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. 

La Costa Chronicles Part 1: Getting Iced on Isla Barú

Last week was a national holiday week in Colombia and I took the opportunity to explore part of Colombia’s northern Caribbean coast. My travels brought me from the white beaches of Isla Barú to the colonial city of Cartagena to the jungle beaches near Santa Marta. I will be writing a three-part series chronicling my coastal travels.

Here is part one…  

On the canoe with Adam.

The taxi dropped me off in the main square of Pasacaballos, an Afro-Colombian pueblo forty minutes outside of the sprawling Colombian touristropolis of Cartagena. The humidity wrapped itself around me like an oppressive alpaca blanket and I scanned the plaza in hopes of finding sanctuary in shade. Unfortunately, the pueblo’s denizens had already claimed every last precious patch, forcing me to face the relentless Caribbean sun on a vacant bench in the plaza’s center.

As I awaited my friends’ arrival, I studied the town I now found myself in. The sheer demographics of those milling about told me that I was a long way from Bogotá—whereas Bogotá is largely white and mestizo, this town appeared to be 100% Afro-Colombian. Although in Bogotá I can sort of blend in if I dress humbly and keep my mouth shut, here I stood out like a sore gringo thumb.

A trio of school children walked by, shyly smiling at me as they passed.

“Hola,” I said, giving them a friendly gringo wave.

At that, they snickered and scurried away.

Crossing over to Baru, the moto taxis waiting.

After a few more minutes of taking in the town, I spotted my friends, Adam and TL, approaching and stood to great them. Adam and TL lived on the nearby island of Barú and taught in the poor pueblo of Santa Ana—they had crossed the channel to help me make the passage over to the island for a visit.

We passed several street venders on our way to the canal selling chilled fruit juice and empanadas while local children stood amused by the tall gringo and company passing through their neighborhood. All the while, the Caribbean sun continued to rain fire upon our backs.

When we arrived at the canal, I spotted a gang of grungy men waiting by a jumble of canoes. My friends told me that normally, people took the ferry to cross the channel, but that it was faster and cheaper to cross over by canoe.

Looking down at the canoes lying moored by the shore, I was fairly certain that nobody’s mother would approve of them setting foot on one. But after ten months of living in Colombia, I had already done plenty of things my mother would not approve of (the first being deciding to live in Colombia in the first place), so I said to hell with it and came aboard.

The canoe ride across the channel turned out to be more pleasant and less eventful than I expected. Whether Latin American Poseidon took mercy on our gringo souls or we just got lucky, I don’t know, but we made it to the other side without incident.

WorldTeach classroom in Santa Ana.

After safely arriving on Isla Barú, we commenced the second and final leg of the journey to Santa Ana: moto taxis. On Colombia’s Caribbean coast and especially on Isla Barú, moto taxes are the primary means of getting around. We talked to three moto taxi drivers and after negotiating the fare, jumped on the back of weathered dirt bikes and took off towards Santa Ana.

Now, I am no stranger to dirt bikes—back home, my family owns several and frequently takes them out on the dirt trails in the Lake Tahoe National Forrest—but riding on the back of a moto taxi along the unkempt roads of Barú was one of the most adrenaline-filled and comical experiences of my life. Without a helmet and lugging my heavy travel pack, I did my best to anticipate the driver’s turns and the unexpected bumps to prevent falling to my untimely gringo death. Since I stood more than a foot taller than the driver and could see clearly over his head, it seemed like the motorcycle was driving itself.

By the way he was driving, it might as well have been.

With the wind rushing into my face, I absorbed the beautiful landscape around me—so much green—and the pristine Caribbean waters glistening in the distance. It all made me smile, until I swallowed a bug and learned to keep my mouth shut.

TL with some of her students.

After twenty or so minutes on the moto taxi, we arrived in Santa Ana at the gates of Instituto Ecologico Barbacoas where the WorldTeach volunteers live and some work on Barú. We passed through the walled compound and I marveled at the open-air classrooms—those would never fly in freezing Bogotá. Although school had ended for the day, we encountered a few students milling about and TL introduced me to a few of hers.

We entered the teacher quarters and I reunited with several other WorldTeachers I had not seen since the midservice conference back in July. Many of them were on their way out to nearby Playa Blanca, where that night we planned to have a beach party and spend the night on beachside hammocks.

Before heading to Playa Blanca, I wanted to check out Santa Ana and meet some of the locals the other volunteers had befriended. While the others took off for Playa Blanca, Adam, TL, and Bryanna stayed to give me the grand tour of Santa Ana. Half-joking, I asked my friend Alyssa to have a beer waiting for me on the beach, and she said she would.

In Santa Ana, next to the puddle-pond.

Exiting Barbacoas, we backtracked a bit down the dirt path and arrived at a tienda next to a pond-sized puddle that had formed on the road. There, we began the tour.

Walking through the impoverished pueblo, I felt like I had passed through a portal into a distant African village. The dirt road was dotted with muddy cesspools of greenish goo that was reminiscent of the primordial soup and was such a muddy mess that not even the most well-endowed 4-wheel vehicle could hope to navigate it—hence the abundance of moto taxis, which were nimble enough to pass over the few dry paths.

We passed several young children running around and playing in their underwear—clothing made little sense in the oppressive heat. Some of the children had bloated bellies resulting from malnutrition—a tough sight to take in.

The green goo of Baru.

One of the things that struck me most about Santa Ana was how everyone seemed to know everyone and that they all knew the volunteers. They waved and said hola to us as we passed and stopped to chat here and there. Living in Bogotá, I have not been able to become part of any real community. Granted, when I am at my school or walking through the neighborhood from the bus stop, students always and parents occasionally say hello; however, as I do not live in Juan Rey and it is not exactly safe to hang around the neighborhood after school, I haven’t been able to experience the same community feel as the volunteers on Barú. I was also amazed by how safe Santa Ana was despite its poverty—my friends told me they could walk around town well after dark without fear of being robbed, or worse. Since Santa Ana was so small and everyone knew everyone, no one could possibly hope to get away with criminal activity.

I found that fact refreshing.

On Playa Blanca.

After Santa Ana, we hopped back on moto taxis to head to Playa Blanca. If I thought the road was bad before, I was in for a surprise—the previous night’s rain had turned much of the road into an impassable nightmare. Luckily, we made it through unscathed, albeit muddied, and arrived at Playa Blanca.

Playa Blanca is more and more becoming a major tourist destination—most people take daily ferries from Cartagena to spend the day and return at night. Much to my delight, we arrived just before sunset and most of the tourists had already left.  

     

We walked down the sandy beach to find the rest of the group, who had gotten there a few hours earlier. As we passed small thatched huts, people approached us to offer hammocks to spend the night in. Besides that, the beach was all but deserted.

We met up with our friends, grabbed some drinks, and waded into the warm Caribbean water just as the sun began to set.

Watching the sunset by Playa Blanca.

Alyssa told me she had bought me a beer and that it was in her backpack near the hammocks. Like a naïve child, I left the water to retrieve my beer from her pack. When I unzipped it and reached inside, what I pulled out was not a beer… but a Smirnoff Ice.

You guessed it—I had just gotten iced in Colombia—it wasn’t the first time and, much to my chagrin, would not be the last. For those unfamiliar with the cultural phenomena of icing, click here.

After taking a knee and polishing off the disgusting sugary beverage, I returned to the water and witnessed one of the most breathtaking sunsets I had ever seen.

That night, we ate dinner at a small, family-run “restaurant” on the beach and sat around playing games and having a good time. The best part about it was that we had the entire beach to ourselves—giving the illusion of being on an isolated tropical island. Later, we fell asleep in hammocks on the beach to the sound of the surf gently lapping against the shore.

Double-fisting coconut rums!

The next morning, most of our group headed back to Santa Ana while the rest of us remained on Playa Blanca to enjoy the sun. Local peddlers patrolled the beach selling everything from beaded necklaces to oysters. After hanging out in the water for a bit, we stopped by one of the thatched bars and drank some coconut rums. No joke, the guy actually opened up a coconut, mixed in some rum, and stuck a straw in it. Best invention ever.

Sitting on the beach, drinking a coconut rum, and looking out at the crystalline waters, Bogotá and its freezing mountain rain was the last thing on my mind. I was on vacation for the next week, and I was determined to enjoy every second of it.

Next stop, Cartagena.

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.

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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!

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.