectivo 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…  

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.

My life is random, what can I say?

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.

A second wind

I have a confession to make.

Since returning to Bogotá two weeks ago after three amazing weeks away, I have had a tough time readjusting. Prior to vacation, I was struggling to maintain my morale and when I got back, the problems I left behind were here waiting for me.

The bulk of my frustration is directed at the multiple organizations involved with me being in Bogotá in the first place. Nearly eight months into my service, my role in the classroom is still fraught with ambiguity. Since Nueva Esperanza already has Colombian English teachers, nobody seems to really know the purpose for me being there and there are days when I feel useless.

Although I came here because I wanted to teach English, I feel that I am being denied the opportunity to achieve this goal. Especially when I see that many of the other WorldTeach Colombia volunteers have been given greater freedom to make a real difference in their schools, I feel like a racehorse stuck in the starting gate while the other horses are well on their way to the finish line.

Of course, this only serves to compound the other struggles I face in Colombia every day.

I won’t equivocate; I miss home.

I miss seeing my family and friends; kicking the soccer ball around with my dog; real Mexican food.

I miss the taste of the San Francisco air, the comforting sight of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the familiar expanse of the Central Valley.

A year is a long time to be away from all of that.

Life in Bogotá is also not easy—for those actually from here, much less a gringo. The city is overpopulated, polluted and dangerous. With no real community to integrate with, I find myself trapped in the lonely caverns of anonymity.

A year ago when I sat in my cubicle thinking about how great it would be to go teach English in South America, what has come to pass is hardly what I imagined.

But if I have learned one thing in my short time on this earth, it’s that you can’t always get what you want; and even when you try sometimes, you don’t always get what you need; but you must nonetheless find the will to carry on.

Many nights, I've laid awake wondering if I’m just not cut out for this; if I should throw in the towel and hop on the next flight back to San Francisco. I imagine that no one would really blame me—that I showed enough guts sticking it out in Colombia for as long as I did. I would settle back into a comfortable American life, find a job, and do just fine. But I know that if I were to do so, every time I looked in the mirror, I would be dissatisfied with the person looking back.

Arthur Golden writes in his novel, Memoirs of a Geisha, “Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears from us all the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.”

Although I face a long list of difficulties in Colombia, how I respond to them will ultimately reflect the kind of person I am; one who resigns when faced with adversity or who stands fast and endures?

I am making the decision, here and now, to be the latter.   

I will not turn my back on Colombia.

I will endure.

When I came to Colombia, I made a promise to myself, as well as to the children of this country, that I would give a year of my life in the service of something greater than myself. Although day-to-day it is difficult to see that I am making any significant difference, I know that I am part of a process of positive change that will, in the aggregate, set the foundations for a better world.

Whether I like it or not, I am and always will be an idealist. Just as I will always believe in such quixotic things as inherent good and romantic love, I will never stop believing that a better world is possible.    

Because just as a new day’s sunrise brings with it renewed light and warmth, so does it bear a new set of opportunities and, through them, hope.

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.