Upon my return to the US, it is time to complete my scholar responsibilities. After making four pre-departure presentations to local clubs and over 30 presentations to audiences across Colombia, I should now be pro at speaking in front of large groups of Rotarians and community members. The test is as followed on completed/scheduled presentations throughout Southern California:
August 12: Claremont Sunrise Rotary Club - breakfast meeting, Methodist Church
Upland Rotary Club - lunch meeting, Upland Hangar
August 13: Pasadena Sunrise Rotary Club - breakfast meeting, The Brit Pub
August 14: Del Mar and Solana Beach Rotary Club - breakfast meeting, Double Tree Hotel
August 18: Encinitas Coastal Rotary Club - lunch meeting
August 22: Presentation to friends and family - 3:30 pm at my home in Encinitas
September 1: La Jolla Rotary Club - lunch meeting, La Valencia hotel
...and more to come once I relocate to Atlanta!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Life is a River...
Today I sat down with Gilma to have our usual afternoon snack break and had a particularly interesting conversation. With my impending departure so near, I have been waxing nostalgic in every interaction with my friends here; today was no exception. When describing how I feel somewhat anxious that I do not have and definite plans after September, she lightly scolded me.
"Alina," Gilma said. "Life is like an inter tube ride down a river. You get in at the beginning, put your head back and relax looking up at the sky. Once in a while you hit some turbulent areas where you get swirled around among the rocks, but you just have to hang on. Paddling does not help; your path and destation are already pre-determined. When you make it through, you will have learned how to better navigate and enjoy the calm stretches. Don't fight the current, let it take you wherever you are meant to go."
Imagining my bottom stuck into a black rubber inter tube and floating through life isn't the most comfortable of visuals, but her analogy certainly was comforting. So instead of attempting to beach myself on the shore until the rainy season ends and the water ebbs, I will ride out the present turbulence, enjoying every moment as it passes. Gilma knows best.
"Alina," Gilma said. "Life is like an inter tube ride down a river. You get in at the beginning, put your head back and relax looking up at the sky. Once in a while you hit some turbulent areas where you get swirled around among the rocks, but you just have to hang on. Paddling does not help; your path and destation are already pre-determined. When you make it through, you will have learned how to better navigate and enjoy the calm stretches. Don't fight the current, let it take you wherever you are meant to go."
Imagining my bottom stuck into a black rubber inter tube and floating through life isn't the most comfortable of visuals, but her analogy certainly was comforting. So instead of attempting to beach myself on the shore until the rainy season ends and the water ebbs, I will ride out the present turbulence, enjoying every moment as it passes. Gilma knows best.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Rotary Final Report
At the end of an Ambassadorial Scholar's year, Rotary asks us to submit a final report to our host and sponsor clubs, scholarship coordinator, and Rotarians who were especially instrumental during our term. They ask for two pages, an utterly ludicrous writing space in which to reflect on an entire year's accomplishments. Sorry if it is a bit long, but hopefully this will serve as a good summary of how I interpreted my position as an Ambassador of Goodwill.
One year is not nearly enough time to experience Colombia. A country of richly diverse regions and welcoming people, I want to know it all. My term as a Rotary Ambassadorial Research Scholar has allowed me extremely unique and special opportunities in which to accomplish this.
When I first arrived in Medellin, I could communicate well in Spanish but it took me almost three months to adapt to the different paisa accent that they speak here. Colombians are very proud of their “correct” Spanish, meaning that they believe their use of the language to be most similar to that in Spain. They think that their accent is one of the easiest to understand (contrary to my initial experience), and I do agree that it has a beautiful, sing-song nature. Now, after twelve months of practice, I am imitating their speech so well that I am sometimes mistaken as a native. This is a huge compliment to my language skills, especially because I have been working almost my entire life to learn the language. My desire to sound like them has proven my respect for my host culture and my attempts to ‘fit in’ as much as possible. And, of course, it enabled me to communicate effectively with anyone and everyone, drastically enriching my overall experience.
Instead of participating in an established academic program, I chose to conduct research at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica, part of the Universidad de Antioquia, because I knew that it would give me more valuable experience on how to conduct international investigations and the chance to publish an article in an international journal. Working with Gloria Molina, the head of the research department, and Gilma Stella, my research partner, has been a fantastic way to learn from experienced professionals how research in Colombia takes place. Our project is entitled “Mecanismos de mercado y competencia y su relación con el acceso y la calidad del los servicio materno, en el Contexto del Sistema General de Seguridad Social en Salud. Colombia, 2008-2009.” It looks at the effects of market competition on access to and quality of maternal health care after the health care system was restructured in 1993. This has allowed me to travel around Medellin interviewing doctors, nurses, health administrators, and the users themselves at different clinics and hospitals. I have learned more about the Colombian health care system than I know about that of the US, and feel empowered having the resources to publish suggestions to the problems we have observed.
One academic year has been too short an amount of time to design, develop, and implement such an in-depth research project, and so we will not finish completely by the time I leave Colombia. We have finished collecting all of our data, analyzing the interviews, and creating the mental maps that will help us in writing up of the article. I will finish a rough draft of the article before my departure, and then we will continue collaborating via email during the arduous process of publication. This will help me achieve my professional goals because as I start applying for PhD programs in the upcoming year, my candidacy will be much more likely to be accepted after having international research and a publication under my belt.
Overall I have been very impressed with the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica. The dean, German Gonzales, is the past president of my host Rotary Club and has helped me get involved in activities to which I would usually not have access. I have participated in many international health conferences, met with visiting health professionals, sat in on undergraduate and graduate classes whose content is applicable to my research, and enjoyed the dynamic, collaboration among faculty and students. What has awed me most is the very horizontal relationship between professors, docents, and students; the teachers are always available to meet with students and respect their ideas as much as any other professional. At the Facultad I have given several presentations to groups of students and teachers about Rotary and my sponsor country, taught English conversation classes, and been an active member of a weekly painting workshop.
During periods when my official research was slow, I worked in shelters for displaced people as part of a supplementary research and community service project. My interest in Medical Anthropology spurred me to carry out an ethnography looking at the experience of pregnant women during displacement and how the stressful events they endure affects their health and the health of their baby. It has been fascinating becoming close with them and learning firsthand how the continued violence is ruining so many innocent people’s lives.
One of the women with whom I have worked has become an especially important friend. Katy is 39 years old and is pregnant with her first child. Her husband was kidnapped in the middle of the night by the paramilitary, leaving her to fend for herself without the support of any family or friends to support. Katy’s outlook on life is very different from most impoverished Colombian women; she is a feminist, well-educated, critical yet proud of her country, and very independent. Sharing hours talking with her has opened up a whole different perspective on Colombia than I see when with Rotarians or at school, and has been an instrumental source for my research. In return, I offer her continual friendship, an open ear to listen to her worries, and hope that her future will work out despite the hardships she has faced. This was one of the most salient ways in which I participated as an ambassador of goodwill.
When visiting the shelters I frequently conducted art therapy sessions with the children, asking them to draw pictures of their families, their fears, and their dreams. I also worked with the adults, giving them job training and preparedness talks. Because many of the displaced people leave the shelters without a way to support themselves economically, I am developing a micro-loan program for women heads of households so that they can start their own small businesses.
As part of my interest in public health and displaced communities, I visited some of the settlements of recently arrived displaced families with local institutions. Once with Profamilia, the local equivalent of Planned Parenthood, during a health brigade where they offered check-ups and antibiotics to children. Again in Popayan with a Rotarian who works for the Red Cross, going into several different settlements evaluating the efficacy of educational health programs that the Red Cross had been implementing for three years. Due to the lack of safety in these locations, it was frustrating for me not to visit them more often but necessary that I go when invited by recognized organizations. My devotion to interacting with all socioeconomic levels in Medellin, especially those people who are usually forgotten by their own government and fellow countrymen, is yet another example of my service as an ambassador of goodwill.
I lived with a former Ambassadorial Scholar who is from Medellin and rented out a room in his apartment to me during the entire year. He was a very good source of social contacts and explanations of cultural differences when I first arrived, and continues to be a close friend. It was nice to have the independence of living on my own and being able to cook for myself, as well as entertain friends and visitors.
My interactions with Rotary in Medellin were some of the richest experiences as an ambassadorial scholar. Club Rotario Medellin, my host club, is one of the largest and oldest clubs in the country, with some of the oldest members as well. I attended at least two meetings every month, enjoying my interactions with the members who all treated me as an adoptive granddaughter. Because the club has over 80 members, it gave me the opportunity to know a large variety of prominent community leaders. One of the most special friendships that I formed was with my host counselor, Waldemar Rey. He is a very kind, humble, and inspirational man who was constantly supporting me in my endeavors and encouraging me to explore different avenues than I normally would have on my own.
I visited 12 different clubs throughout the district to make presentations, becoming actively involved in the Club Medellin Nuevo, Club Medellin Nutibara, and Club Rotario Popayan. They invited me to participate in health brigades in marginalized communities, conduct eye examinations of children, attend fundraising events, and social “integrations” with their families. I attended and presented at the RYLA conference October 25 and 26, at a Rotaract Forum in Popayan April 26, and at the District 4280 Conference the first weekend of May. I visited the host club of another Ambassadorial Scholar in Cali for their end-of-year party Thanksgiving weekend of 2008, and attended my host club’s meetings with my grandparents and parents when they came to visit me in January 2009. The broad network of Rotary contacts I maintained throughout the year shows how I served as an ambassador of goodwill, since it was important for me to give back to the Rotary community that was and still is supporting me.
A very unique experience was when I was invited to travel on several occasions with the GSE group from New Mexico on their visit to my host district during April and May. It was great sharing perspectives on Colombia through the lens of Rotary with people from my own culture. They were very interested in the work I am doing in Medellin, and have encouraged me to visit their district and make presentations when I return to further cement the connections made between our two districts. I have developed a great respect for Rotary’s mission to promote all sorts of international exchange opportunities and hope to have more chances to participate in them in the future.
The thriving Rotaract and Interact clubs were one of the most pleasant Rotary surprises I found in Colombia. I participated in the three different Rotaract clubs in Medellin during the year, helping them with blood drives, soccer tournaments to raise funds, activities in old-folk’s homes, and children’s shelters in which they carry out projects. I also was involved with the Interact clubs in Medellin, marching with them in a peace demonstration on Colombian Independence Day and guiding them with fundraising ideas.
My experience as an Ambassadorial Scholar has greatly changed my outlook on Colombia because it has allowed me an insider’s view of the daily workings of the country. The Rotarians are very well educated and knowledgeable about local politics and history, always sharing with me their views and inviting me to participate in discussions on Colombia’s place in the world. They were very honest about the difficulties that Colombia has faced, and how they are working to overcome the extreme violence caused by drug trafficking—an almost impossible task. I appreciated how they looked to me for outside opinions that could help them get a different perspective that they have viewed from within for so many years. Their familiarity with the US was always disconcerting; it showed me how aware the rest of the world is of my home country and yet we as (North) Americans in general are so oblivious to the goings-on of the rest of the world. It made me sad at how ignorant the majority of my fellow countrymen and women are of places as wonderful as Colombia. This has encouraged me more than anything else to return to share with them the beauty of learning intimately about other cultures that are only known through negative news headlines. To me, this dedication to dispelling internationally propagated myths about Colombia is my main contribution to Rotary’s vision to advance world understanding, goodwill, and peace.
When describing Rotary to my friends, colleagues, and family, I say that it is an international organization comprised of people from very different backgrounds and cultures who are all dedicated to creating world-wide understanding and peace through their humanitarian work mainly concentrated in health and education. They comprise a family that defies political borders and cultural differences, welcoming anyone and everyone with open arms and a heart to help. The Rotary Ambassadorial Scholarship is an opportunity for culturally sensitive students dedicated to propagate peace and goodwill through service and international studies. I tell everyone that Rotary gives people, members or not, the opportunity to really understand the world through personal connections.
I do not really think that the materials or training that I received from the Foundation and my sponsor/host Rotarians really prepared me in a new way for my success as an ambassador of goodwill, since when applying for the scholarship I already had lots of international experience. What did help was the training at the orientation on public speaking, since that is a very large component of the scholarship. It was also very helpful for me to talk with previous scholars from my sponsor district and others who went to Colombia, to learn what they thought were the strengths and weaknesses of their experiences so I could build upon their suggestions to make the most of my year. I think that one of the things that should be emphasized most to incoming scholars is the patience it takes to get through the entire pre-departure process, and how important it is to really get involved and make the most of Rotary in their host community as soon as they arrive.
My advice to future scholars about living abroad as a RAS is to integrate themselves as much as possible into their host culture. The goal as an ambassador is to really get the “real” experience, with which Rotarians are more than happy to help. It is important to find a stable living situation with people around whom you are comfortable, can offer insight into the host culture, and support a scholar during difficult, homesick periods. Coming home to a good environment makes surviving alone in a foreign country much easier. In terms of representing Rotary, it is always important to explain to people upon introduction your purpose in the country and make them aware of Rotary and the possibilities the Foundation provides everywhere. Become familiar with the scholarship opportunities available in your host district and encourage local friends to participate. Representing your sponsor club can be difficult if you did not get a chance to develop a strong relationship with them before leaving, but make sure to check in on their website and stay in email touch with sponsor counselors so that you are up-to-date on their activities in case your host Rotarians ask.
I am hooked on Rotary for life. After participating in Interact, a Rotary Youth Exchange program, and the Ambassadorial Scholarship, I think my next step will be to apply for the Rotary Peace Fellowship. In the meantime, I will travel around the US presenting to clubs, schools, and anyone who will listen about the amazing opportunities that Rotary offers and teach them about how my experience as an ambassador of goodwill helped me have a fantastic year living in a country of which most people are afraid. I have formed such strong friendships and long-lasting contacts with people here that I am considering returning to carry out further work in Colombia, continuing my doctoral research here, and visiting during the upcoming District Conferences. In the future, I would consider becoming a member of a local Rotary club depending on the dynamics of the clubs near me. Each club has its own identity and feel, which is a wonderful trait of Rotary International but can be limiting if a nearby club does not match someone’s service style.
I cannot wait to continue promoting Rotary on a daily basis back in the US and know that Rotary will be an important part of my life forever.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Demise of Wanderlust
Colombian eggs are delicious. Even your average supermarket dozen of AA eggs have enough flavor to make a free-range hen in the US jealous. The only drawback is that their shells are a bit thin. Perhaps Colombia has lenient DDT regulations.
Because eggs are such a versatile source of protein, they make a great breakfast snack when boiled for overnight bus trips. Kelsey, my college roommate and best friend, came down to accompany me during my last few weeks of travels and fun in Colombia. She had the bright idea of boiling several eggs and packing them in Tupperware containers to tide us over during the 14 hours of travel to our friend's house on the Caribbean coast near Cartagena.
Since it was the start of a three-day weekend, when we arrived at the bus terminal the place was teeming with families waiting to get on the road toward their vacation destination. Kelsey and I luckily got front-row seats with one of the best companies and wandered around, taking advantage of the last opportunity to stretch our legs for a long while. Due to her odd, atheistic fascination with Catholicism, we payed our respects to the Virgen de Carmen's alter before boarding the bus. While still on the freeway out of Medellin, I noticed that it had started to rain. I have grown accustomed to the daily showers implied by the tropical climate yet still marvel at the all-night downpours...like the one taking place outside. After watching a violent, K-rated Thai martial arts movie that takes place somewhere in barbaric Mongolia, we cuddled under a blanket and drifted off to sleep listening to the sound of wet tires carrying us toward the hopefully sunny coast.
Before I even had a chance to reach REM, I was awakened by the sound of the bus's breaks locking and within a matter of seconds, my body was jerked off of the seat, into the air, and slammed down into the aisle where I slid to a stop against the compartment door. Now high on adrenaline, I was sharply attuned to the babies crying, people rustling about in the pitch dark, and a feeling of panic settling in. While still too stunned to move, I hear Kelsey above me utter "Welcome to your worst nightmare."
After having memorized the highways out of the city from traveling so much, I am familiar with the likelihood of falling off a cliff and drowning in one of the two rivers on either side of Medellin, and so my first desire was to get out of the bus before it could start filling with water because I had no idea where we had landed. I put my hand up to the doorknob and realize that we are locked in. People start trying to push out the windows, but with no avail, the hammers usually in place for emergency situations were stolen long ago. Luckily right as our realization of trapped confinement sinks in the alternate conductor comes up from where he was sleeping at the back of the bus and unlocks the door, telling us to be careful when we get out because he doesn't know where we are.
Gingerly picking myself up off of the floor, I realize that my tailbone is throbbing and my shoulders are bruised but I can still walk fine. Kelsey complains of a huge bump forming on her shin and a twisted knee, but we quickly gather up our belongings and gingerly make our way outside. The entire front of the bus is crushed in so that we can barely squeeze through the narrow steps. Windshield completely missing, in front of us I see a body lying on the ground with a leg up in the air. It is still pouring.
Luckily there is a small house on the other side of the road and we make our way over to stand under the eaves out of the rain, the blanket wrapped around us. The rest of the passengers are surprisingly calm and come join us, some of them sporting broken noses but everyone pretty much intact, thank God. While we wait for an ambulance and another bus to arrive, us survivors try to piece together what happened.
To start out with, the driver must have been going fast for the conditions. He didn't anticipate the sharpness of the turn and tried to cut into the middle too much, slamming on the breaks which we heard locking. The back of the bus started going over the edge of the embankment, landing on a tree which is the only thing that saved us from plummeting down the 5 km drop. In a valiant effort, the driver then pulled us over the edge and back onto the highway, losing control of the bus which then slammed into the side of the mountain. Upon impact, the young boy who does all the grunt work (and doesn't get a seat/belt) was thrown out the front window and probably flew 15 feet before landing in the middle of the highway. The front tire popped, we started a slight landslide by scraping against the wall, and we eventually ended our journey. Because we were facing oncoming traffic on a curve, a truck coming up the other way did not see us and crashed into the back of the bus, thus pinning us against the mountain. Not the most ideal situation.
As passengers started trickling back into the bus to escape the cold and the rain, Kelsey and I remembered Highway Safety 101 lessons that tell you to get as far away from the accident as possible, avoiding further collisions or fires ignited from gas leaks. I luckily travel with Advil and water, so we were able to take the edge off of our pain. About twenty minutes later after the crash, several pairs of highway police showed up on motorcycles. Despite shining a flashlihgt on us and walking around the boy still lying on the street moaning, they didn't really seem to helpful or worried about our situation. It was awful to watch someone, badly injured, without having the knowledge or equipment to help. We couldn't detect a back board to move the boy off of the wet road, nobody had more than a few small plastic bags to protect him from the rain and only extra articles of clothing to wrap around his open wounds. Hypothermia anyone?? One of the passengers was a doctor, but they couldn't do anything besides comfort him despite their expertise. Hell, there weren't even flairs or a reflective triangle to put out in front of the accident to warn other cars and trucks to slow down. Someone just ran out in the direction of headlights waving, hoping they would stop. Oh, the unpreparedness of second-world countries.
Eventually the ambulance arrived and took the boy, who had stopped moaning and had probably entered immense shock, to the hospital along with the driver whose jaw bone was apparently sticking out of his skin. An empty bus came and told us they would carry us on our way; a shining, dry chariot offering salvation from more hours of damp waiting. They told us that we could not get our luggage out from underneath the bus, but they would bring it to us in Cartagena as soon as possible. And as quickly and quietly as we had arrived at our injured station at the base of the mountain, we left.
As I write this, almost 4 days later, I still do not have my luggage, which is trapped in the bus that they had to attach to a crane and somehow cart back to Medellin. Supposedly the storage compartment under the bus is controlled my the electrical system of the bus, which was shut down in the crash. But, typical Colombian bureaucracy-style, the bus is at the Fiscalia, a government department which is reviewing the case and taking ages to file paperwork because of the gravity of consequences. They have not told us if the boy survived. My back and right buttock are extremely sore, covered in bruises that defy natural bodily colors. It hurts to sit and I might have bruised my tailbone. The swelling on Kelsey's shin has gone down, and her knee hurts, but she can walk fine. We complain a lot. I like to think it is out of the jittery fear being in such an accident has caused, but it is probably because we survived an awful event and want to tell our cool story.
Despite all of this, I still have my life, my most valuable possession. Kelsey and I were able to spend a fantastic weekend with our friend on the coast relaxing in Caribbean paradise in the comfort of a family. We took a small plane home, arriving safely back to my apartment. I have taken buses around Latin America for 52 hours straight, traveling from Bolivia to the US without a slight scratch. But for some reason I think I will take busing slightly more seriously from now on. When we first started to tip over the edge that night, I thought my mangled body would have to be pulled out of the remains of the tin-can of a bus, never to see more adventures.
Every time I step into a car, bus, plane, the metro, a taxi--any mode of transportation, I am putting my life into someone else's hands. How many times each day do you entrust the Virgen de Carmen to watch over your journey and hope that she safely directs you home? Lady Carmen must have been waiting for us that night, baby in arm, to push the bus back onto the highway, a reminder that it was not yet our time to die. Perhaps she was hinting to me that I was taking my wanderlust too lightly, urging me to explore on slower terms. With only two weeks left in Colombia, I am at the perfect crossroads to slow down my speed and take time to figure out in what direction I will next travel.
The silliest part of it all is that the eggs survived better than either my our Kelsey's bodies. After a sleepless night we convinced ourselves we should eat something to keep our forces up, and cracked open the Tupperware containers while traveling through the flat cow pastures. Inside, we found the tasty hard boiled eggs perfectly intact. Maybe Colombian eggshells are stronger than I realized.
***Postscript***
Now that the traumatization (I know, I am turning English words into Spanish, but it can be so much more useful sometimes) of the bus accident has worn off, I can analyze the situation with a bit more perspective. The fact that my Rotarian and Colombian friends alike barely reacted to my experience shows a general Colombian acceptance of death. Perhaps I am over-analyzing the situation, but I would say that because paisas have lived with death at their doorstep for so long they have come to terms with the fact that at any moment life could be taken away from them. Every family tells their own tragedy, for several years at the peak of the violence ('92-'95)in Medellin people were never safe even in their own homes, and everyone has spent years traveling on the same dangerous roads. One of the main difference between a developed country and a developing country is that when there is a dangerous patch of road causing an accident, the developed country will have a road crew out on the scene the next day fixing the problem to prevent future accidents while in the developing country the government might order a sign to be put up but never really get around to changing anything. (This anecdote was told to me by several Colombian friends reflecting on their own culture, again proving how resigned they are to potential danger).
I don't know if it is better or worse to not be afraid of uncontrollable death, but one of the advantages that I see in how Colombians accept their risks without second thought is the value they in turn place on life. Paisas will go out of their way to spend an extra hour drinking with friends even if it means being tired the next day for work. Extended families will sit around all day doing nothing exciting just to be together. And, typical to Latin cultural stereotypes, I guess, nobody is hesitant to express their fleeting or deep-rooted emotions--honest with each other about anger or lust just in case they don't have another chance to express themselves.
Instead of being somewhat insulted that my friends did not feel more responsible for my near-death scare, I finally realized after the entire year one of the biggest cultural differences between myself and my host culture: an overall acceptance of death.
Because eggs are such a versatile source of protein, they make a great breakfast snack when boiled for overnight bus trips. Kelsey, my college roommate and best friend, came down to accompany me during my last few weeks of travels and fun in Colombia. She had the bright idea of boiling several eggs and packing them in Tupperware containers to tide us over during the 14 hours of travel to our friend's house on the Caribbean coast near Cartagena.
Since it was the start of a three-day weekend, when we arrived at the bus terminal the place was teeming with families waiting to get on the road toward their vacation destination. Kelsey and I luckily got front-row seats with one of the best companies and wandered around, taking advantage of the last opportunity to stretch our legs for a long while. Due to her odd, atheistic fascination with Catholicism, we payed our respects to the Virgen de Carmen's alter before boarding the bus. While still on the freeway out of Medellin, I noticed that it had started to rain. I have grown accustomed to the daily showers implied by the tropical climate yet still marvel at the all-night downpours...like the one taking place outside. After watching a violent, K-rated Thai martial arts movie that takes place somewhere in barbaric Mongolia, we cuddled under a blanket and drifted off to sleep listening to the sound of wet tires carrying us toward the hopefully sunny coast.
Before I even had a chance to reach REM, I was awakened by the sound of the bus's breaks locking and within a matter of seconds, my body was jerked off of the seat, into the air, and slammed down into the aisle where I slid to a stop against the compartment door. Now high on adrenaline, I was sharply attuned to the babies crying, people rustling about in the pitch dark, and a feeling of panic settling in. While still too stunned to move, I hear Kelsey above me utter "Welcome to your worst nightmare."
After having memorized the highways out of the city from traveling so much, I am familiar with the likelihood of falling off a cliff and drowning in one of the two rivers on either side of Medellin, and so my first desire was to get out of the bus before it could start filling with water because I had no idea where we had landed. I put my hand up to the doorknob and realize that we are locked in. People start trying to push out the windows, but with no avail, the hammers usually in place for emergency situations were stolen long ago. Luckily right as our realization of trapped confinement sinks in the alternate conductor comes up from where he was sleeping at the back of the bus and unlocks the door, telling us to be careful when we get out because he doesn't know where we are.
Gingerly picking myself up off of the floor, I realize that my tailbone is throbbing and my shoulders are bruised but I can still walk fine. Kelsey complains of a huge bump forming on her shin and a twisted knee, but we quickly gather up our belongings and gingerly make our way outside. The entire front of the bus is crushed in so that we can barely squeeze through the narrow steps. Windshield completely missing, in front of us I see a body lying on the ground with a leg up in the air. It is still pouring.
Luckily there is a small house on the other side of the road and we make our way over to stand under the eaves out of the rain, the blanket wrapped around us. The rest of the passengers are surprisingly calm and come join us, some of them sporting broken noses but everyone pretty much intact, thank God. While we wait for an ambulance and another bus to arrive, us survivors try to piece together what happened.
To start out with, the driver must have been going fast for the conditions. He didn't anticipate the sharpness of the turn and tried to cut into the middle too much, slamming on the breaks which we heard locking. The back of the bus started going over the edge of the embankment, landing on a tree which is the only thing that saved us from plummeting down the 5 km drop. In a valiant effort, the driver then pulled us over the edge and back onto the highway, losing control of the bus which then slammed into the side of the mountain. Upon impact, the young boy who does all the grunt work (and doesn't get a seat/belt) was thrown out the front window and probably flew 15 feet before landing in the middle of the highway. The front tire popped, we started a slight landslide by scraping against the wall, and we eventually ended our journey. Because we were facing oncoming traffic on a curve, a truck coming up the other way did not see us and crashed into the back of the bus, thus pinning us against the mountain. Not the most ideal situation.
As passengers started trickling back into the bus to escape the cold and the rain, Kelsey and I remembered Highway Safety 101 lessons that tell you to get as far away from the accident as possible, avoiding further collisions or fires ignited from gas leaks. I luckily travel with Advil and water, so we were able to take the edge off of our pain. About twenty minutes later after the crash, several pairs of highway police showed up on motorcycles. Despite shining a flashlihgt on us and walking around the boy still lying on the street moaning, they didn't really seem to helpful or worried about our situation. It was awful to watch someone, badly injured, without having the knowledge or equipment to help. We couldn't detect a back board to move the boy off of the wet road, nobody had more than a few small plastic bags to protect him from the rain and only extra articles of clothing to wrap around his open wounds. Hypothermia anyone?? One of the passengers was a doctor, but they couldn't do anything besides comfort him despite their expertise. Hell, there weren't even flairs or a reflective triangle to put out in front of the accident to warn other cars and trucks to slow down. Someone just ran out in the direction of headlights waving, hoping they would stop. Oh, the unpreparedness of second-world countries.
Eventually the ambulance arrived and took the boy, who had stopped moaning and had probably entered immense shock, to the hospital along with the driver whose jaw bone was apparently sticking out of his skin. An empty bus came and told us they would carry us on our way; a shining, dry chariot offering salvation from more hours of damp waiting. They told us that we could not get our luggage out from underneath the bus, but they would bring it to us in Cartagena as soon as possible. And as quickly and quietly as we had arrived at our injured station at the base of the mountain, we left.
As I write this, almost 4 days later, I still do not have my luggage, which is trapped in the bus that they had to attach to a crane and somehow cart back to Medellin. Supposedly the storage compartment under the bus is controlled my the electrical system of the bus, which was shut down in the crash. But, typical Colombian bureaucracy-style, the bus is at the Fiscalia, a government department which is reviewing the case and taking ages to file paperwork because of the gravity of consequences. They have not told us if the boy survived. My back and right buttock are extremely sore, covered in bruises that defy natural bodily colors. It hurts to sit and I might have bruised my tailbone. The swelling on Kelsey's shin has gone down, and her knee hurts, but she can walk fine. We complain a lot. I like to think it is out of the jittery fear being in such an accident has caused, but it is probably because we survived an awful event and want to tell our cool story.
Despite all of this, I still have my life, my most valuable possession. Kelsey and I were able to spend a fantastic weekend with our friend on the coast relaxing in Caribbean paradise in the comfort of a family. We took a small plane home, arriving safely back to my apartment. I have taken buses around Latin America for 52 hours straight, traveling from Bolivia to the US without a slight scratch. But for some reason I think I will take busing slightly more seriously from now on. When we first started to tip over the edge that night, I thought my mangled body would have to be pulled out of the remains of the tin-can of a bus, never to see more adventures.
Every time I step into a car, bus, plane, the metro, a taxi--any mode of transportation, I am putting my life into someone else's hands. How many times each day do you entrust the Virgen de Carmen to watch over your journey and hope that she safely directs you home? Lady Carmen must have been waiting for us that night, baby in arm, to push the bus back onto the highway, a reminder that it was not yet our time to die. Perhaps she was hinting to me that I was taking my wanderlust too lightly, urging me to explore on slower terms. With only two weeks left in Colombia, I am at the perfect crossroads to slow down my speed and take time to figure out in what direction I will next travel.
The silliest part of it all is that the eggs survived better than either my our Kelsey's bodies. After a sleepless night we convinced ourselves we should eat something to keep our forces up, and cracked open the Tupperware containers while traveling through the flat cow pastures. Inside, we found the tasty hard boiled eggs perfectly intact. Maybe Colombian eggshells are stronger than I realized.
***Postscript***
Now that the traumatization (I know, I am turning English words into Spanish, but it can be so much more useful sometimes) of the bus accident has worn off, I can analyze the situation with a bit more perspective. The fact that my Rotarian and Colombian friends alike barely reacted to my experience shows a general Colombian acceptance of death. Perhaps I am over-analyzing the situation, but I would say that because paisas have lived with death at their doorstep for so long they have come to terms with the fact that at any moment life could be taken away from them. Every family tells their own tragedy, for several years at the peak of the violence ('92-'95)in Medellin people were never safe even in their own homes, and everyone has spent years traveling on the same dangerous roads. One of the main difference between a developed country and a developing country is that when there is a dangerous patch of road causing an accident, the developed country will have a road crew out on the scene the next day fixing the problem to prevent future accidents while in the developing country the government might order a sign to be put up but never really get around to changing anything. (This anecdote was told to me by several Colombian friends reflecting on their own culture, again proving how resigned they are to potential danger).
I don't know if it is better or worse to not be afraid of uncontrollable death, but one of the advantages that I see in how Colombians accept their risks without second thought is the value they in turn place on life. Paisas will go out of their way to spend an extra hour drinking with friends even if it means being tired the next day for work. Extended families will sit around all day doing nothing exciting just to be together. And, typical to Latin cultural stereotypes, I guess, nobody is hesitant to express their fleeting or deep-rooted emotions--honest with each other about anger or lust just in case they don't have another chance to express themselves.
Instead of being somewhat insulted that my friends did not feel more responsible for my near-death scare, I finally realized after the entire year one of the biggest cultural differences between myself and my host culture: an overall acceptance of death.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
More on Maternal Mortality
After being caught up through my research on the causes for unnecessary maternal mortality here in Medellin (due to market forces and organization of the health care industry), it is crucial to stick my head above the beautiful Colombian clouds once in a while and learn about the larger international issues impeding pregnant women's access to health care in other countries.
Nicolas Kristof is a very illuminating Op-Ed columnist for the NYT (I might be slightly biased after hearing him speak at a foundation event in Atlanta and admiring his approach to saving Africa), and lately he has been writing a lot on the issue of maternal health care in West Africa. He takes an interesting look at the lack of medical (personnel) resources in rural clinics and how international aid plays into the picture in the article "This Mom Didn't Have to Die." Kristof delves deeper into the issue on his blog On the Ground, responding to the link between maternal mortality and female education and financial situation in the post "A 'P.S.' on Maternal Mortality and Abortion," and also looks at the larger issue of malnutrition affecting women's health in his most recent post "Malnutrition and the Economic Crisis."
I am relieved that in Medellin I have not found patients dying in childbirth on hospital tables, but knowing that there are women in so many other countries who need a voice to represent their need for improved maternal health care overwhelms me with the possibility of a life's work. As Kristof notes, a woman should not die because her life is considered less than that of a man.
Nicolas Kristof is a very illuminating Op-Ed columnist for the NYT (I might be slightly biased after hearing him speak at a foundation event in Atlanta and admiring his approach to saving Africa), and lately he has been writing a lot on the issue of maternal health care in West Africa. He takes an interesting look at the lack of medical (personnel) resources in rural clinics and how international aid plays into the picture in the article "This Mom Didn't Have to Die." Kristof delves deeper into the issue on his blog On the Ground, responding to the link between maternal mortality and female education and financial situation in the post "A 'P.S.' on Maternal Mortality and Abortion," and also looks at the larger issue of malnutrition affecting women's health in his most recent post "Malnutrition and the Economic Crisis."
I am relieved that in Medellin I have not found patients dying in childbirth on hospital tables, but knowing that there are women in so many other countries who need a voice to represent their need for improved maternal health care overwhelms me with the possibility of a life's work. As Kristof notes, a woman should not die because her life is considered less than that of a man.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Coffee Talk
Colombia is coffee territory. A cup with breakfast, at 10:00 am, after lunch, at 3:00 pm, and then maybe after dinner, Colombians drink an impressive amount of coffee. Not just because it grows in their backyards or keeps them going through long work days, but also because coffee breaks perfectly compliment their social culture. Yes, working is important, but staying up-to-date with family and friends is more important and so the excuse of going downstairs to the cafeteria for 15 minutes is the perfect way to gossip and discuss whatever is on their mind. (Larger companies even have a female employee whose job description is to carry trays of tinto around through the office at one-hour intervals so that the workers can stay sufficiently caffeinated.)
Although I don't drink much coffee because I am very sensitive to caffeine (realizing that this is a sin while living in Colombia--shouldn't I make an exception for their exceptional coffee?), I do accompany my friends for the conversations. (Or maybe it is because otherwise I would be left alone in the office... ) Either way, my two favorite coffee partners are Gilma and Felipe, who have the most interesting banter over their cups of java. I think several of the topics covered recently warrant a brief description here because they have increased my insight into politicized opinions that you can't read in the newspaper.
Colombian World Travelers: After an arduous process to get his U.S. visa, Felipe boarded a plane on Thursday for Chicago to attend a public health qualitative research conference at the University of Illinois, Champagne. About one in 22 Colombians get their visas approved by the U.S embassy in Bogota, seemingly on a random basis. Once they do get it though, it means that obtaining a visa for any other country is almost guaranteed.
Listening to people's dismay about being denied a visa to visit a sick family member abroad or frustrated that they can't take their child to Disneyworld for their birthday makes me realize how lucky I am to be a U.S. citizen. It's not just because I can easily move through international borders by flashing my passport, but because I can travel to other countries without being automatically discriminated against because of my nationality.
I have heard appalling stories from my friends of them getting mistreated in a range of countries just because of the negative international perception of Colombians. A Colombian woman traveling to the Netherlands to meet her fiance's family being detained for five days in a holding cell without bathing along with a Nigerian man (people scoff to think that anyone would consider them as disgraceful as a dirty African man). One of the most respected professors at the university being tortured and almost raped by immigration official in Panama because she brought in unprocessed coca, eventually released only because her husband was a cousin of a foreign minister in the Colombian government.
It is obvious that 'Colombian' is most often synonymous with 'drug lord,' and it frustrates me to see time and time again that the world is still so uneducated as to judge people based on stereotypes. But I almost feel guilty when I tell my hosts how easy it was for me to go to the Colombian consulate for an hour and live in the country for a year when my own natal land would reject their visit without hesitation.
But what Gilma told me is that this negative international reception of her country(wo)men means that not very many Colombians have a desire to leave their country. Why spend so much money on travel just to be treated poorly when they can be shown the respect they deserve by driving to a city a few hours away? She would prefer to avoid humiliation and miss out on life experiences than be made to feel guilty for her nationality.
Saving in Colombia: Not only is it hard for a Colombian to be approved for a foreign visa, but it is extremely difficult for an honest, educated worker to save up enough money to leave the country. Professors and doctors make just enough money to live comfortably in Medellin; paying for an apartment and take holidays to the coast with their families. The people who buy cars on finance work their entire lives to pay it off--worth it just to cruise around town and impress the ladies. I have friends who borrow money and take out loans just to find the $10,000 needed to go to English classes in the UK for a year...imagine what they would do to attend a 4-year college in the U.S!?!
And yet, many of the Rotarians and people with whom I have become friends here come from families that can afford international travel, two cars, and a house. I don't ever question the way in which they reached their economic standing (hey, old money still keeps Colombian families going), but I have heard some crazy stories of people quickly building up an economic empire based on lucrative, illegal businesses. One of Gilma's nephews worked in the shop his grandma ran out of their house along with other family members. Pretty soon they had earned enough money to buy a bus, and then a few taxis, and then an entire transportation company, and then a dairy plant in another department, and so on. When other aunts and cousins started raising eyebrows, the grandma told them that they just needed to work harder and save money. But any Colombian knows that working two honest jobs does not allow anyone to save enough to run that many businesses. If it really is so hard, imagine how appealing it would be to get involved in money laundering!
Government Exploitation: In the last post I explained the Uribe's recent abuse of power to make money off of poor Colombians. Felipe explained to me one day how all developed countries achieved success by exploiting other people; the U.S. had African slaves, the Europeans had serfdom, and the Spaniards had indigenous people. But because the indigenous population in Colombia was fairly small, and the imported African slaves only live along the coast, in order to compete in the current world markets the Colombian government has has to exploit its own people. But although most Colombians live in poverty, they are too proud to admit that they are being used by the government to complain.
Both Gilma and Felipe claimed that Colombians don't live in as dire poverty as in most other countries where people are surviving off the same meager income. They bathe once or twice a day and so always smell nice, keep their houses from looking decrepit by painting them every Christmastime, turn a one-story shack into a two-story bungalow after working a few years, hang flowers from their eves, and value education. I think that this mostly has to do with the abundance of natural resources in Colombia; they get more rain than almost any other country, can grow their own food in a small plot next to their lean-to, and look at beautiful landscapes to ease their pain. But cultural pride could play a small part...
Anyway, as in a lot of countries that suffer from corruption, the people grow poorer as the politicians and people with power grow richer. In Colombia it has dangerous to consider how the government has abused the people's rights because of the precarious and polarized nature of Colombian politics. Anyone who starts questioning their situation and becomes a humanitarian sides with the liberal leftist cause, which is then automatically considered to be equivalent to a guerrilla sympathizer, which is then considered anti-Uribista and thus puts the person's life in danger. Although the country has become more democratic than it was at the height of the civil war, those who do not subscribe to dominant politics are still considered to be a social risk. Understandably, the country is still combating against various armed forces controlling the drug war, but when will Colombia guarantee its citizens their deserved human rights?
Although I don't drink much coffee because I am very sensitive to caffeine (realizing that this is a sin while living in Colombia--shouldn't I make an exception for their exceptional coffee?), I do accompany my friends for the conversations. (Or maybe it is because otherwise I would be left alone in the office... ) Either way, my two favorite coffee partners are Gilma and Felipe, who have the most interesting banter over their cups of java. I think several of the topics covered recently warrant a brief description here because they have increased my insight into politicized opinions that you can't read in the newspaper.
Colombian World Travelers: After an arduous process to get his U.S. visa, Felipe boarded a plane on Thursday for Chicago to attend a public health qualitative research conference at the University of Illinois, Champagne. About one in 22 Colombians get their visas approved by the U.S embassy in Bogota, seemingly on a random basis. Once they do get it though, it means that obtaining a visa for any other country is almost guaranteed.
Listening to people's dismay about being denied a visa to visit a sick family member abroad or frustrated that they can't take their child to Disneyworld for their birthday makes me realize how lucky I am to be a U.S. citizen. It's not just because I can easily move through international borders by flashing my passport, but because I can travel to other countries without being automatically discriminated against because of my nationality.
I have heard appalling stories from my friends of them getting mistreated in a range of countries just because of the negative international perception of Colombians. A Colombian woman traveling to the Netherlands to meet her fiance's family being detained for five days in a holding cell without bathing along with a Nigerian man (people scoff to think that anyone would consider them as disgraceful as a dirty African man). One of the most respected professors at the university being tortured and almost raped by immigration official in Panama because she brought in unprocessed coca, eventually released only because her husband was a cousin of a foreign minister in the Colombian government.
It is obvious that 'Colombian' is most often synonymous with 'drug lord,' and it frustrates me to see time and time again that the world is still so uneducated as to judge people based on stereotypes. But I almost feel guilty when I tell my hosts how easy it was for me to go to the Colombian consulate for an hour and live in the country for a year when my own natal land would reject their visit without hesitation.
But what Gilma told me is that this negative international reception of her country(wo)men means that not very many Colombians have a desire to leave their country. Why spend so much money on travel just to be treated poorly when they can be shown the respect they deserve by driving to a city a few hours away? She would prefer to avoid humiliation and miss out on life experiences than be made to feel guilty for her nationality.
Saving in Colombia: Not only is it hard for a Colombian to be approved for a foreign visa, but it is extremely difficult for an honest, educated worker to save up enough money to leave the country. Professors and doctors make just enough money to live comfortably in Medellin; paying for an apartment and take holidays to the coast with their families. The people who buy cars on finance work their entire lives to pay it off--worth it just to cruise around town and impress the ladies. I have friends who borrow money and take out loans just to find the $10,000 needed to go to English classes in the UK for a year...imagine what they would do to attend a 4-year college in the U.S!?!
And yet, many of the Rotarians and people with whom I have become friends here come from families that can afford international travel, two cars, and a house. I don't ever question the way in which they reached their economic standing (hey, old money still keeps Colombian families going), but I have heard some crazy stories of people quickly building up an economic empire based on lucrative, illegal businesses. One of Gilma's nephews worked in the shop his grandma ran out of their house along with other family members. Pretty soon they had earned enough money to buy a bus, and then a few taxis, and then an entire transportation company, and then a dairy plant in another department, and so on. When other aunts and cousins started raising eyebrows, the grandma told them that they just needed to work harder and save money. But any Colombian knows that working two honest jobs does not allow anyone to save enough to run that many businesses. If it really is so hard, imagine how appealing it would be to get involved in money laundering!
Government Exploitation: In the last post I explained the Uribe's recent abuse of power to make money off of poor Colombians. Felipe explained to me one day how all developed countries achieved success by exploiting other people; the U.S. had African slaves, the Europeans had serfdom, and the Spaniards had indigenous people. But because the indigenous population in Colombia was fairly small, and the imported African slaves only live along the coast, in order to compete in the current world markets the Colombian government has has to exploit its own people. But although most Colombians live in poverty, they are too proud to admit that they are being used by the government to complain.
Both Gilma and Felipe claimed that Colombians don't live in as dire poverty as in most other countries where people are surviving off the same meager income. They bathe once or twice a day and so always smell nice, keep their houses from looking decrepit by painting them every Christmastime, turn a one-story shack into a two-story bungalow after working a few years, hang flowers from their eves, and value education. I think that this mostly has to do with the abundance of natural resources in Colombia; they get more rain than almost any other country, can grow their own food in a small plot next to their lean-to, and look at beautiful landscapes to ease their pain. But cultural pride could play a small part...
Anyway, as in a lot of countries that suffer from corruption, the people grow poorer as the politicians and people with power grow richer. In Colombia it has dangerous to consider how the government has abused the people's rights because of the precarious and polarized nature of Colombian politics. Anyone who starts questioning their situation and becomes a humanitarian sides with the liberal leftist cause, which is then automatically considered to be equivalent to a guerrilla sympathizer, which is then considered anti-Uribista and thus puts the person's life in danger. Although the country has become more democratic than it was at the height of the civil war, those who do not subscribe to dominant politics are still considered to be a social risk. Understandably, the country is still combating against various armed forces controlling the drug war, but when will Colombia guarantee its citizens their deserved human rights?
City Recyclers
Do you ever throw something out that could still be useful to someone else and think about where it ends up? In any Colombian city you can find people called recicladores, or recyclers, whose profession is to sift through trash piles collecting anything that could possibly be recycled or reused. They are seen pulling heavy wooden carts piled high with their findings through the busy streets, often skinny older men who do not look to be in adequate physical condition for the strenuous nature of the job.
Contrary to what I first thought when arriving--that these people were unorganized individuals trying to make a few pesos off of everyone's old junk, the recicladores first created their own union/association in 1962 in Antioquia, now called the National Association of Recyclers, that monitors price controls for recyclable materials such as metal or glass, and also represents the rights of the workers. They even have their own website! It says that after WWII when the Colombia encountered a lack of containers, metal, and paper, people started looking through the trash, reusing what they found to make up for the deficiency. Some would specialize in glass bottle collection, others in pieces of scrap metal, selling their 'wares' to recycling companies that then turn trash into something new and useful. (Since there are also recycling companies in Medellin that pick up the recyclables that people separate in their houses, I wonder what sort of competition there is between these services and the recicladores). At first there was a stigmatization of these workers as being crazy or street beggars, and so the creation of the association gave them the national recognition necessary to dumpster dive without being hassled. Recycling is thus a legitimate profession falling somewhere in-between the formal and informal economies, and the income earned offers an attractive alternative to selling candies on buses. I have even met women in the displaced communities who come from a family that has been working in recycling for generations, and she goes out every morning with her sons to collect what they can.
In the past week these reclicladores have made national news: Uribe is trying to pass a national law to consolidate the companies that buy recycled material, thus creating a monopoly that sets a price cap on what the recicladores can earn. The Colombian president has realized how profitable this business is, and, like with many other industries, wants to (ab)use his power to buy his (large) share and make a few hundred million pesos off of the poor people. There have been fierce debates in the Senate where members question Uribe's interests in the new bill, but he has enough supporters (who probably also have a financial stake in the issue) that it looks like he will get the outcome he wants. As my Colombian friends say, this is just another example of how the government works hard to make the poor people poorer so that politicians and their friends can get richer. Do I smell corruption?
So sorry recicladores, it looks like your Colombian trash will not be worth as much as it used to.
Contrary to what I first thought when arriving--that these people were unorganized individuals trying to make a few pesos off of everyone's old junk, the recicladores first created their own union/association in 1962 in Antioquia, now called the National Association of Recyclers, that monitors price controls for recyclable materials such as metal or glass, and also represents the rights of the workers. They even have their own website! It says that after WWII when the Colombia encountered a lack of containers, metal, and paper, people started looking through the trash, reusing what they found to make up for the deficiency. Some would specialize in glass bottle collection, others in pieces of scrap metal, selling their 'wares' to recycling companies that then turn trash into something new and useful. (Since there are also recycling companies in Medellin that pick up the recyclables that people separate in their houses, I wonder what sort of competition there is between these services and the recicladores). At first there was a stigmatization of these workers as being crazy or street beggars, and so the creation of the association gave them the national recognition necessary to dumpster dive without being hassled. Recycling is thus a legitimate profession falling somewhere in-between the formal and informal economies, and the income earned offers an attractive alternative to selling candies on buses. I have even met women in the displaced communities who come from a family that has been working in recycling for generations, and she goes out every morning with her sons to collect what they can.
In the past week these reclicladores have made national news: Uribe is trying to pass a national law to consolidate the companies that buy recycled material, thus creating a monopoly that sets a price cap on what the recicladores can earn. The Colombian president has realized how profitable this business is, and, like with many other industries, wants to (ab)use his power to buy his (large) share and make a few hundred million pesos off of the poor people. There have been fierce debates in the Senate where members question Uribe's interests in the new bill, but he has enough supporters (who probably also have a financial stake in the issue) that it looks like he will get the outcome he wants. As my Colombian friends say, this is just another example of how the government works hard to make the poor people poorer so that politicians and their friends can get richer. Do I smell corruption?
So sorry recicladores, it looks like your Colombian trash will not be worth as much as it used to.
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