...no not like ancient Mayan or Aztec pyramids that you stumble upon while hiking through the jungle. Pyramid scams. Companies that collect gullible people's money offering them up to a 300% return, which of course after not very long turns into either extreme debt or unhappy people. Guess which happened here?
Especially in the southern regions of the country, cities have erupted into massive riots over the collapse of the pyramid schemes. The news shows unlucky customers looting company offices, taking even the doors off their hinges. Although they have been a source for constant jokes, the truth of the matter is that the Colombian economy is more effected by these pyramids than the international economic crisis. The people in charge of these fraudulent organizations are undergoing trial, but most people scoff at this gesture because so many government officials have ties to the pyramids that everyone doubts they will receive due punishment. Just one more example of the country's corruption and the population's lack of trust in authorities.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Colombian Winter
Just as Bostonians or New Yorkers start complaining about the cold as winter seeps into the northern US states around November, Colombians this year have their own weather gripes. Usually Colombian seasons are divided into either summer or winter; summer = sun and winter = rain. Every two months the seasons alternate, and until 2008 the rainclouds and sunshine punched in and out like disciplined factory workers. This year however has brought considerably more rain than anyone (especially in Antioquia) has ever seen, and is a constant negative conversation topic. At first it was fun when every afternoon around 4:00 the thunder would roll out a monsoon-like downpour, stopping just in time for me to get back from the university. Around the end of October it started raining almost all day every day, bringing with it an untropicalesque chill to the air. Because the water table is overflowing and the earth is completely saturated, these continuous downpours are wreaking havoc all over the country.
Since the government directs the majority of their funds into military and police troops to fight the Colombian civil war, public works have been neglected for over 25 years and the roads are in pretty horrendous shape. This 'winter' has eroded away some of the main arterial highways between the large cities, causing huge travel delays for one of the only ways to get around the country. No fun.
Every day after a particularly heavy rain hits the city headlines mourn the death of at least five more people. Usually the displaced folk who build their corrugated tin houses precariously on the hillsides get washed away when the streams flow over. But one time a new housing development was engulfed by a landslide, taking the lives of several entire families. At the Facultad de Salud Publica there is an area of study completely dedicated to disasters, and their public billboard is constantly filled with new announcements of the tragedies taking place throughout Medellin.
During my trip to Coveñas I drove through the northern cattle lands, completely inundated with recent rains. Rice patties were rotting under the fields-turned-lakes, people had to transport themselves around town by boat, and government aid was nowhere in sight as public health risks escalated.
While global warming is melting ice caps and causing extreme droughts around the world, here along the American equator people are drowning in an excess of precipitation.
Since the government directs the majority of their funds into military and police troops to fight the Colombian civil war, public works have been neglected for over 25 years and the roads are in pretty horrendous shape. This 'winter' has eroded away some of the main arterial highways between the large cities, causing huge travel delays for one of the only ways to get around the country. No fun.
Every day after a particularly heavy rain hits the city headlines mourn the death of at least five more people. Usually the displaced folk who build their corrugated tin houses precariously on the hillsides get washed away when the streams flow over. But one time a new housing development was engulfed by a landslide, taking the lives of several entire families. At the Facultad de Salud Publica there is an area of study completely dedicated to disasters, and their public billboard is constantly filled with new announcements of the tragedies taking place throughout Medellin.
During my trip to Coveñas I drove through the northern cattle lands, completely inundated with recent rains. Rice patties were rotting under the fields-turned-lakes, people had to transport themselves around town by boat, and government aid was nowhere in sight as public health risks escalated.
While global warming is melting ice caps and causing extreme droughts around the world, here along the American equator people are drowning in an excess of precipitation.
Friday, December 5, 2008
the Guinea Worm nears death...
After interning with The Carter Center's Health Programs, the news releases this week that the cases of Guinea Worm are now under 5,000 makes me more excited than a gluten-free pizzeria. It is close to being the second disease eradicated, after small pox. Nicholas Kristoff and Jimmy Carter are two of the most inspiring people I have ever met in my life, so to see them collaborating on the news propogating the involvement of entities larger than individuals (such as governments) in the fight against international diseases rather than other countries, seems to validate my life's mission in public health.
Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush’s Future
I recommend watching the video
Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush’s Future
I recommend watching the video
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Policia
It is most common to see two (young) policemen weaving together through traffic atop an official motorcycle. While riding along in the back of my friend’s car today I saw something new: two (young) policemen, but between them a third man with his arms up in the air, handcuffed together. Looking like they were about ready to fall off, what surprised me most was that it seemed so unsurprising that an arrested man should be transported to wherever??? in this fashion. I sometimes see these police pairs hassling youngsters dressed in baggy pants with died black hair who loiter in park corners, but usually they can be found leaning distractedly against a lamppost without any apparent purpose. Despite their widespread presence in the city, I take for granted the fact that in the US there is less corruption within law enforcement and I know that for the most part I can count on policemen to be actively ‘keeping the peace’ while on duty.
Thanksgiving in Cali
On Thanksgiving morning I woke up to the rambling of a bus beneath me and a view of endless sugarcane fields out the window. My nose hairs burned from the smell of ammonia I had endured the entire night, and I still kept my hood up around my face trying to hide the fact that I was the only female to step on board since we had left Medellin, but I was almost at my destination: Cali.
I have been in relatively close contact with Hilary, one of the other Rotary Ambassadorial Scholars who is stationed in this third-largest Colombian city, and after hitting it off at a meeting in Medellin back at the end of July I resolved to visit her and her host club before she leaves in December. For this reason I rolled into town early on Thursday morning for a wonderful whirlwind visit to the salsa capital of the country. I greatly appreciate her hospitality, and now realize how helpful it is to commiserate with other Americans to pick up on all the different Colombian nuances they are experiencing. Through our long conversations about cultural differences between ‘here and there’, I gained a new perspective on my host country through eyes equally intrigued and insightful as my own.
Cali has grown immensely in the past 20 years, but in a way of which no Colombian is proud. They suffer from more corruption than almost any other city, and the government is still more dictated by mafia and drug cartels than public interest. In the 1980’s there was a destructive earthquake in a predominantly Afro-Colombian town along the Pacific coast, bringing hundreds of thousands of displaced people into Cali. As an extremely racist culture, everyone admits that the influx of a darker-skinned population has led to the demise of the whole city and caustic stereotypes.
While wandering around an artesania district and climbing up a large hill to a shut-down church with a great view of the city, I saw just how extensive Cali is in comparison to Medellin. With the vastness of the Valle de Cauca welcoming the city’s expansion, it appears much larger and bustling than my part of Colombia when really it is 200,000 people shy of Medellin’s population. I was impressed by the Centro’s old streets and colonial buildings mixed in with glass-plated sky scrapers and new bridges. The Archaeological Museum taught me more about the country’s indigenous population than anything I could find in Medellin, housed in a beautiful old church. After getting a good dose of phallic pottery and shriveled but intact mummies, we headed over to an indigenous art fair where I talked with women and men from all over the country about the complications encountered by their people and admired (as well as bought) beautiful beaded jewelry, woven baskets, and carved salad tongs. I even bought a bottle of coca wine—something of which I had never heard after living a year and a half in the Andes and proved to be quite delicious!
Instead of braving the frustration of recreating a traditional Thanksgiving meal in a country where turkeys are less common than toucans, Hilary and I headed to Crepe’s and Waffles for dinner for the closest food we could find to American. I had a delicious red curry shrimp and quinoa salad, topped off with an ice-cream sundae and a side of hot extra chocolate syrup. If I am allowed any bragging rights in my own blog, I will admit that before leaving Medellin I cut open a small pumpkin sitting on my dining room table as decoration since before Halloween and baked a delicious batch of pumpkin pie filling (gf without the crust!) from scratch following a recipe I found on the internet. November just isn’t the same for me without pumpkin pie, no matter where in the world I find myself.
Friday we got up early and headed out to Cali’s sport center to watch the Colombian National Games. I was introduced to the national sport of ‘Tejo’, which is somewhat like horseshoes with pyrotechnics. Supposedly an indigenous game, teams compete against each other by throwing a conical metal disk at a slanted bed of clay trying to knock it against a circle of gunpowder in the middle to make a large pop, spark, and plume of smoke to ignite the cheers from the excitable spectators. Although I still don’t really understand the rules or point of the game, it was interesting to see something so typically ‘Colombian’.
Next it was off to tennis, where I was itching to slide around on the clay courts with the young girls and boys sweating out the midday heat. After a break for lunch and a visit from an American Fulbright Scholar also working in Cali, we headed over to the stadium to watch Track & Field. Pole Vaulting, the Women and Men’s 800, Long-Jump, and Women’s 5000 were all exciting to witness with the backdrop of the Andes turning into shadows behind the grandstand as the sun set. Teams from the different departments in Colombia compete against each other in all the sports, and I am proud to say that my Antioquia did very well. It seems silly that I should have so much paisa pride after less than six months of living in Medellin, perhaps embellished by my fantasy that I have exercised alongside the athletes competing in the National Games during my morning runs around the Estadio, but it was easy to be partial while getting swept up in the competitive spirit.
The last, and most fascinating, sport we watched was swimming. But even after watching hours of Olympic swimming over the summer waiting for Phelps to compete, I have to say that I have never witnessed any nautical sport as intriguing as what I saw this weekend. Eight girls walked into the stadium in their swimming suits and caps, carrying one large fin. As they lined up on the starting blocks, they put on their fins, placed a snorkel into their mouth, and sat like mermaids at the edge of the pool. At the sound of the whistle they flopped gracefully into the water, keeping their arms outstretched in front of them and repeating an undulating butterfly kick for over 15 minutes (I lost track of the distance). Needless to say, now I want to bring a monofin back with me to the states to impress everyone with my sub aquatic mermaid moves.
It would be a sin to visit Cali without going salsa dancing, so us three American girls went to a classic club with our Colombian pairs and tried to forget that we hadn’t grown up with fluid hips. I hope that people aren’t complimenting my dance skills out of pity, because I do feel like I have greatly improved my Latin dance skills since arriving and no longer need to look at my partner’s feet but rather let myself be carried away by the beat of the music and the pressure of a hand on my back.
Saturday I woke up with sore calves and tense shoulder blades, but ready to relax at the most gorgeous finca I have yet encountered while enjoying an end-of-year party with Hilary’s host Rotary Club Cali San Fernando. With three pools, two of which were natural and fed by waterfalls heading out of the hillside, a large drink bar and dance floor, largest collection of orchids I have EVER seen, and trail down to the river and mountains beyond, I was more than happy to gorge myself on traditional food and wander around marveling at the natural Colombian beauty that never ceases to impress me. All the Rotarians were extremely friendly and welcoming of me as a fellow scholar, although I was a bit intimidated by the way that they raved about Hilary, hoping that I could be complimented with such a strong assessment at the end of my scholarship year. The evening naturally devolved into more food, drink, and dancing—where I was swept around through the evening by old and young Rotarians until my shirt was completely soaked and my face hurt from laughing so much. I absolutely love how Colombians—no matter what age—will dance to any music. Hip-hop, reggaeton, funk, vallenato, and of course salsa all inspire their bodies into motion. I have not seen one person in this country who lacks rhythm.
Sunday morning found me back on a bus for ten hours, riding through more sugar cane fields and up treacherous mountains. Although Cali has great dance culture, awesome graffiti, and less pollution, the weekend made me appreciate Medellin for its Metro, stunning surrounding mountains, strong cultural identity, and hot water.
I have been in relatively close contact with Hilary, one of the other Rotary Ambassadorial Scholars who is stationed in this third-largest Colombian city, and after hitting it off at a meeting in Medellin back at the end of July I resolved to visit her and her host club before she leaves in December. For this reason I rolled into town early on Thursday morning for a wonderful whirlwind visit to the salsa capital of the country. I greatly appreciate her hospitality, and now realize how helpful it is to commiserate with other Americans to pick up on all the different Colombian nuances they are experiencing. Through our long conversations about cultural differences between ‘here and there’, I gained a new perspective on my host country through eyes equally intrigued and insightful as my own.
Cali has grown immensely in the past 20 years, but in a way of which no Colombian is proud. They suffer from more corruption than almost any other city, and the government is still more dictated by mafia and drug cartels than public interest. In the 1980’s there was a destructive earthquake in a predominantly Afro-Colombian town along the Pacific coast, bringing hundreds of thousands of displaced people into Cali. As an extremely racist culture, everyone admits that the influx of a darker-skinned population has led to the demise of the whole city and caustic stereotypes.
While wandering around an artesania district and climbing up a large hill to a shut-down church with a great view of the city, I saw just how extensive Cali is in comparison to Medellin. With the vastness of the Valle de Cauca welcoming the city’s expansion, it appears much larger and bustling than my part of Colombia when really it is 200,000 people shy of Medellin’s population. I was impressed by the Centro’s old streets and colonial buildings mixed in with glass-plated sky scrapers and new bridges. The Archaeological Museum taught me more about the country’s indigenous population than anything I could find in Medellin, housed in a beautiful old church. After getting a good dose of phallic pottery and shriveled but intact mummies, we headed over to an indigenous art fair where I talked with women and men from all over the country about the complications encountered by their people and admired (as well as bought) beautiful beaded jewelry, woven baskets, and carved salad tongs. I even bought a bottle of coca wine—something of which I had never heard after living a year and a half in the Andes and proved to be quite delicious!
Instead of braving the frustration of recreating a traditional Thanksgiving meal in a country where turkeys are less common than toucans, Hilary and I headed to Crepe’s and Waffles for dinner for the closest food we could find to American. I had a delicious red curry shrimp and quinoa salad, topped off with an ice-cream sundae and a side of hot extra chocolate syrup. If I am allowed any bragging rights in my own blog, I will admit that before leaving Medellin I cut open a small pumpkin sitting on my dining room table as decoration since before Halloween and baked a delicious batch of pumpkin pie filling (gf without the crust!) from scratch following a recipe I found on the internet. November just isn’t the same for me without pumpkin pie, no matter where in the world I find myself.
Friday we got up early and headed out to Cali’s sport center to watch the Colombian National Games. I was introduced to the national sport of ‘Tejo’, which is somewhat like horseshoes with pyrotechnics. Supposedly an indigenous game, teams compete against each other by throwing a conical metal disk at a slanted bed of clay trying to knock it against a circle of gunpowder in the middle to make a large pop, spark, and plume of smoke to ignite the cheers from the excitable spectators. Although I still don’t really understand the rules or point of the game, it was interesting to see something so typically ‘Colombian’.
Next it was off to tennis, where I was itching to slide around on the clay courts with the young girls and boys sweating out the midday heat. After a break for lunch and a visit from an American Fulbright Scholar also working in Cali, we headed over to the stadium to watch Track & Field. Pole Vaulting, the Women and Men’s 800, Long-Jump, and Women’s 5000 were all exciting to witness with the backdrop of the Andes turning into shadows behind the grandstand as the sun set. Teams from the different departments in Colombia compete against each other in all the sports, and I am proud to say that my Antioquia did very well. It seems silly that I should have so much paisa pride after less than six months of living in Medellin, perhaps embellished by my fantasy that I have exercised alongside the athletes competing in the National Games during my morning runs around the Estadio, but it was easy to be partial while getting swept up in the competitive spirit.
The last, and most fascinating, sport we watched was swimming. But even after watching hours of Olympic swimming over the summer waiting for Phelps to compete, I have to say that I have never witnessed any nautical sport as intriguing as what I saw this weekend. Eight girls walked into the stadium in their swimming suits and caps, carrying one large fin. As they lined up on the starting blocks, they put on their fins, placed a snorkel into their mouth, and sat like mermaids at the edge of the pool. At the sound of the whistle they flopped gracefully into the water, keeping their arms outstretched in front of them and repeating an undulating butterfly kick for over 15 minutes (I lost track of the distance). Needless to say, now I want to bring a monofin back with me to the states to impress everyone with my sub aquatic mermaid moves.
It would be a sin to visit Cali without going salsa dancing, so us three American girls went to a classic club with our Colombian pairs and tried to forget that we hadn’t grown up with fluid hips. I hope that people aren’t complimenting my dance skills out of pity, because I do feel like I have greatly improved my Latin dance skills since arriving and no longer need to look at my partner’s feet but rather let myself be carried away by the beat of the music and the pressure of a hand on my back.
Saturday I woke up with sore calves and tense shoulder blades, but ready to relax at the most gorgeous finca I have yet encountered while enjoying an end-of-year party with Hilary’s host Rotary Club Cali San Fernando. With three pools, two of which were natural and fed by waterfalls heading out of the hillside, a large drink bar and dance floor, largest collection of orchids I have EVER seen, and trail down to the river and mountains beyond, I was more than happy to gorge myself on traditional food and wander around marveling at the natural Colombian beauty that never ceases to impress me. All the Rotarians were extremely friendly and welcoming of me as a fellow scholar, although I was a bit intimidated by the way that they raved about Hilary, hoping that I could be complimented with such a strong assessment at the end of my scholarship year. The evening naturally devolved into more food, drink, and dancing—where I was swept around through the evening by old and young Rotarians until my shirt was completely soaked and my face hurt from laughing so much. I absolutely love how Colombians—no matter what age—will dance to any music. Hip-hop, reggaeton, funk, vallenato, and of course salsa all inspire their bodies into motion. I have not seen one person in this country who lacks rhythm.
Sunday morning found me back on a bus for ten hours, riding through more sugar cane fields and up treacherous mountains. Although Cali has great dance culture, awesome graffiti, and less pollution, the weekend made me appreciate Medellin for its Metro, stunning surrounding mountains, strong cultural identity, and hot water.
Thinking Ahead
As much as I want to immerse myself in the present, I do realize that this amazing year will eventually come to an end. In order to keep my options open I have dedicated more time than I would like to remember completing my application for Rollins School of Public Health at Emory University. Let me clarify, in case anyone was doubting, how difficult it is to request transcripts, enlist old professors and bosses for references, and remember all those important activities in which I participated during college. Unreliable internet access made the entire process even more complicated, yet I finally finished and am rewarding myself with Christmastime travels. I have decided that I will be heading back to Atlanta after relinquishing my responsibilities as Ambassadorial Scholar, but am not quite sure if I want to gain more work experience in the public health hub of the US or continue my education. Time and scholarship decisions will tell, but for now I can return my focus to my daily Colombian life.
Jardin
My new personal goal is to get to know as much of Colombia as possible. This means taking advantage of any three day weekends or school breaks, and so although all of my friends had other engagements for the last national holiday I was resolved to visit a new pueblito outside of Medellin. I thus got on a bus on a rainy Saturday evening to head by myself to the famous town of Jardin. It did not stop raining for the entire weekend, but that did not stop me from taking a 4-hour hike through the gorgeous countryside, tromping through banana groves, sloshing through muddy cow pastures, and getting caught on barbed-wire fences as I trespassed on private land. I walked up to a trout farm where I ate lunch with the family running the establishment, consuming the most tasty fried trout, patacones, hogao, and guarapo in Colombia. The parque was full of visiting city-folk, so I sat around with the old couples drinking hot chocolate and watching the kids riding by on horseback. When I tired of the perpetual cold dampness, I headed back to the finca-like hotel with a gorgeous view of the river valley. Inspired by the wet beauty of the landscape, I painted the patio while sitting and talking with the guests filtering through, as well as the caretaker and her polar-fleece sweater-wearing Chihuahua. Despite what people say about the dangers of traveling through Colombia, I find that wherever I go I am greeted by the most friendly people ever who look out for me and make me feel so welcome and well taken care of that I am never left truly alone.
Recent Rotary Activities:
-Bello: Presenting with a Doctorate-seeking Rotarian on familial violence to an audience of mothers and school-age children. I talked about the hotlines and structural services available in the US, and how even though a woman being abused by her husband won’t necessarily be helped if she calls the police, Colombian family structures are so strong that anyone will always have an aunt or second cousin who would take them in if in need. We stressed education about what constitutes violence, whether it is verbal or physical, so that people realize what their rights are. In some parts of the country, over 60% of women report abuse in their home. Imagine what the figures would be if the cases that weren’t reported were included…I was also interviewed after the lecture by the local news station!
-Colpaul factory: Visit with my host Rotary Club to the largest factory in South America making medical supplies that is used within Colombia and exported to other countries. The company is a for-profit sector that supports the university teaching hospital (directed by a Rotarian) ‘Hospital Universitario San Vicente Paul,’ along with 13 parking structures located throughout the city. I don’t think I have ever seen so many plastic bottles and caps in one space in my entire life. Nor have I ever thought about how important sterilized water is in producing IV fluids…
Friday, November 14, 2008
Holy Matrimony!
Dearly beloved...I was fortunate enough to return to the US last week for my first official family wedding. My cousin Ashley has been like an older sister to me since the day I was born; her three extra years giving her plenty of time to be one of my most prominent role-models. It was thus much more emotional than I expected to see her wed off and all grown up right before my very bridesmaid's eyes. She looked absolutely gorgeous, her (now) husband is an awesome addition to our family and makes her happier than anyone else could, and the ceremony contained a good balance between laughs and tears, but now that the whirlwind of family and avoiding reverse culture shock and 5 plane trips is over, I am left stupefied by the idea of...marriage!?!
In the US it is normal for a middle-class woman to get married at 26 years of age, like Ashley. We usually leave home at 18 to live at college, figure out how to live on our own and get accustomed to independence, graduate and start working or continue our studies to get a better job, meet the person of our dreams, and have a few years to date and possibly cohabit before sealing the deal. At least that is what I have grown up thinking.
Since coming to Colombia I am surprised at how few of my friends of a similar age are considering marriage before the age of 30.* Even those who have been in relationships for eight years and have a good job. This has struck me as surprising since in the past month I have been alerted every week that a new friend back home is engaged, and makes me wonder why things here are so different. Considering people generally live at home with the parents until they get married, I thought that maybe this put some sort of imposition on one's personal independence. When you can never bring someone home and always have to include family members in one's romantic relationship things obviously progress in a different manner than if you have lots of space--physical and metaphorical. But when I hopped in a cab the other day on my way to school as it started to rain outside, I was intrigued to hear two women discussing why youngsters these days get married so late in life. They were saying it was because there was a cultural aversion to commitments, that the couple want to be established (with a car, finca, apartment, job, money, etc. etc.) before they settle down, like the comfort of being taken care of at home, and in general are basking in the different opportunities and freedoms their generation is allowed.
Which makes me wonder...is marrying young(er) another first-world privilege? Because it is easier for us to make our own way in the world, does that allow us the ability to choose our mates easier too? Or is this jut a reflection of the upper class status mentality? Obviously very few people can afford all of the amenities mentioned above, but even people of different socioeconomic standings get married later in life, if at all. The generations of my friends' parents and grandparents wed at age 25 or 25 and early 20's respectively, so what could have caused such a huge cultural change in such a short amount of time?
Or, to look at marriage in the reverse cultural standpoint, why do people in the US deem it so acceptable to get married before the age of 30? Since divorce has become such a hazardous social epidemic maybe we should be afraid of commitment until we no longer crave single 'freedom' and 'know what we want' (if that is not overly cliche). If young North Americans thought it strange to tie the knot before completing three decades perhaps they would be more likely to keep their families together for the long haul.
For whatever reason, all my girlfriends at the university--who are all at least 26--started screeching when they heard that they were older than my now-wed cousin...
*Mind you, more women have children before the age of 30 than are married. Teen pregnancies and starting a family out of wedlock is a huge issue in Colombia.
In the US it is normal for a middle-class woman to get married at 26 years of age, like Ashley. We usually leave home at 18 to live at college, figure out how to live on our own and get accustomed to independence, graduate and start working or continue our studies to get a better job, meet the person of our dreams, and have a few years to date and possibly cohabit before sealing the deal. At least that is what I have grown up thinking.
Since coming to Colombia I am surprised at how few of my friends of a similar age are considering marriage before the age of 30.* Even those who have been in relationships for eight years and have a good job. This has struck me as surprising since in the past month I have been alerted every week that a new friend back home is engaged, and makes me wonder why things here are so different. Considering people generally live at home with the parents until they get married, I thought that maybe this put some sort of imposition on one's personal independence. When you can never bring someone home and always have to include family members in one's romantic relationship things obviously progress in a different manner than if you have lots of space--physical and metaphorical. But when I hopped in a cab the other day on my way to school as it started to rain outside, I was intrigued to hear two women discussing why youngsters these days get married so late in life. They were saying it was because there was a cultural aversion to commitments, that the couple want to be established (with a car, finca, apartment, job, money, etc. etc.) before they settle down, like the comfort of being taken care of at home, and in general are basking in the different opportunities and freedoms their generation is allowed.
Which makes me wonder...is marrying young(er) another first-world privilege? Because it is easier for us to make our own way in the world, does that allow us the ability to choose our mates easier too? Or is this jut a reflection of the upper class status mentality? Obviously very few people can afford all of the amenities mentioned above, but even people of different socioeconomic standings get married later in life, if at all. The generations of my friends' parents and grandparents wed at age 25 or 25 and early 20's respectively, so what could have caused such a huge cultural change in such a short amount of time?
Or, to look at marriage in the reverse cultural standpoint, why do people in the US deem it so acceptable to get married before the age of 30? Since divorce has become such a hazardous social epidemic maybe we should be afraid of commitment until we no longer crave single 'freedom' and 'know what we want' (if that is not overly cliche). If young North Americans thought it strange to tie the knot before completing three decades perhaps they would be more likely to keep their families together for the long haul.
For whatever reason, all my girlfriends at the university--who are all at least 26--started screeching when they heard that they were older than my now-wed cousin...
*Mind you, more women have children before the age of 30 than are married. Teen pregnancies and starting a family out of wedlock is a huge issue in Colombia.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Frustrations
Forever caught up in the review process, I have yet to start the research I came to Medellin to complete. While still involved at the university with some English classes, my beloved painting workshops, and participating in PAHO international health conferences (maybe they will offer me a future job?), I am getting increasingly frustrated with the lack of academic structure I have right now. Not sure if I should have signed up for more classes or projects from the start, I now am waiting until the start of the next semester in January (after a long Christmas vacation) to feed my mind. Even though the emphasis of the Ambassadorial Scholarship is to become involved in the community and Rotary activities more than academic life and studies, I feel like I am missing out on a key possibility for helping me understand the culture and field of public health here. Ready to unwind the red tape suffocating my research intentions, I am still just waiting.
Coveñas
For the much-needed 'puente' (three-day weekend) celebrating 'el dia de la raza': aka Columbus Day, I had many travel options. Wanting something relaxing and further away than I would normally be able to visit in a weekend, I chose to go to the Caribbean coast with the friends of a friends's boyfriends brother. Coveñas is a 10-hour drive from Medellin, which was an awesome road-trip to do in a car because I got to see the change in landscape from the Andes to the jungle to the marshy cattle-grazing prairies. Although I should have anticipated the intentions behind 15 friends migrating to the beach for a weekend, I was not able to keep up with their 24-hour partying gala. Instead, I played the true gringa and lay by myself on the beach, sober, with my book avoiding the sun and taking power swims for exercise. By excluding myself from some of the activities I unintentionally offended their group culture, and felt more strongly than ever the cultural differences between my US upbringing and paisa friends. The vallenatos were on full blast until 4 in the morning, the rum and aguardiente never stopped flowing, and the ceviche/shrimp coctail vendors walking up and down the beach had loyal customers for 3 days straight. It was like Spring break for hard-working 30 year olds. Awesome, yes, but not when I was needing to sleep in and recover from the accumulated sleep-deprivation of many grueling weeks. More than anything it made me realize I still have a long way to go before I adequately adapt to living in Colombia, and the entire weekend served as a wake-up call to remind me that after being here for 4 months I have lots of close friends whose company I always enjoy and with whom I should be focusing my rare spare time even if it means spending a week at a finca rather than lying on an idyllic Caribbean beach with desconocidos.
Rotary Activities
Not to worry, the reason why I haven't posted for over a month is because I have been managing an action-packed schedule filled mostly with Rotary events. Including:
--RYLA Seminar (Rotary Young Leader Awards): An international seminar offered by Rotary clubs to promote youth leadership in the communities. Last weekend I attended one held by the Club Rotario Envigado entitled "Democracy and Youth Participation." It involved two conferences given by government officials, a visit from the Envigado mayor who himself attended RYLA conferences as a teenager, 4 interactive workshops on human rights and the culture of democracy, lots food, and even a Rotary-sponsored party complete with DJ and beverages. Although most of the students who attended were from Interact (14-18 years old), and the level of the discussions and information presented was at a lower level than I had hoped, I still learned a lot about the different constitutional rights to which Colombian youngsters are entitled and what positions of leadership/representation within the schools and municipalities they can hold. My presence was important to inspire these aspiring youngsters to utilize the possibilities Rotary offers through international scholarships, emphasizing that they shouldn't get discouraged by their economic or national situation. As a highschooler I was very involved in committees and events supporting diversity and open discussion, but I don't remember ever hearing teenagers so impassioned about their rights with resolve to change the system. Perhaps it is a result of the general apathy that has overtaken the US, but it made me realize more than anything how lucky I was to grow up in a country, and more specifically a community, where the young population has the ability to participate in the system.
--Visiting Rotary clubs all over the city to make presentations: Club Rotario Medellin Nuevo, Club Rotario Medellin Occidente, Club Rotario Nutibara, Club Rotario Itagui Santamaria, Club Rotario Envigado, Club Rotario Sabaneta
--Become more involved in my host Club Rotario Medellin--the largest and second oldest club in the country. Many of the members are some of the most wealthy and powerful people within Colombia, but all are very friendly, tell hilarious jokes, and make a huge impact within the community. I now show up at meetings every Thursday and not only remember people's names but have ongoing conversations with them and am always greeted with big smiles. This week the governor of Antioquia came (with his very own secret service) to speak about development projects in the department including bettering education and safety, hydroelectic plants, reforestation, mining expansion, and increasing public participation among other things. The club also gives out an annual award of around $75,000 to people who have contributed immensely to the community; this year's cash prize went to environmentalists who established Medellin's famous botanical gardens and have created large natural reserves to protect the valuable flora and fauna found in the area.
--Attended a regional seminar for new and old Rotarians to inspire within them the spirit of Rotarism and review project and monetary goals for the year. Afterwards went to an "integration" party with members of my host club at the most gorgeous finca I have ever seen that reminded me of a house out of an old movie complete with famous art and full service.
--Become familiar with the 4280 District Governor by attending meetings at clubs throughout the city. Also took a day trip to Ciudad Bolivar where there is a small but strong club; stopping throughout the coffee region to take pictures, try local treats, avoid the massive landslides almost making the roads impassible, falling more in love with the gorgeous Colombian scenery, and learning about how a year ago the same region was dominated by guerrillas and too dangerous to visit.
--Started a new project at a house for HIV-positive children with the Rotaract Club Medellin; I will be teaching them art lessons and taking them on visits to museums throughout the city.
--Volunteering once a week at an amazing organization for children with Spinal Bifida, run by the district governor elect, where I also lead art projects and participate in music/stretching activities for babies and tottlers affected by the disease.
--Attended an induction ceremony for a community police program sponsored by the Club Rotario Nutibara; establishing an important relationship between the police forces and the Rotary clubs in the city to get logistical safety from them for projects carried out in dangerous communities or for transporting children. I was very impressed with the calibur of men and woman in the program since most of them speak at least one language, are well educated, extremely dedicated to the police force, and have undoubtable faith in the public institution.
--Helped run a massive eye-examination program also with the Club Rotario Nutibara offered at a clinic in a lower-income neighborhood; reviewing over 15o children in one Saturday morning for eye problems, referring around 30 of the worst cases to an optomologist (also the club president!), and then outfitting those in need with donated glasses.
I love my 'job'.
--RYLA Seminar (Rotary Young Leader Awards): An international seminar offered by Rotary clubs to promote youth leadership in the communities. Last weekend I attended one held by the Club Rotario Envigado entitled "Democracy and Youth Participation." It involved two conferences given by government officials, a visit from the Envigado mayor who himself attended RYLA conferences as a teenager, 4 interactive workshops on human rights and the culture of democracy, lots food, and even a Rotary-sponsored party complete with DJ and beverages. Although most of the students who attended were from Interact (14-18 years old), and the level of the discussions and information presented was at a lower level than I had hoped, I still learned a lot about the different constitutional rights to which Colombian youngsters are entitled and what positions of leadership/representation within the schools and municipalities they can hold. My presence was important to inspire these aspiring youngsters to utilize the possibilities Rotary offers through international scholarships, emphasizing that they shouldn't get discouraged by their economic or national situation. As a highschooler I was very involved in committees and events supporting diversity and open discussion, but I don't remember ever hearing teenagers so impassioned about their rights with resolve to change the system. Perhaps it is a result of the general apathy that has overtaken the US, but it made me realize more than anything how lucky I was to grow up in a country, and more specifically a community, where the young population has the ability to participate in the system.
--Visiting Rotary clubs all over the city to make presentations: Club Rotario Medellin Nuevo, Club Rotario Medellin Occidente, Club Rotario Nutibara, Club Rotario Itagui Santamaria, Club Rotario Envigado, Club Rotario Sabaneta
--Become more involved in my host Club Rotario Medellin--the largest and second oldest club in the country. Many of the members are some of the most wealthy and powerful people within Colombia, but all are very friendly, tell hilarious jokes, and make a huge impact within the community. I now show up at meetings every Thursday and not only remember people's names but have ongoing conversations with them and am always greeted with big smiles. This week the governor of Antioquia came (with his very own secret service) to speak about development projects in the department including bettering education and safety, hydroelectic plants, reforestation, mining expansion, and increasing public participation among other things. The club also gives out an annual award of around $75,000 to people who have contributed immensely to the community; this year's cash prize went to environmentalists who established Medellin's famous botanical gardens and have created large natural reserves to protect the valuable flora and fauna found in the area.
--Attended a regional seminar for new and old Rotarians to inspire within them the spirit of Rotarism and review project and monetary goals for the year. Afterwards went to an "integration" party with members of my host club at the most gorgeous finca I have ever seen that reminded me of a house out of an old movie complete with famous art and full service.
--Become familiar with the 4280 District Governor by attending meetings at clubs throughout the city. Also took a day trip to Ciudad Bolivar where there is a small but strong club; stopping throughout the coffee region to take pictures, try local treats, avoid the massive landslides almost making the roads impassible, falling more in love with the gorgeous Colombian scenery, and learning about how a year ago the same region was dominated by guerrillas and too dangerous to visit.
--Started a new project at a house for HIV-positive children with the Rotaract Club Medellin; I will be teaching them art lessons and taking them on visits to museums throughout the city.
--Volunteering once a week at an amazing organization for children with Spinal Bifida, run by the district governor elect, where I also lead art projects and participate in music/stretching activities for babies and tottlers affected by the disease.
--Attended an induction ceremony for a community police program sponsored by the Club Rotario Nutibara; establishing an important relationship between the police forces and the Rotary clubs in the city to get logistical safety from them for projects carried out in dangerous communities or for transporting children. I was very impressed with the calibur of men and woman in the program since most of them speak at least one language, are well educated, extremely dedicated to the police force, and have undoubtable faith in the public institution.
--Helped run a massive eye-examination program also with the Club Rotario Nutibara offered at a clinic in a lower-income neighborhood; reviewing over 15o children in one Saturday morning for eye problems, referring around 30 of the worst cases to an optomologist (also the club president!), and then outfitting those in need with donated glasses.
I love my 'job'.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Morning Musings
Going about my morning business I consistently notice several things:
1) The water flowing through the 'canalizacion' down the mountainside settlements, through my neighborhood, and toward the center of the city to join up with the big river always smells fresh and perfumed like laundry detergent even though it is muddy brown in color. My senses automatically equate the sudsy smell of detergent with cleanliness so it always takes me aback when I look down into the tumultuous tides and realize that lots of someones upstream deemed the tributary a good laundry resource. And then I realize how lucky I am to always have lived with a fresh (running!) water source; never worrying about dirty sediment getting stuck in the wrinkles of washed clothes. But then again I rarely think about what sort of smell my post-laundry water is being observed by someone downstream...
(Speaking of laundry, having not used a dryer for the past two and a half months I realize how much more energy efficient it is to live in a warm climate. However, I wonder if the extra electricity that I use turning the lights on at 6:30 every night since it gets dark so early evens out my usage...)
2) Waking up to the sound of horse's hooves clip-clopping atop asphault never ceases to surprise me. Carts drawn by men or horses make their daily rounds through neighborhoods selling flowers, fresh avocados, and an array of produce. I just wish that they didn't always bring along their megaphones for the incessant drone of "Piña por mil, aguacate aguacate. Mandarinas: diez por mil."
3) Usually one thinks of the area surrounding a university as catering to the student population. Immediately around the Facultad there are lots of papelerias, restaurants and ice cream shops, but one street up is the longest stretch of funeral homes with hearsts parked outside that I have ever seen. It is quite depressing to walk by them every day thinking about the sad families sitting around inside deciding upon coffins and staying up all night with the bodies of loved ones. I just hope that this 'death row' doesn't inhabit this exact location because so many college students are passing away...
1) The water flowing through the 'canalizacion' down the mountainside settlements, through my neighborhood, and toward the center of the city to join up with the big river always smells fresh and perfumed like laundry detergent even though it is muddy brown in color. My senses automatically equate the sudsy smell of detergent with cleanliness so it always takes me aback when I look down into the tumultuous tides and realize that lots of someones upstream deemed the tributary a good laundry resource. And then I realize how lucky I am to always have lived with a fresh (running!) water source; never worrying about dirty sediment getting stuck in the wrinkles of washed clothes. But then again I rarely think about what sort of smell my post-laundry water is being observed by someone downstream...
(Speaking of laundry, having not used a dryer for the past two and a half months I realize how much more energy efficient it is to live in a warm climate. However, I wonder if the extra electricity that I use turning the lights on at 6:30 every night since it gets dark so early evens out my usage...)
2) Waking up to the sound of horse's hooves clip-clopping atop asphault never ceases to surprise me. Carts drawn by men or horses make their daily rounds through neighborhoods selling flowers, fresh avocados, and an array of produce. I just wish that they didn't always bring along their megaphones for the incessant drone of "Piña por mil, aguacate aguacate. Mandarinas: diez por mil."
3) Usually one thinks of the area surrounding a university as catering to the student population. Immediately around the Facultad there are lots of papelerias, restaurants and ice cream shops, but one street up is the longest stretch of funeral homes with hearsts parked outside that I have ever seen. It is quite depressing to walk by them every day thinking about the sad families sitting around inside deciding upon coffins and staying up all night with the bodies of loved ones. I just hope that this 'death row' doesn't inhabit this exact location because so many college students are passing away...
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Emphasizing the Aesthetic
Medellin (and Colombia) are known world-wide for their beautiful women. Imagine your stereotypical Latin beauty with long dark hair, cinnamon skin, wide smile, salsa-dancer hips, and the ability to devour you with one glance...and you are basically conjuring all the paisas flouncing about Medellin.
Now just like anywhere else with famous females, Colombians place a HUGE importance on appearances. Since Medellin is home to many clothing factories and fashion comes cheap, girls here are obsessed with shoes, shirts, jewelry, bags: shopping. They get their nails done every week, (also very inexpensive and a common practice by men too), straighten their hair in empty classrooms during lunch, and hog the bathroom mirrors. It's not like the women here need to make themselves more beautiful, it's just...fun (?).
(To be fair, several of my male friends have complained that they are not admitted to normal clubs around the city if they don't keep a clean beard or are wearing ragged clothes. I wonder if this is some sort of class discrimination or an extension of aesthetic importance.)
I can feel my inner tomboy getting swept away with the desire to partake in this public runway. But it also makes me wonder: how important is the fact that so many of these women are well-educated and working important jobs--is it more important than what meets the eye?
While previously living in Latin America I remember being struck by the way in which male attention served as a barometer for my appearance; every day that I leave the house I know if I have put on an attractive outfit or applied the right combination of make-up by the number of cat-calls I receive before arriving at the Metro station. "Tsssssssss...mona, que linda!" (yes, they ironically call those with an inclination toward a lighter complexion and features 'monkey'). It all sounds incredibly shallow, I know. But I do find that people, especially Rotarians, generally receive me better when I dress fashionably and doll myself up.
I have conducted several self-led experiments in which I have donned a dress and heals to one Rotary meeting then a less fashionable outfit to the next meeting, making sure to engage in just as interesting of conversations while demonstrating equal levels of self-confidence and outgoing bubbliness. The obvious result was that when looking more feminine and pretty people were not only noticeably more receptive and friendly towards me but also more complimentary of the content of my presentations.
What message does this send to women? I realize it is a big generalization, but the conclusion would be that in order for our ideas to be taken more seriously we have to first attract people's visual appreciation.
Now just like anywhere else with famous females, Colombians place a HUGE importance on appearances. Since Medellin is home to many clothing factories and fashion comes cheap, girls here are obsessed with shoes, shirts, jewelry, bags: shopping. They get their nails done every week, (also very inexpensive and a common practice by men too), straighten their hair in empty classrooms during lunch, and hog the bathroom mirrors. It's not like the women here need to make themselves more beautiful, it's just...fun (?).
(To be fair, several of my male friends have complained that they are not admitted to normal clubs around the city if they don't keep a clean beard or are wearing ragged clothes. I wonder if this is some sort of class discrimination or an extension of aesthetic importance.)
I can feel my inner tomboy getting swept away with the desire to partake in this public runway. But it also makes me wonder: how important is the fact that so many of these women are well-educated and working important jobs--is it more important than what meets the eye?
While previously living in Latin America I remember being struck by the way in which male attention served as a barometer for my appearance; every day that I leave the house I know if I have put on an attractive outfit or applied the right combination of make-up by the number of cat-calls I receive before arriving at the Metro station. "Tsssssssss...mona, que linda!" (yes, they ironically call those with an inclination toward a lighter complexion and features 'monkey'). It all sounds incredibly shallow, I know. But I do find that people, especially Rotarians, generally receive me better when I dress fashionably and doll myself up.
I have conducted several self-led experiments in which I have donned a dress and heals to one Rotary meeting then a less fashionable outfit to the next meeting, making sure to engage in just as interesting of conversations while demonstrating equal levels of self-confidence and outgoing bubbliness. The obvious result was that when looking more feminine and pretty people were not only noticeably more receptive and friendly towards me but also more complimentary of the content of my presentations.
What message does this send to women? I realize it is a big generalization, but the conclusion would be that in order for our ideas to be taken more seriously we have to first attract people's visual appreciation.
R-E-S-O-L-V-E
Things to do before turning 25:
--Graduate from college (check)
--Work for an ex-president (check)
--Live paycheck to paycheck without adequate health insurance (check)
--Drive cross-country (double check)
--Live in another country on my own for a year (check)
--Accumulate a hefty stack of stories I would not want to tell my future children (check)
--Run a half marathon (...check)
What better way to get to know a new city than running 21 km through downtown and unknown neighborhoods?
After talking the talk for two years, I finally bit the bullet and ran the run. Without really training, I knew I would be disappointed in myself if for the third time in a row (1. San Diego Marathon Spring 2007, 2. Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta Spring 2008) I backed out of the opportunity to push my physical limits in a test of human insanity. So on September 14 I completed the Mediamaraton Medellin (half marathon of Medellin).
Since my arrival I have been jogging 4-5 times a week around the Estadio right down the street, a safe and well-landscaped place to get outside in the mornings and stay in some sort of shape that doesn't resemble a blob. The furthest I have run in the past year is probably 6 miles, or half of a half marathon. But when I stepped out onto the course Sunday morning (after a good breakfast, a week without alcohol, and a few days of major mental psyching), as soon as I crossed the starting line I couldn't stop running for the next 13.3 miles. Something about the mass movement of 17,000 people, comraderie among strangers, and the beauty of the city in the morning helped my body settle into a comfortable rhythm for a little less than two and a half hours.
The race started and finished literally three blocks from my front door, which made the entire experience seem like a friendly neighborhood activity. I was impressed by how many serious runners showed up from many different countries; co-ed teams from Peru, a few gringos like myself, and the expected Kenyans (who took first and second). In general the large-scale, city-wide promotion of athletic activity has been very obvious and successful from what I can tell, and it paid off with the number of participants and fans that showed up for the 1K kid's race, 5K family race, and the 21K competition. Throughout the race I saw several fathers running while holding their sons' hands, a father-daughter team, and lots of couples striding along together. Although I was somewhat disappointed that I didn't have anyone I knew with whom to share my first big race, it was fun to feel like part of the Medellin community I call home.
My goal I set for myself was to finish, but not push my body to the point of injury just to get there, and I fully surprised the doubtful Alina by mustering enough energy to sprint across the finish line with only minor soreness and tired feet. Somewhere between KMs 12 and 13 I became fearfully tired, but adrenaline serves as a powerful natural drug and I relied on its rush to get over the hump and push my body through the second half of the race at the same pace as the first. If you can't tell, I am very proud of myself and have set my sights on other half marathons in the near future.
Now back to my To-Do List:
--get published
--start post-graduate studies
--skydiving??
--Graduate from college (check)
--Work for an ex-president (check)
--Live paycheck to paycheck without adequate health insurance (check)
--Drive cross-country (double check)
--Live in another country on my own for a year (check)
--Accumulate a hefty stack of stories I would not want to tell my future children (check)
--Run a half marathon (...check)
What better way to get to know a new city than running 21 km through downtown and unknown neighborhoods?
After talking the talk for two years, I finally bit the bullet and ran the run. Without really training, I knew I would be disappointed in myself if for the third time in a row (1. San Diego Marathon Spring 2007, 2. Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta Spring 2008) I backed out of the opportunity to push my physical limits in a test of human insanity. So on September 14 I completed the Mediamaraton Medellin (half marathon of Medellin).
Since my arrival I have been jogging 4-5 times a week around the Estadio right down the street, a safe and well-landscaped place to get outside in the mornings and stay in some sort of shape that doesn't resemble a blob. The furthest I have run in the past year is probably 6 miles, or half of a half marathon. But when I stepped out onto the course Sunday morning (after a good breakfast, a week without alcohol, and a few days of major mental psyching), as soon as I crossed the starting line I couldn't stop running for the next 13.3 miles. Something about the mass movement of 17,000 people, comraderie among strangers, and the beauty of the city in the morning helped my body settle into a comfortable rhythm for a little less than two and a half hours.
The race started and finished literally three blocks from my front door, which made the entire experience seem like a friendly neighborhood activity. I was impressed by how many serious runners showed up from many different countries; co-ed teams from Peru, a few gringos like myself, and the expected Kenyans (who took first and second). In general the large-scale, city-wide promotion of athletic activity has been very obvious and successful from what I can tell, and it paid off with the number of participants and fans that showed up for the 1K kid's race, 5K family race, and the 21K competition. Throughout the race I saw several fathers running while holding their sons' hands, a father-daughter team, and lots of couples striding along together. Although I was somewhat disappointed that I didn't have anyone I knew with whom to share my first big race, it was fun to feel like part of the Medellin community I call home.
My goal I set for myself was to finish, but not push my body to the point of injury just to get there, and I fully surprised the doubtful Alina by mustering enough energy to sprint across the finish line with only minor soreness and tired feet. Somewhere between KMs 12 and 13 I became fearfully tired, but adrenaline serves as a powerful natural drug and I relied on its rush to get over the hump and push my body through the second half of the race at the same pace as the first. If you can't tell, I am very proud of myself and have set my sights on other half marathons in the near future.
Now back to my To-Do List:
--get published
--start post-graduate studies
--skydiving??
Loneliness
Living alone has its benefits; privacy, independence, tranquility, and nobody judging my frequent OCD tendencies. But after a month and a half of living in an apartment owned by someone else that I cannot personalize is starting to take its toll. Eating meals with a book makes my food taste less, hearing things that go bump in the night wakes me up with a heart-thumping start, and cleaning up after myself all the time just seems silly when nobody will notice if I leave a dirty plate in the sink for a day.
I do have two new roommates, Isabella and Hector (mama and baby respectively) who live on my bathroom walls...but seeing as they are tropical salamanders they don't really offer much as far as dinner-time conversation goes but do poise interesting voyeuristic questions.
Of course I am busy at school all day, have Rotary meetings at night, and friends to explore the city with on the weekends, but nothing is quite the same as having someone--anyone--to vent to after a tough day or as a safety precaution know if I don't come home when I should. I am torn between over-involving myself in Italian classes and volunteer hours or finding other foreign roommates to get me through future months, but for the time being I find myself wistfully appreciating the amazing support networks I have back home.
Speaking the English
In the course of two months I have managed to be converted into 'Resident English Speaker' at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica (FNSP). Who has done this converting? My friend the Dean has seen me fit to rent out like the latest version of Rosetta Stone; a trend picked up by a different faculty member each day.
It all started with the suggestion that I start weekly English conversation classes as part of a community service project. Due to the large number of students and professors who study English but do not get much practice at listening or speaking, I serve as their perfect link between books and real-life necessity. On Mondays and Tuesdays I now spend my two lunch hours animating my students to practice formulating gramatically correct simple questions like "Where did you hang out last night?" or discussing national environmental concerns. As wonderful as it is to know that I am helping people with their English communication skills, I selfishly love meeting new interesting friends and leading discussions that benefit my own knowledge of Colombian issues.
Along with assuming the position of Mizz Teacher, I also serve as chief English document consultant. At first it was exciting to be called into a new office and asked what a professor in Germany was requesting in the most recent installment of an academic email conversation. It makes me feel important, not to mention that I am learning infinitely valuable information about the international public health community. For example, I have worked on important national proposals to the WHO for a project linking topics of academic research and government policy making (with a lot of funding money on the line). Several people are relying on my comments on another proposal so they can participate in an international qualitative research exchange learning project with the University of Chicago. But because the FNSP has been so generous to open up so many other opportunities for me, I find it difficult to turn away any English solicitor even though I am frequently distracted from my own projects with the high volume of work being presented to me. And as much as I try to fly incognito, it's not like I can just blend in as one of the other students when everywhere I go the 'Gringa' flag waves high above my blue eyes, light brown hair and different accent.
Maybe this is a good lesson for familiarizing myself with personal linguistic limits, because I have also found myself in some rather humiliating situations. Two weeks ago I was asked to translate the entire two-hour presentation of a professor coming from UC Irvine for an international conference on Occupational Health. Although I received his 60 slides with ample time to familiarize myself with the correlation between hypertension and job tension, followed by an hour-long one-on-one explanation of his life's work, I still lacked the depth of medical terminology to adequately convey the importance of the research. It turns out that his daughter attended Pitzer College and is currently pursuing her Doctorate in Anthropology by completing field work in the Caribbean, so we not only immediately had a common connection but a mutual respect. Unfortunately, by the end of four hours of translating for the presentation, social interaction, and professional panel, I was ready to burst into tears. I felt like even though I tried my hardest, I had botched up an important cross-cultural opportunity for Latin American specialists to impress upon a famous North American doctor their valuable research, reflected poorly on my Alma Mater, and had failed as an Ambassador of Goodwill.
In the future, I will know to pass on these sorts of requests to those professors who I know have a much higher level of multicultural and multilingual competence (and who have also pursued several degrees of graduate education to understand systolic ambulatory blood pressure) than myself, while gladly accepting projects that hone my forte of ruthless peer reviews. I guess that despite feeling more comfortable each day in my second tongue I still have a lot of Spanish to learn before I can consider myself fully fluent.
It all started with the suggestion that I start weekly English conversation classes as part of a community service project. Due to the large number of students and professors who study English but do not get much practice at listening or speaking, I serve as their perfect link between books and real-life necessity. On Mondays and Tuesdays I now spend my two lunch hours animating my students to practice formulating gramatically correct simple questions like "Where did you hang out last night?" or discussing national environmental concerns. As wonderful as it is to know that I am helping people with their English communication skills, I selfishly love meeting new interesting friends and leading discussions that benefit my own knowledge of Colombian issues.
Along with assuming the position of Mizz Teacher, I also serve as chief English document consultant. At first it was exciting to be called into a new office and asked what a professor in Germany was requesting in the most recent installment of an academic email conversation. It makes me feel important, not to mention that I am learning infinitely valuable information about the international public health community. For example, I have worked on important national proposals to the WHO for a project linking topics of academic research and government policy making (with a lot of funding money on the line). Several people are relying on my comments on another proposal so they can participate in an international qualitative research exchange learning project with the University of Chicago. But because the FNSP has been so generous to open up so many other opportunities for me, I find it difficult to turn away any English solicitor even though I am frequently distracted from my own projects with the high volume of work being presented to me. And as much as I try to fly incognito, it's not like I can just blend in as one of the other students when everywhere I go the 'Gringa' flag waves high above my blue eyes, light brown hair and different accent.
Maybe this is a good lesson for familiarizing myself with personal linguistic limits, because I have also found myself in some rather humiliating situations. Two weeks ago I was asked to translate the entire two-hour presentation of a professor coming from UC Irvine for an international conference on Occupational Health. Although I received his 60 slides with ample time to familiarize myself with the correlation between hypertension and job tension, followed by an hour-long one-on-one explanation of his life's work, I still lacked the depth of medical terminology to adequately convey the importance of the research. It turns out that his daughter attended Pitzer College and is currently pursuing her Doctorate in Anthropology by completing field work in the Caribbean, so we not only immediately had a common connection but a mutual respect. Unfortunately, by the end of four hours of translating for the presentation, social interaction, and professional panel, I was ready to burst into tears. I felt like even though I tried my hardest, I had botched up an important cross-cultural opportunity for Latin American specialists to impress upon a famous North American doctor their valuable research, reflected poorly on my Alma Mater, and had failed as an Ambassador of Goodwill.
In the future, I will know to pass on these sorts of requests to those professors who I know have a much higher level of multicultural and multilingual competence (and who have also pursued several degrees of graduate education to understand systolic ambulatory blood pressure) than myself, while gladly accepting projects that hone my forte of ruthless peer reviews. I guess that despite feeling more comfortable each day in my second tongue I still have a lot of Spanish to learn before I can consider myself fully fluent.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Running the Run-Around
Upon entering the country for the second time, an immigration official stamping my passport casually told me that I would have to go to the Department of Security within the first two weeks to get a foreigner's identification card otherwise I would technically be staying in the country illegally. Oh. Why didn't the consulate of the other immigration official who let me into the country in July tell me anything about that?This meant that I spent all of last Friday running around the city trying to get all the necessary documents in order. First to DAS at 7:30 am to pick up the official list. I then walked around the Belen neighborhood to 4 different laboratories until I found one that would test for my blood type so early in the morning. (The woman pricking my finger thought that my name should be a web address because of how silly of a last name "Shaw" is: www.alinashaw.com). Two copies of that certificate, two copies of the biographical page of my passport, two copies of my visa, two copies of pretty much every other important document that tells anything about me. Six photographs, with a blue background and no gloss. I could only pay the $40 processing fee at one bank in the city which is not accessible by Metro, so I trekked up there and went through the most insane security I have ever seen at anywhere but an airport: I had to leave everything but my wallet in a locker outside the main room and then go through a device that checked for explosives by blowing spurts of air at me. Oh yeah, and make two copies of that receipt. I can only imagine what people applying for visas and green cards in the US have to go through...
By the time I went back to the office Monday morning and finally started getting my piles of paperwork processed, I was halfway expecting that I had forgetten one document and have to wait in the long line all over again. But luckily my perfectionism paid off and I just had to sit in a swivel chair for half an hour while a woman entered all my information into an old-fashioned ledger and cut and pasted my card into existence. As a final touch she made me go into a back room and proceeded to fingerprint every part of my hand she could blacken with ink. Each forefinger four times, every other finger at least twice. Palm, all fingers together, heel. I was about to ask her if I should take off my shoes and socks so she could print my toes just to cover all our bases. But she didn't seem to be in the mood for humor, not with the stack of everyone else's papers waiting at her desk to become part of the national identification process. At least I know that if any of my fingers gets chopped off accidentally they will have its print on file so they know to whom it should be returned...
So I now have a temporary card and cedula number I can give to the pharmacist when he asks me if I want to be entered into their free-stuff lottery. Despite the hassle and the three days of lost work, I guess for the sake of my own safety it is good that the Colombian government can track me throughout the year.
An example...
left: guavas, red onions, avocados, green plantains, tomatoes, beets, red bell peppers, limes, red grapes, criollo potatoes, and fresh beans.
right: a soup/stew made with
beans, a diced plantain, half a tomato, an onion, several cloves of garlic, and spices with slices of tomato, avocado and corn bread on the side. (not shown is the fresh guava juice I blended up to accompany the meal). yum!Although I don't think organic certification really exists or would matter here, I do know that every piece of produce came from nearby. Some of it I even bought at a little store down the road that just sells fruit and veg and whose tag line is: "Direct from the fields to your house!"
**I just wanted to acknowledge the fact that my mother is the person kind as to internationally lend me Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. A year and a half ago we got into a very heated discussion (one might even consider it an argument) in the car while my parents were visiting me during family weekend at Scripps. I was saying that organic certification has lost most of the potency it once held since the organic food industry is just as corrupt with problems and it is now better (for your health and the world) to support local. My mother, on the other hand, maintained that organic was still a safer bet since the consumer knows that pesticides aren't used.
I think that the deeper undercurrent raising our personal investment in the topic was based on the fact that my parents lovingly raised us on extremely healthy, home-made food into which much consideration was involved. And by repudiating organics my mom felt like I was disregarding the sacrifices they had made to feed me as best they could--which I definitely wasn't since I think they did an amazing job at solving our family's odd but serious health issues by changing our diet. Before we remodeled our old house, we even had a huge garden that provided us with most of our produce. Fifteen years ago organic was the cutting-edge of health food, and they were right in there with the rest of the crazies preaching about the harmful effects of pesticides on the nation.
That February night in 2007 I challenged my mother to research the new local food movement and see if she couldn't update her knowledge on the current food situation. The last time I visited my parent's kitchen in July, they had a cornucopia of local produce spread out on the counter that they had received from their weekly subscription to a local food co-op. They recently had ordered half a free-range buffalo from Montana to replace the red meat they usually bought from the market, and made me try the local honey they use in their morning tea whcih supposedly helps build up immunity to airborne allergens. When I looked a the hallway bookshelf, I was greeted with the spines of different non-fiction books on the local food movement and sustainable farming. Out in the backyard my parents had even started growing all their own herbs, eggplants, fruit trees, and tomatoes! I quickly realized that my mom and dad had truly taken our conversation to heart and learned enough to adapt their lifestyles to the concepts I had preached even more than I have done for myself; making me somewhat of a hyppocrite. But really, it was just one more example confirming my belief that I have the coolest parents ever and feel increasingly lucky to have been raised by them!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Foodstories
Latest on the reading list: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and her family.
Now I know it might be silly to be reading about the faults in the American food system (I am somewhat obsessed, if I haven't mentioned it before) while living in Colombia, but it has actually sparked some interesting thoughts and conversations. Sorry for the massive quote, but I love her writing and would quote the whole book if I could:
Strong food cultures are both aesthetic and functional, keeping the quality and quantity of foods consumed relatively consistent from one generation to the next, and so, while the economies of many Western countries expanded massively in the 20th century, their citizens did not...Food culture in the US has long been cast as the property of a privileged class. It is nothing of the kind. Culture is the property of a species. Humans don't do everything we crave to do--that is what arguably makes us human. We're genetically predisposed toward certain behaviors that we've collectively decided are unhelpful; adultery and racism being examples. With reasonable success, we mitigate those impulses through civil codes, religious rituals, maternal warnings--the whole bag of tricks we call culture. Food cultures concentrate a population's collective wisdom about the plants and animals that grow in a place, and the complex ways of rendering them tasty. These are mores of survival, good health, and control of excess. Living without such a culture would seem dangerous...At its heart, a genuine food culture is an affinity between people and the land that feeds them. (emphasis my own)
One of my favorite parts of traveling is immersing myself into a new food culture and learning as much as I can about the fuel that drives people. In Medellin, people always seem to be sitting down to eat a meal, snacking, drinking coffee, or discussing the best place in the country to eat a certain something. I think it's because food is yet another excuse to talk--either while eating or about eating, and paisas sure do like to talk. But I do have to admit that the food here is exceptional, so they have reason enough to raise some noise about it.
During my first month here I was too excited to try new dishes and as many different kinds of arepas as possible to really think about where it all came from, but I slowly started picking up a granadilla or looking at a piece of steak on the end of my fork and asking it "where did you come from?" Living in the middle of a city means that food generally comes shrink-wrapped with pretty labels stamped on the packages, but I love wandering through side-street markets with the hand-pulled carts stacked high with dirty piles of potatoes, corn, cabbage, red beans, huge grapes, bananas, and papayas. It makes food seem more real to buy it while it is still covered in earth (the whole point of Kingsolver's book).
Since my fruit and meat never answered, I turned to my trusted friend/research advisor/learned man Octavio. When I asked how far food generally has to travel to get to Medellin he looked at me as if I was joking. After realizing that I was serious he slowly chuckled and said "Oh, about 10 km." Now I think this must be an exaggeration since we were sitting within a 10-km radius of city (cement, buses, apartment buildings), but I do know that Medellin is located within the 'cafetero' region which is lush with farms and various crops. I learned that everything from cows to cotton to coal and rice to broccoli to strawberries are all grown nearby, and therefore transported into the city fresh every day in one form or another. Within the entire country the main thing they import is wheat; in pretty much every other way Colombia is self-sustainable.
People here don't need to ask themselves from where their food comes, they grow up knowing what farmers in what regions produce the vegetables in their soup and pass the fields that feed them whenever they leave the city. This affinity betwee the people and the land is exactly what Kingsolver discusses, and from what I can tell it has yielded a culture that is overall very healthy and happy. To me this seems like a luxury, but it really shouldn't. With the amount of fuel costs that go into transporting our food these days every city should be focusing on growing compatible crops in their open spaces. I could go on and on, but I think Kingsolver explians it with much more wit and research so recommend reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle or anything by Michael Polan.
What I am trying to say is that I feel lucky that I have chosen a place to live where my daily food purchases don't have to involve a moral struggle like they did in the US. I can eat healthy, gluten- and guilt-free for very inexpensively, and by choosing to shop at the local stands closest to my house know that the easiest consumer choice is the one that also supports the local farmers. It's a win-win situation!
Oil and Linen
I am taking painting classes!
Finally after 3 years of only dabbling in doodles and travel-sized watercolors I smell like turpentine and have streaks of green and yellow paint in my hair. I don't know why it has taken me so long to get back into it; time, money, the usual excuses. But I was starting to feel like I could no longer describe myself as an 'artist' or 'painter' since my creativity was expressed in other ways. (Like cooking?).
A group of women get together on Wednesdays at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica for two hours to take free painting lessons offered by the University's Department of Well-Being (like a student events office--I think). When I first heard about it last week I didn't want to get my hopes up too high, but after showing up at the first class and seeing how serious these ladies take their art, I realized that I have found the perfect way to get my painting juices flowing again.
Of course I couldn't start painting that first day since I brought no supplies with me, but on Saturday I set out by myself on a mission to get everything I need to start making pretty pretty artwork. The teacher suggested I go to a shopping center called "El Rio" which is near "El Hueco", one of the craziest, compact, churning shopping districts in the city. Imagine the grand bizarre (for those of you who have been there), on third-world steroids. Shops after shops piled on top of each other selling anything from pantie-hose to watch batteries, from foreign perfumes to prescription glasses. I absolutely love wandering aimlessly, anonymously through the tight stalls marveling at how much random stuff exists in this world, (most of it made in China), and on a Saturday afternoon it was absolutely teeming with shoppers--to the point where I couldn't even feel my pockets people were packed against me so tightly.
But since I was out with a purpose, the confusing maze of stalls was overwhelming as I entered one shopping center after another asking for a place that sold art supplies without seeing anything that looked like a paintbrush or pallet knife. My wild-goose chase finally led me to 'El Rio', and as I wove between men carrying boxes packed with sanitary napkins that they almost almost spilled all over me as I blundered through looking for 'number 148' I crossed my fingers behind my back hoping that my efforts would yield something better than kiddie paints. At the end of the hallway I looked up and the display of paints, brushes, canvases, and craft supplies seemed to glow and hum like the apparition of the Virgen de Guadalupe must have appeared to Juan Diego. They had everything I wanted, and at a great price--I paid about $8 for a 30cm by 40cm canvas! (Ok, I know this is starting to sound like a cheesy television ad...but I was really excited!).
I eventually walked away with a huge bag of British and Chinese paints (just for a cost-quality comparison), the rest of the supplies on my list (in Spanish because I realized my artistic vocabulary is rather low: I thought a canvas was a 'lienzo' not a 'bastidor'), and three new friends. The older men and girl my age working the stall were all facinated by the fact that I was a foreign artist buying out half their stock, especially since they couldn't guess for the life of them where I was from: (Argentina? No? Then definitely Spain. No? You're American!?!), and a huge sense of accomplishment. The feeling of being independently competent in a foreign culture is entirely rewarding when it yields such sought-after results!
Now all I need to fiure out is what to paint...
Finally after 3 years of only dabbling in doodles and travel-sized watercolors I smell like turpentine and have streaks of green and yellow paint in my hair. I don't know why it has taken me so long to get back into it; time, money, the usual excuses. But I was starting to feel like I could no longer describe myself as an 'artist' or 'painter' since my creativity was expressed in other ways. (Like cooking?).
A group of women get together on Wednesdays at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica for two hours to take free painting lessons offered by the University's Department of Well-Being (like a student events office--I think). When I first heard about it last week I didn't want to get my hopes up too high, but after showing up at the first class and seeing how serious these ladies take their art, I realized that I have found the perfect way to get my painting juices flowing again.
Of course I couldn't start painting that first day since I brought no supplies with me, but on Saturday I set out by myself on a mission to get everything I need to start making pretty pretty artwork. The teacher suggested I go to a shopping center called "El Rio" which is near "El Hueco", one of the craziest, compact, churning shopping districts in the city. Imagine the grand bizarre (for those of you who have been there), on third-world steroids. Shops after shops piled on top of each other selling anything from pantie-hose to watch batteries, from foreign perfumes to prescription glasses. I absolutely love wandering aimlessly, anonymously through the tight stalls marveling at how much random stuff exists in this world, (most of it made in China), and on a Saturday afternoon it was absolutely teeming with shoppers--to the point where I couldn't even feel my pockets people were packed against me so tightly.
But since I was out with a purpose, the confusing maze of stalls was overwhelming as I entered one shopping center after another asking for a place that sold art supplies without seeing anything that looked like a paintbrush or pallet knife. My wild-goose chase finally led me to 'El Rio', and as I wove between men carrying boxes packed with sanitary napkins that they almost almost spilled all over me as I blundered through looking for 'number 148' I crossed my fingers behind my back hoping that my efforts would yield something better than kiddie paints. At the end of the hallway I looked up and the display of paints, brushes, canvases, and craft supplies seemed to glow and hum like the apparition of the Virgen de Guadalupe must have appeared to Juan Diego. They had everything I wanted, and at a great price--I paid about $8 for a 30cm by 40cm canvas! (Ok, I know this is starting to sound like a cheesy television ad...but I was really excited!).
I eventually walked away with a huge bag of British and Chinese paints (just for a cost-quality comparison), the rest of the supplies on my list (in Spanish because I realized my artistic vocabulary is rather low: I thought a canvas was a 'lienzo' not a 'bastidor'), and three new friends. The older men and girl my age working the stall were all facinated by the fact that I was a foreign artist buying out half their stock, especially since they couldn't guess for the life of them where I was from: (Argentina? No? Then definitely Spain. No? You're American!?!), and a huge sense of accomplishment. The feeling of being independently competent in a foreign culture is entirely rewarding when it yields such sought-after results!
Now all I need to fiure out is what to paint...
Substance
I realize that after all these entries of the fun activities I am doing (or not doing, in some cases), you might be wondering about the research work which I came here to do. The truth of the matter is that after a month and a half, I am wondering the same thing. Not because I lack initiative or anything like that, but rather because the process of getting business done around here seems to take forever. Every time I seem to ask about a specific topic in which I would be interested in researching, five people jump in and offer five different perspectives of how I and where I should go about working. Although this is extremely helpful and I am learning a lot, it has also left me very confused.
I spent the first few weeks learning about the health system, wandering around the hallways of the public health school meeting tons of different professors and grad students hearing about the work they are doing, and trying to get a feel for a place. In anthropological work you can't just jump in right away without getting your bearings...it takes time to learn about possible research options and then decide on one that will probably turn into something else anyway. So eventually I decided on a group of contracted public health professionals who are in the conception stage of a project that sounds really interesting.
Just today we turned in a draft of the theoretical background to get full approval and funding from the university after diligently reading, writing, and revising for two weeks. The title of it is "Bienes Preferentes y Bienes Meritorios en salud y mecanismos de mercado en el contexto del Sistema General de Seguridad Social en Salud: Caso atencion materno-infantil, Medellin 2008." A mouth-full, eh? It basically deals with looking at the faults in the health system due to the fact that the government contracts out services to hospitals and clinics who then administer the services, which results in those sites operating in their best economic interests rather than for the good of the people. The specific part of the population that we are looking at is pregnant woman, and the ethical issues that come into play when an unborn baby doesn't get the chance to live because their mothers receive inadequate attention. The legal and economic foundations for the work have turned out to be much more in-depth than I originally anticiapted; which has proved difficult yet beneficial in that I have had to teach myself a crash-course in health economics.
We still have to work out the methodology and break-down of research responsibilities, but I am looking forward to leading discussions with health officials from the city, doctors and nurses, as well as the women themselves. I am not sure how, as a medical anthropologist, I am supposed to fit in with the other public health administration majors etc., but it seems like the faculty here have a very holistic approach to their research which fits in well with my own training. More to follow....
As for my independent research, I have a meeting next week with the dean, head of the investigation department, and research advisor to whom I will present my grand plan. Deep down I know what I want to investigate: the mental/emotional effects of being displaced by drug-related violence, but the problem is that I don't know how to go about conducting this research in a safe manner. Since being here I have felt somewhat disconnected from the reality of poverty that the majority of the population experiences. Rotarians, friends, and university contacts alike are all very or relatively well-off compared to national standards; something that doens't provide me with a very comprehensive understanding of the people. I think that in order to really fulful my duties as an embassador (so that I return to the US with as much information and experience I can possibly accumulate in one year), as well as live up to the service-oriented ideals of Rotary, I must find a way to access the impoverished communities and work on their behalf.
Colombia has the second-largest population of internally displaced people after Sudan, and Antioquia--and Medellin--is one of the districts that hosts a large influx of them. These people move into the city and settle in the most precarious places, and suffer from many environmental factors. (Every day on the news there are reports of 5-10 people--read displaced persons--who die during the torrential rains because their corrugated-tin homes are washed into the bloated rivers running down the sides of the mountains all around the city). These people also bring with them involvement with informal economies and their own set of violence, which makes their new settlements dangerous--especially for outsiders like myself.
I also have this somewhat fantastical impression that the (medical) anthropologists who have written the most interesting and widely-read ethnographies are those who took the most personal and professional risks. At this point I don't really have professional training or an established career, (nor is my scholarship about accomplishing personal career goals), but my idea is that if I could find a community of people with an untold story from an important helath perspective, maybe this could be a big break that in a year could get me into my preferred PhD program. But at the same time maybe I am young and overly optimistic and shouldn't jeopardize my chances by making stupid decisions now. Or maybe I am just blowing things out of perspective.
Either way, I have a lot of thinking or planning to do, and any advice or insight would be much appreciated.
I spent the first few weeks learning about the health system, wandering around the hallways of the public health school meeting tons of different professors and grad students hearing about the work they are doing, and trying to get a feel for a place. In anthropological work you can't just jump in right away without getting your bearings...it takes time to learn about possible research options and then decide on one that will probably turn into something else anyway. So eventually I decided on a group of contracted public health professionals who are in the conception stage of a project that sounds really interesting.
Just today we turned in a draft of the theoretical background to get full approval and funding from the university after diligently reading, writing, and revising for two weeks. The title of it is "Bienes Preferentes y Bienes Meritorios en salud y mecanismos de mercado en el contexto del Sistema General de Seguridad Social en Salud: Caso atencion materno-infantil, Medellin 2008." A mouth-full, eh? It basically deals with looking at the faults in the health system due to the fact that the government contracts out services to hospitals and clinics who then administer the services, which results in those sites operating in their best economic interests rather than for the good of the people. The specific part of the population that we are looking at is pregnant woman, and the ethical issues that come into play when an unborn baby doesn't get the chance to live because their mothers receive inadequate attention. The legal and economic foundations for the work have turned out to be much more in-depth than I originally anticiapted; which has proved difficult yet beneficial in that I have had to teach myself a crash-course in health economics.
We still have to work out the methodology and break-down of research responsibilities, but I am looking forward to leading discussions with health officials from the city, doctors and nurses, as well as the women themselves. I am not sure how, as a medical anthropologist, I am supposed to fit in with the other public health administration majors etc., but it seems like the faculty here have a very holistic approach to their research which fits in well with my own training. More to follow....
As for my independent research, I have a meeting next week with the dean, head of the investigation department, and research advisor to whom I will present my grand plan. Deep down I know what I want to investigate: the mental/emotional effects of being displaced by drug-related violence, but the problem is that I don't know how to go about conducting this research in a safe manner. Since being here I have felt somewhat disconnected from the reality of poverty that the majority of the population experiences. Rotarians, friends, and university contacts alike are all very or relatively well-off compared to national standards; something that doens't provide me with a very comprehensive understanding of the people. I think that in order to really fulful my duties as an embassador (so that I return to the US with as much information and experience I can possibly accumulate in one year), as well as live up to the service-oriented ideals of Rotary, I must find a way to access the impoverished communities and work on their behalf.
Colombia has the second-largest population of internally displaced people after Sudan, and Antioquia--and Medellin--is one of the districts that hosts a large influx of them. These people move into the city and settle in the most precarious places, and suffer from many environmental factors. (Every day on the news there are reports of 5-10 people--read displaced persons--who die during the torrential rains because their corrugated-tin homes are washed into the bloated rivers running down the sides of the mountains all around the city). These people also bring with them involvement with informal economies and their own set of violence, which makes their new settlements dangerous--especially for outsiders like myself.
I also have this somewhat fantastical impression that the (medical) anthropologists who have written the most interesting and widely-read ethnographies are those who took the most personal and professional risks. At this point I don't really have professional training or an established career, (nor is my scholarship about accomplishing personal career goals), but my idea is that if I could find a community of people with an untold story from an important helath perspective, maybe this could be a big break that in a year could get me into my preferred PhD program. But at the same time maybe I am young and overly optimistic and shouldn't jeopardize my chances by making stupid decisions now. Or maybe I am just blowing things out of perspective.
Either way, I have a lot of thinking or planning to do, and any advice or insight would be much appreciated.
Festival del Maiz
The master calendar makers who invented three-day weekends have my utmost gratitude. Here in Medellin they are called 'puentes,' or bridges, that extra day uniting the weekend and start of the week with a unanimous vote to completely skip over Monday by refashioning it into an extra day for sleeping in, strolling around a park, or, as in my case, recovering after a riotous trip to the countryside.
Saturday evening witnessed five of us cramming into a little car with sleeping bags, backpacks, and high expectations. 1. Me. 2. My dear friend Esteban. 3. Esteban's cousin Marcela who grew up in Culver City and just moved down here for the year after graduating from high school. 4. Daniel, a microfutbol friend of Esteban's who lived in Irvine for four years (although this isn't a defining feature of his), and 5. Ronald, aka Flaco, another microfutbol player with the best paisa banter I have yet encountered.
As it grew dark and excessively rainy we wound our way up La Avenida Las Palmas, out of the city and into the country. Around dinnertime we stopped for the best arepa de chocolo con queso I have ever savored and still leaves me salivating just thinking about the moist, wood-fired warmth and buttery crispness. Then it was another four hours of roadsicknening curves and fun chatter through eroding hillsides leaving huge potholes in our way and delaying our arrival to Sonson until 10:00.
Nobody in the group had previously visited the small town, but it was supposed to be very typical of the region with old colonial houses, cowboy culture, and gorgeous surrounding hills. We were somewhat surprised by the crowds mulling around a secondary plaza near our chosen parking spot, and became increasingly curious about the amount of people after realizing that three hotels were already completely booked up but had couches we could sleep on for 15.000 pesos. Perhaps there was something going on about which we were not aware?
After walking closer and closer toward the main plaza I noticed corn stalks tied to every lamp-post, window shutter, in bunches across the portals of bars, as well as strewn across the sidewalks. People were wearing ponchos and hand-made cowboy hats; most of them inebriated and some prancing around on horses trained in high-stepping. By the time we reached the center of the action we had figured out that our unplanned visit just so happened to coincide with the 75th Festival de Maiz, ie: the biggest party the town had ever known.
Realizing that this was too fun of an opportunity to be dampened by a steady downpour of cold rain, we started trying to catch up with the rest of the town in their celebrations and knocked on random doors in search of a cheap bed. Eventually we found a tiny hotel with enough ro
om for us all to sleep at a reasonable price, and changed into more water-friendly clothes while discussing the craziness in which the entirety of Sonson was enveloped. Now, I know it might be somewhat unsavory to talk about the extreme party culture here, but I feel I have to explain the state of absurdity to which I have seen people drink themselves in order to incite your opinions on why old and young alike would do such a thing?(Before you proceed, I would like to say as a disclaimer that my friends and I were out for a cultural experience rather than drinkfest, and that despite the absurdity I was completely safe the entire trip and never felt uncomfortable.)
Throughout the evening I saw various verbal street fights, people falling off of horses, and someone's grandparents making out (I personally found the latter more endearing than inappropriate). At one point I enlisted the help of my friends to pull an older man out of the street who had fallen over a road block and passed out, lucky enough to be lying after a speed bump which made cars slow down enough to see and swerve around his body. After we placed him on the sidewalk he violently jerked back into the street, this time rolling down the road which was very steep and slick with rain. His 'woman' was trying to coax him home, but when "Carlos" responded with garbled burps she gave up and left him to the sniffing dogs wandering around.
My mind is analytically trained to ponder the causes behind what I experience, and so the question still pursuing me after witnessing this is: what are these people trying to escape by drowning their minds in alcohol? I know that the town isn't extremely economically prosperous; are these men (and women) just tired farmers who have overwhelming financial and family responsibilities? That area of the country also suffered under the presence of guerrilla forces, and maybe they had seen enough violence or experienced enough tragedy to need the escape of aguardiente in order to stay sane the rest of the time?
Either way, I was overwhelmed by the pompousness of the children roaming the streets and staggering couples, happy to crawl into my sleeping bag and listen to the salsa songs blasting into the night from the bar across the street the entire night. The next morning everything was much more tranquil; the men from the night before passed out in bars with chairs overturned on top of them and the proprietors picking up their limp arms to clean the bar beneath them. Even if their livers were complaining I got a great picture.
Now daylight and somewhat sunny, we wandered through the cobblestone streets admiring the bright colors and greeting the untended horses eating leftover oranges and arepas. Although I think I appreciate corn more than most people given my dietary restrictions and obsession with food histories, I didn't think that the entire population of a town could be so obsessed with one grain. The town seal of Sonson shows a lovely mountain framed by two ears of corn; imprinted on the plaza's sitting stools, painted on the sides of buildings, and forged into the storm drains. In honor of the festival, people were wearing necklaces strung with kernels of...corn, with a small dried arepa serving as a medallion. There was even a parade honoring the different cycles of corn cultivation, ending with a young and beautiful corn queen riding in the back of a pickup truck and waving at the hungover crowds with the grace of a fairytale princess. If I subscribed to a gluten-free pagan religion I might just choose this corn goddess as my deity.
Eventually we had explored the entirety of the small town and piled into the car for the anticipated ride home--this time able to appreciate the absolute gorgeousness of our surroundings. I know some of you are probably tired of hearing me rave about the natural beauty of Colombia, but seriously people, what beats a semi-tropical terrain dotted with waterfalls cascading down the hillsides, old ranches boasting orange and blue porches with terracotta pots overflowing with fuchsias and supertunias hanging from their eaves, and kids running through flower fields with horses? Every curve provoked a communal gasp--even the native Paisas were impressed.
I was really surprised at how well-patrolled the roads were; with police stops every 20 miles or so and young men in military garb posted every 5 miles. Most of them were wearing red bands around their arms, something that used to be an indication of the ELN (one of the prominent paramilitary groups in the ocuntry). But my friends assured me that this zone was safe now and that it must be the sign for some special police force. Either way they were friendly and made the unpopulated road feel much safer...you know just in case we had car troubles or something.
By the time I stumbled, exhausted, into my apartment at 7 that night completely overwhelmed with the immense diversity of Colombian culture and geography, I was already starting to plan a trip for the next puente.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Rotarian Stardom
During my first Thursday back in Medellin I was posed with a heavy decision (not uncommon in these busy days of mine): to attend a forum preceding the 6th annual National Conference of Public Health sponsored by the Universidad de Antioquia--which my friend the dean Dr. Gonzalez invited me to a month ago, or to go to the weekly Rotary meeting. As you can probably deduce, my reasoning led me to choose the forum since it only happens once while the Rotary club meets every Thursday.
Y'all have heard of Juanes, right? "Tengo la camisa negra" pop star from Colombia (born in Medellin)? The Bono of Latin America? Heart-throb of the century? Well, even if you haven't, hopefully you can tell by that description that he is a pretty big deal down here... and I have to admit that I have been a fan of his myself for not only his catchy music but also the humanitarian work for which he has become a spokesman over the past few years.
So, if it isn't obvious already, Juanes came to the Rotary meeting...not me. I not only missed out on one of the most interesting Rotarian alliances of the year--his non-profit wants to do get support by the Rotary Club of Medellin)--but I also missed possibly the most exciting photo-op of my scholarship (imagine me with Juanes as my Facebook profile pic!). The only consolation I have for being so unlucky is that the visit truly was improptu, and the club had to cancel their scheduled speaker just to accomodate the rockstar.
And I would have been blisfully unaware of my scheduling blunder had my professor/research advisor/Rotarian friend not come back to our office after the meeting and said, "Alina, Alina, Alina...you'll never want to miss another meeting after hearing who came today." I don't think I will.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Arrival of the Olympics
I have a confession to make. I guess it's not that embarrassing though, so I'll tell you: while recovering from intense jet-lag and trying to find company in a television set (David is traveling on business in the States leaving me alone in the apartment for a month), I have been addicted to late-night Olympic events. Oh, how fun it is to watch gymnastic floor routines and 200-m dashes while almost falling asleep! And how proud I feel when I see fellow Americans competing in Beijing so the world can hear our national anthem playing while they bask on the podium!
It is a different kind of experience displaying my US allegiance by shouting loudly at the TV while excitedly jumping up and down in a foreign country. Colombians don't excel in very many sports, (mainly inline skating, power walking, shot put, and wrestling as far as I can tell so far), and so the channels broadcasting the Olympics spend a lot of their time going over highlights from the day and focusing on other South American and Caribbean athletes. Last night I was extremely frustrated while channel 17 showed the 20K power walk for literally the entire hour and a half race while I couldn't find other Olympic coverage anywhere else on cable. Imagine how I swore at the anchors when after a short advertisement they returned to the rubber-legged men swinging their hips like salsa dancers for the umpteenth time!!!
While it is interesting to get a different perspective of the rest of the world's Olympic viewing style, more than anything it makes me appreciate being American. No matter what random sport is taking place, I don't have to root for someone that comes from my same continent like many smaller countries. As a nation, America (individuals, companies, and the government alike) has an insane amount of money to spend on athletic training and facilities. People from all different countries come to train or coach in the US. And the result is an overwhelming dominance in our exceptional performance and abundance of athletes we produce.
Just watching the Opening Ceremonies was telling in how we had almost as many people competing as China--the world's most populous country. Obviously the athletes competing: population size ratio is not standard criteria. The Colombian, Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Bolivian Olympic teams literally got three seconds of airtime while Kobe Bryant alone got three minutes. Now that just doesn't seem fair. The Olympics are supposed to be a unifying competition bringing athletes together from around the world to represent their home countries, and everyone should be acknowledged for the sweat and blood they have poured into qualifying to be in Beijing.
But enough of my chatter, men's swimming is on and I want to see if Phelps is going to add another gold to his impressive count!
It is a different kind of experience displaying my US allegiance by shouting loudly at the TV while excitedly jumping up and down in a foreign country. Colombians don't excel in very many sports, (mainly inline skating, power walking, shot put, and wrestling as far as I can tell so far), and so the channels broadcasting the Olympics spend a lot of their time going over highlights from the day and focusing on other South American and Caribbean athletes. Last night I was extremely frustrated while channel 17 showed the 20K power walk for literally the entire hour and a half race while I couldn't find other Olympic coverage anywhere else on cable. Imagine how I swore at the anchors when after a short advertisement they returned to the rubber-legged men swinging their hips like salsa dancers for the umpteenth time!!!
While it is interesting to get a different perspective of the rest of the world's Olympic viewing style, more than anything it makes me appreciate being American. No matter what random sport is taking place, I don't have to root for someone that comes from my same continent like many smaller countries. As a nation, America (individuals, companies, and the government alike) has an insane amount of money to spend on athletic training and facilities. People from all different countries come to train or coach in the US. And the result is an overwhelming dominance in our exceptional performance and abundance of athletes we produce.
Just watching the Opening Ceremonies was telling in how we had almost as many people competing as China--the world's most populous country. Obviously the athletes competing: population size ratio is not standard criteria. The Colombian, Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Bolivian Olympic teams literally got three seconds of airtime while Kobe Bryant alone got three minutes. Now that just doesn't seem fair. The Olympics are supposed to be a unifying competition bringing athletes together from around the world to represent their home countries, and everyone should be acknowledged for the sweat and blood they have poured into qualifying to be in Beijing.
But enough of my chatter, men's swimming is on and I want to see if Phelps is going to add another gold to his impressive count!
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