Obviously I have been in Colombia long enough to learn about, accept, and adapt to cultural differences. But that is not to say that there still aren't some Colombian 'ways' that either irk me to the point of constant frustration or just don't make enough sense for me to follow them.
The biggest and baddest of these is Colombian time. When making any plans involving a schedule I have learned to add thirty minutes to any denomination of time under 2 hours or 30% for anything over. This includes meetings with professors. Bus trip arrivals. Estimated travel time by any mode of transportation. How long it will take food to be prepared. Etcetera.
Examples: 1) When my research partner tells me she will pick me up at 6:30 am on the steps to the Metro so we can arrive at the clinic for our interview scheduled at 7, what she REALLY means is that she will pick me up at 7 after I have fallen back asleep and we will arrive at the interview at 7:20.
2) When I get on a bus and the driver tells me it will only take 6 hours to cross over the mountains, what he REALLY means is that it will take 4 hours to reach the mountains, 1 hour to stop and eat lunch, then 3 more hours to wind through the roads toward our destination.
3) When I ask multiple friends how long it will take to walk from one university campus to another they tell me "Oh it is really short and shouldn't take you longer than 15 minuts," what they REALLY mean is that they have no idea how long it would take because nobody walks that route, but 15 minutes sounds like a good, round number.
4) And, when I stop in at someone's house to drop something off and they offer me a meal saying it is already prepared, what they REALLY mean is that they have to go out and raise the cow, plant some rice, wait for it all to grow, then kill/harvest all ingredients before even starting to cook.
Being as it is that my anthropological training has instilled in me a duty to cultural relativity, (ie: just because people in the US are usually uptight about their schedules and don't keep you waiting for hours doesn't mean that Colombians are useless), it is hard to be continually forgiving when people are flaky and thus constantly throw wrenches into MY hectic daily schedules. I have learned to enjoy sitting around drinking a soda and doing nothing for hours just to kill unanticipated free time, but only when I have no other engagement filling my dance card. It causes me to be far less productive than I would like.
Despite the unreliablility of other people, paisas have a relatively grueling work ethic and I will admit that they accompish a lot during their long days. (Perhaps their extended labor hours--including half days on Saturday--are just to make up for all the time lost waiting). I wish I could say the same for the rest of the country, a lack of work ethic lending to the slow completion of national projects, but unfortunately much of the country suffers from commitmentphobia. Even some of the doctors and nurses complain about the fluidity of appointment dates and times; patients coming in hours or days late expecting to be treated. Imagine what could be accomplished if people could just arrive to anything on time...
After marveling at how tardiness does not seem to cause the same ire in anyone else here but me, I have come to comclude that people just don't have the same sense of time. Two hours isn't REALLY that important in the large scheme of things, so having that much more time to sit around and talk with family or friends, even random people in a cafe, is not going to have an effect on your life in the long-run. On the contrary, because relationships are so important in Latin American culture, having an excuse (however lame) to spend two extra hours with loved ones is the best use of time possible.
Perhaps then it is me who has my priorities reversed. Instead of worrying about not having enough time to finish my work and studies, I should be concerned that I am not dedicating enough of my working hours to the people I care about.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Inauguration of a New World
Back in October before the election I heard mixed reviews of our now president. Many of the Rotarians and professors, (very educated, upper class people often owning their own businesses), preferred McCain as a candidate because they thought he "understood Colombia better." I gathered that his meant he supported the Free Trade Agreement, and would continue Bush's policies of funding the Colombian government's military to fight the guerrillas and drug wars. Several Rotarians even admitted that they were rooting for McCain because they liked his running-mate, harboring some sort of perverse political crush on Sarah Palin. But although they saw McCain as better for the participation of Colombia in international business as well, they did admit that they thought that Obama would be better for the world, especially because he wanted to end the war in Iraq.
Non-Rotarians and more politically left-leaning friends thought that Colombia needed to improve their infrastructure before opening themselves up to free trade with economic superpowers like the US, and stated that they were ready for a change in politics--both in Colombia and abroad. Uribe and Bush were good friends and due to this, among other reasons, Colombia has progressed immensely in the past 8 years, but their policies are starting to stagnate therefore necessitating a change in leadership. The closer it got to the election, and the more likely it looked like Obama was going to win, I found the majority of Colombians already starting to accept Obama as a world leader.
Now, after Obama has taken office, people everywhere seem to be inspired with a sense of optimism that they all admit has not been perceived in a long time. They look to the US's ability to reinvent themselves as a model for Colombia to overcome their turbulent history. One of my colleagues even admitted that she cried throughout most of his speech because she was so moved by the importance of Obama's inauguration and his words. They admire his intelligence and that of the people with whom he has surrounded himself, his message to the world that the US president, serving as the country's icon, now sees that they are dependent on other countries and ready to respectfully participate in an international community. People will admit that when he was speaking they felt like he acknowledged them, sitting on their couch in Medellin, caring about their existence.
Colombians are fascinated that our country would choose a leader from such a mixed racial and cultural background, serving as inspiration for everyone that even people not born into hegemonic political families can be president. An email has been circulating with a slide show telling the story of Obama's family and praising the open-mindedness of his mother. Many of my friends attribute his policies to the way that he was raised, reflecting the importance of family in Latin American culture. The people in Tumaco, a coastal area consisting mainly of Afro-Colombians, celebrated the inauguration with three entire days of dancing fueled by their excitement that they could identify with such an important man. It surprises me that Obama is portrayed as an African-American and having proven how the country has progressed despite being founded on slavery, when really he is the son of an immigrant and mid-westerner.
But similar to what I am hearing from home, Colombians has extremely high expectations for Obama while realizing that he has an extremely difficult task before him. They sympathize with his responsibility for saving the world's economy, knowing that Colombian markets rely on the economic success of the US and therefore are counting on him just as much as anyone in North America to ensure that their way of life does not change drastically. It is also interesting how realistic they are in recognizing that the first four years Obama is in office he will be trying to repair Bush's messy work, and will need a second term to actually carry out most of what he is promising.
As usual, Colombians have impressed me. This time it is their awareness and involvement in international politics. However, the one thing that surprises me is that most of the people discussing the inauguration are over 30. My friends and other students or young professionals do not seem to be following Obama as closely, which saddens me because they are the ones who will be most effected by his presidency. I tried to organize an inauguration party at a time when people were available but none of my friends took interest. Maybe political lethargy has overcome those of my generation ubiquitously and not just in the US.
Overall the media is true when they proclaim that the whole world is watching Obama. The main point that Colombians insist upon is that the United States has just chosen a huge opportunity to redeem themselves and enact much-needed change, and everyone hopes that we fully take advantage of this 'once in a national history' occasion.
Never Too Cool for School
One of the best parts of a long vacation ending, (along with sleeping in one's own bed, eating home-cooked food, playing with your lonely-but now-happy dog), is returning to work and/or school and catching up with friends. Thus when I showed up at the Facultad de Salud Publica after my month-long hiatus, I had to spend the first two days making my rounds through the brick halls greeting everyone for the first time in the new year and sharing holiday stories. For some reason even after six months I still have no idea of when the academic sessions begin and end, (maybe it has to do with the students striking and teachers not showing up for class?), so the school is still relatively devoid of undergraduate students until the start of February. Even with this portion of the school activity missing, the fact that my extensive social interactions still flourished upon returning made me realize how luckky I am to have chosen to study at a school with such a welcoming faculty.Now that the end of year celebrations have expired, I can now FINALLY start working on my research full-time. During the last few weeks before break I ran around the city with Gilma, my research partner conducting interviews with nurses and administrators at clinics and hospitals.
Let me pause here to explain a bit about Gilma. She is about 40, an extremely independent and strong single woman, knows Colombia better than anyone else I have met, and has a wealth of knowledge about the country that she is always trying to teach me. We have taken a weekend trip together, and she always encourages me to take advantage of social or travel opportunities even if they conflict with our research responsibilities. In an odd way she simultaneously treats me like a good friend and an aunt.
Anyway, so now that we have finished the first data collection period, we sent off the digital recordings to a girl at the Facultad who is helping us transcribe them and are in the process of correcting and codifying the lengthly question and answer series. Just in the past few days I feel like I have more closely examined Colombian Spanish than ever before by reading exactly how people speak while having the punctuate the cadence of people's speech. Even though I am learning it is not fun typing periods and capitalizing words for hours a day. One of the most mundane tasks of doing qualitative research.
Watching the project gain substance has been extremely exciting and rewarding. I love the process of sowing a research idea into a proposal, conducting background research on the subject, creating interview questions, locating research sites and willing participants, then sifting through the collected results trying to extract meaning from it all. By asking our participants what factors favor access to maternal health care, how they perceive the population's understanding of their health rights, and in what ways they think the system could improve for maternal care, I am learning more about the Colombian health care providors than I know about those in the US. Even after our preliminary interviews it seems like health education for young women in the many low-income communities is the area of health services needing the most attention. This, and the extremely high rates of teenage pregnancy has inspired me to conduct some individual research in this area with my preexisting research contacts and contracts.
With my research on a tight schedule until our publication date in June, I decided that I have explored and exhausted all potential avenues Facultad de Salud Publica and am ready to branch out to the Universidad de Antioquia. I thought that after the long vacation period the 50,000 students at the largest public university would return to start a new term, but when I showed up at an Anthropology course on Ethnicity, Justice, and Human Rights and the professor started asking the class about definitions they had previously learned I realized I would be sitting in during mid-semester courses. Which might be better anyway; with the work load I have from research I am not sure if I want to take on course readings and exams as well.
After shopping around a bit I have found an Economic Anthropology course which I really enjoy. The professor is dedicated, the students engage in stimulating conversation, the readings are interesting and mainly by Colombian anthropologists, and the subject matter fits in with my academic interests. And nobody seems to mind me sitting in without having registered or attending class during the start of the semester.
But studying at a public, foreign institution has been one of the most impactful cultural experiences yet. On the first day of class I showed up five minutes before 8am, the scheduled course time. Students started arriving about 8:15, the professor strolled up and unlocked the door around 8:20, and class started at 8:30, half an hour late. I know that people in the US are known for their punctuality to the point of being considered uptight, but how is such tardiness conducive to a successful learning environment?
The campus of the UdeA is huge but beautiful, divided up into blocks for each academic subject which are surrounded by tropical gardens with vines creeping everywhere. A large library, fountain, and common cement area is the social nucleus for the university, along with the various cafes and food stands that line the halls. Instead of buying their books from a bookstore, professors leave copies of the readings in a copy office and the students are responsible for going before class to buy their cheap course materials.
Friends and rotarians have warned me to be careful at school because it is widely known that many students are plain-clothed guerrillas spying on (and starting) political movements among the students. On every wall is a mural of Che, posters advertising University clubs, and recently, pro-Palestine graffiti sponsored by the Anti-Imperialist Brigade. It appears that Colombian students have taken up the cause of the Palestinians and spray-painted pictures of protesting women everywhere I look. Every semester is punctuated with some sort of student strike, which commonly turn violent. (There were bullet-sized holes in the floor of one of the classrooms I was in that would probably tell an interesting story). Despite all this, I do feel safe, people are friendly, and if anything the Universidad de Antioquia serves as a fascinating comparison to the perfectly manicured lawns and women at Scripps.
With the new year comes the promise of unexpected experiences and renewed energy to explore. I know that I have to take advantage of it all because the next five months are going to fly by.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A New View
Chapter 1: Medellin to Cartagena
Classes ended, my research put itself on hold, I attended the last Club Medellin Rotary meeting of the year, and was officially on vacation. First item on order was to catch up on sleep. Then some neglected sightseeing around the city and surrounding countryside. A trip to the airport to collect James, my boyfriend, who braved a long trip from Atlanta to spend his winter break with me. Lots more sightseeing (metrocable, Santa Fe de Antioquia, pueblo paisa, alumbrados, centro...etc). And suddenly it was Christmas.
You may or may not know that I have become close friends with a set of cousins. Three to be exact. They fight like siblings, hang out like college cronies, and have made me feel at home in Medellin. I was thus eternally grateful when they invited me and James to spend the 24th of December with their large and boisterous family at a country home in La Ceja. After never having succeeded at getting into the Christmas spirit, (even after sitting for hours on the couch with the tree lit and English carols blasting over me), the celebrations seemed like just another big party with additional generations. We ate green mangos, fried pork fat, and a lovely Christmas dinner. Watched the young children open presents after saying prayers and singing. Then danced to classic 70's Colombian music until way too late. Unlike the family traditions to which I am accustomed, the 25th is spent nursing a hangover and eating 'sancocho', a typical Colombian stew with chicken, yucca, potatoes, and avocado cooked over a wood stove. James was the hit of the day eating everything that the women offered him and surprising everyone by having enlightening conversations in broken Spanish. It was wonderful to spend the entire time in the bosom of a family and experience a typical Colombian Christmas--which makes me eternally grateful to my friends the cousins for successfully staving off an almost inevitable bout of holiday homesickness.
With my freedom from school and Rotary activities came the long-waited for opportunity to travel to parts of the country that are too far away to visit during the semester. James and I had an awful flying experience with Aero Republica (I recommend flying another airline if you ever visit Colombia), ending up in Barranquilla with free trip vouchers but three hours later than expected. From there we met up with Natalia, a friend of mine from Medellin, and another British boy (yes, James is English), and traveled together into La Guajira.
A desert strip jutting out into the Caribbean, La Guajira is a sparsely populated battleground between a Wayuu native people and smugglers importing contraband drugs, gasoline, and Chavista politics from Venezuela. Only eight months ago was the department overrun with guerrillas and train robberies, so of course it interested me as a destination. After spending the night in a friend of Natalia's boss, we took a 5-hour jeep ride along bumpy dirt roads until reaching Cabo de la Vela.
The next two days consisted of deciding when to eat freshly caught fish, exploring the barren Caribbean beaches, sleeping in a hammock, and laughing at James's attempts at communicating with toothless Wayuu women. If your idea of paradise involves complete seclusion, delicious swimming, seafood and a night sky laden with stars, La Guajira would be your slice of heaven. It was fascinating to not only see the lack of tourist infrastructure throughout the peninsula due to security problems, but how the Colombian government has neglected the region without running water and electricity. Luckily the Wayuu are known as very hearty and independent people, so they have survived such extreme poverty.
Yet no such trip into nowhere can be complete without some sort of surprise. After vomiting for six hours, I had to find a nice driver from a nearby camp to take James to the health clinic at eleven our last night and hoped that this new calamity would result in a funny story to tell later and not a tragic, life-changing event. The clinic of course was closed for the evening, but tucked beneath the cheery Christmas decorations on the door was the cell number for the doctor. We called, waited for him to come, but were disappointed when he had no diagnosis beyond extreme dehydration. Instead of putting in the prescribed IV himself, the doctor and driver had to go 10 minutes down the road to wake up the nurse and bring her to the clinic so she could struggle for over half an hour trying to find an appropriate vein in James's arm.
While feigning calmness, I was freaking out wondering if I really wanted to be responsible for the life of my boyfriend. James couldn't understand what the doctor or nurse were telling him and was bossily asking me to pour water in his mouth, cover him with a blanket, and ask the nurse if she knew what the F*** she was doing. My anxiety was exaggerated by the fact that the floors were covered in a film of sand, three dead flies were floating in the oxygen tank, and the doctor was referencing his medical textbooks from John Hopkins University looking concerned. Working in the public health sector of Colombia has enlightened me with a substantial amount of knowledge of their medical services, and what was offered in this tiny, forlorn town was far below the standards I know exist in the cities.
Luckily James stopped shaking and the color returned to his face until he was calm enough to take back to the beach shack and unstable hammock bed. We think he just had one of the most horrible migraines imaginable, because the next day he was fine. But I kept wondering what I would have done if it had been something more serious, or worse, if we I wasn't a demanding gringa with cultural and economic capital to demand top medical attention. It gave me good insight into the lives of many Colombians who live in rural places without adequate medical care, the people I am studying.
Before the day had a chance to break the following morning a local family picked us up and I watched the sunrise from the back of their pickup truck as we bounced back along the desert paths toward civilization. Looking out at the small houses constructed out of dried cactus stalks, the children squatting in front yards with stomachs bloated from hunger, and the herds of goats roaming freely, I felt like I was in another country...far away from the affluence and organization that I have come to know in Medellin. By asking the young man riding next to me what value the goats hold in his community, I learned that the when a Wayuu woman gets married her family expects to be paid at least 40 goats in a dowry package. Which is worth about $2000 USD. Not quite the same as the apartment, finca, and car that Colombian city women expect from their husband...
The 'civilization' we entered consisted of another small coastal pueblo called Manuare, known for their salt-processing plant. We trekked into the mounds of salt with our overstuffed backpacks and cameras snapping photos of a group of 20 men watching one tractor shovel salt into a hole. Although it was fascinating to see so much gleaming salt right next to the turquoise blue water, we were soon ready to hop onto a cycle taxi and slowly head toward a real city: Rioacha. The running water and fresh fruit were wonderful after camping-like conditions, and even though James was feeling better I was relieved to be near a real hospital.
After resting a night the four of us were ready to brave the 8-hour bus ride to Cartagena, going from desert to jungle to desert again all while keeping the Caribbean close outside the window. We arrived inside the walled city very hungry, sore from sitting for so long, and amazed at the bountiful time-between-Christmas-and-New Year's celebrations taking place. On the search for a hostel we passed a throng of GORGEOUS Colombian girls, and only after saying "Welcome to Cartagena" did we round a corner and bump into the Ms. Colombia beauty pageant.
The next few days we wandered around eating fresh shrimp cocktails, treating ourselves to amazing gourmet restaurants, getting lost in the narrow cobblestone streets that all look the same, and falling deeper in love (if that is even possible). It was wonderful to be so relaxed together with no plans or stress imaginable, and further confirmed my assertion that Cartagena is the most romantic city in the world--although I will admit that I have never been to Paris.
Pretty soon it was New Year's Eve and instead of buying the package dinner/entertainment for $200 we wandered around with a bottle of champagne enjoying the live bands playing on balconies. It seemed as if all the wealthy families in Colombia had come together on this one night, talking on their cell phones and eating their 5-course meals. At midnight we snuck into one of the largest parties and danced salsa on the sidewalk then headed up to a wall right on the ocean to watch the ensuing fireworks...a perfect way to welcome in 2009.
Eventually we had to emerge from our cocoon of non long-distance love and say a tearful goodbye at the airport, knowing that any uncertainty of staying together while living in separate countries had completely dissipated after a fantastic two weeks in Colombia. I enjoyed sharing with James the life I have created for myself here; places, friends, and my comfort with operating solely in Spanish. In return, he helped me see the country with a fresh perspective, noticing things I overlook due to familiarity and asking me uncomfortable questions about the poverty and suffering of people that is easy to look past on a daily basis. Two weeks in Colombia was long enough to make James to become as enchanted with the country as me, and I don't think it will be his last visit.
Chapter 2: Bogota, a return to the Caribbean, and Medellin
Despite having a long and tiring trip with James, my duties as tour guide were just beginning. The next morning I woke up at six to pick up my grandmother and her new husband up at the Bogota airport. Yes, my 80-year old 'Yaya' braved the kidnapping threats and showed up with five weeks notice as my next visitor.
Tired after an overnight flight, our first day in the capital consisted of visited the newly remodeled Gold Mueseum and Botero Museum. One of my only frustrations with Medellin as a city is that it lacks a diversity of culture, so spending hours looking at smelted artifacts, reading about the native Colombian cultures, and giggling at Botero's bloated figures was like drinking a glass of fresh water after running a marathon sipping at a bottle of tepid tea. The next few days we visited Monserrate to get a beautiful view of the endless extent of Bogota, the low dwellings eventually merging into the hazy horizon. We also visited a small lake called Guatavita and the extremely tranquil town planned around its banks. I loved hearing Dwight and Yaya exclaiming at the beauty of the countryside from their back seat in our guide's car throughout the entire day.
On the way back into town we happened across an imitation Taj Majal and a naked, male version of the statue of liberty that an Avianca pilot built as a theme park for people...random and hilarious but without comparison to Disneyland. Our guide also took us to a huge store belonging to one Swiss-owned dairy company where they sold all of their products and had bottles of yogurt and cheese wheels larger than me stuck into the lawn. It was like a surreal dairy heaven...
Thinking that Bogota was similar Medellin in that escaping the suburban sprawl and see the surrounding pueblos is a good use of time, we spent our last two days driving around in a northeasterly direction. We saw a salt cathedral built underground inside of an old salt mine in Zipaquira. It was more extensive than I imagined, encompassing 14 little chapels representing Jesus's walk with the cross and opening up into a huge basilica that seemed more like an artistic sculpture than a place of worship. Along the windy roads we passed hours of non-mechanized dairy farms, watching families go out into the fields in the afternoon to hand milk their plentiful cows and then wait on the side of the road with warmed milk cans for a truck to come by and pick then up. Later on that afternoon we touched down in Villa de Leyva, a town with one of the largest plazas in Colombia set in the middle of dry mountains and boasting of uniform white buildings with green balconies. It was very touristy, which meant that we had a wonderful French dinner and found beautiful jewelry in the small shops...food and shopping being the best parts of traveling abroad, of course.
The following morning we woke up early to head to the far-off destination of Laguna de Tota. After driving through rather boring towns for four hours we arrived at a dirt road that took us ALL around the lake to a white sand beach which wasn't really worth the bumps we endured to get there. However, every inch of land around the lake was farmed for green onions, and as we passed through field after field of green and white spikes sticking up towards the sky I realized that Colombian food does not only involve a lot of the vegetable for taste, but because they grow so many they have to put them in every dish just so the huge crops don't go to waste!!
During these road trips I visited three new departments, which for me validates the excessive driving because it introduced me to a whole different perspective of the country than what I have previously known (although I am not sure if my grandparents felt the same way...). Being at a higher altitude in the Andes reminded me much more of Ecuador and Peru due to the terrain and colder cultures--more of what I was expecting from Medellin. I noticed that the people weren't quite as friendly or outwardly confident as the paisas I know, proving to me how regionalized Colombia is. However, after getting a good feel for Bogota I wasn't jealous of the capital and glad that I chose the city I did to spend the year.
Then I was back in Cartagena, this time staying in a beautiful old hotel in the historical city center. I hadn't really minded the heat during my previous stay, but after seeing how much energy it drained from Yaya instituted a mandatory mid-day siesta. Again I woke up late, ate a fresh breakfast at the hotel, walked around the city (this time with a guide), and people-watched from a sidewalk cafe at night. We learned where Gabriel Garcia Marquez has a waterfront house, and was jealous of the inspiration that the famous Colombian author must entertain when living there (he wrote '100 Years of Solitude'). I guess the history of the city is full of real-life stories, being one of the main ports through which all of the riches gathered in the New World was shipped to Europe, attacked by pirates, and with a precarious decadence built on the productivity of a slave culture.
We also took a day trip to one of the Rosario Islands an hour off the coast, spending the morning floating in crystal-clear water and visiting the Oceanarium. In large open-water pens swim loads of turtles, big fish, show dolphins, and huge nerf sharks trained to perform for their food. The diversity of Colombia's terrain never ceases to impress me; going from capital city to mountains to lakes to coastal city to Caribbean islands, all in a matter of hours just blows my mind.
By the time I returned back to Medellin after three weeks I was utterly exhausted but still not allowed to rest. I took Yaya and Dwight to the big open market where we picked out fresh produce for the week, made similar tourist visits up the metrocable, Santa Fe de Antioquia, and explored the city center including the main museum in Medellin. But it was was nice to come back to my apartment where we could cook, hang out reading comfortably, and sit around a dinner table talking for hours after finishing a meal.
We also attended my host club's first Rotary meeting of the year, and I loved showing off all of my friendships with the 70-year old + members even if my grandparents didn't understand the jokes they told in Spanish. My Rotarian host counselor was extremely hospitable and drove us around the city, as well as invited us out to a great lunch with his wife that ended with us all laughing at traveling stories till we had tears running down our cheeks. As an ambassador I feel like I am fulfilling my duties of creating cross-cultural understanding, resulting in Yaya, Dwight, and James heading back to the US with rave reviews of Colombia and all the myths about violence and drugs having been dispelled with their travels.
And now after this long-winded account of my recent adventures I am back to laundry, research work, and sleeping in my own bed...all while entertaining one of my dear friends from Atlanta who has come to Medellin to study Spanish. Although ready to have my own space and normalized schedule, it is emotionally strengthening to be able to make jokes that are laughed at and be around people who know me well after extended periods of living alone and feeling out of place in a different culture . It is the familiarity of these things that I have missed the most during the past six months, and feel extremely blessed to be reminded while in Colombia how many wonderful people I have in my life.
Classes ended, my research put itself on hold, I attended the last Club Medellin Rotary meeting of the year, and was officially on vacation. First item on order was to catch up on sleep. Then some neglected sightseeing around the city and surrounding countryside. A trip to the airport to collect James, my boyfriend, who braved a long trip from Atlanta to spend his winter break with me. Lots more sightseeing (metrocable, Santa Fe de Antioquia, pueblo paisa, alumbrados, centro...etc). And suddenly it was Christmas.
You may or may not know that I have become close friends with a set of cousins. Three to be exact. They fight like siblings, hang out like college cronies, and have made me feel at home in Medellin. I was thus eternally grateful when they invited me and James to spend the 24th of December with their large and boisterous family at a country home in La Ceja. After never having succeeded at getting into the Christmas spirit, (even after sitting for hours on the couch with the tree lit and English carols blasting over me), the celebrations seemed like just another big party with additional generations. We ate green mangos, fried pork fat, and a lovely Christmas dinner. Watched the young children open presents after saying prayers and singing. Then danced to classic 70's Colombian music until way too late. Unlike the family traditions to which I am accustomed, the 25th is spent nursing a hangover and eating 'sancocho', a typical Colombian stew with chicken, yucca, potatoes, and avocado cooked over a wood stove. James was the hit of the day eating everything that the women offered him and surprising everyone by having enlightening conversations in broken Spanish. It was wonderful to spend the entire time in the bosom of a family and experience a typical Colombian Christmas--which makes me eternally grateful to my friends the cousins for successfully staving off an almost inevitable bout of holiday homesickness.
With my freedom from school and Rotary activities came the long-waited for opportunity to travel to parts of the country that are too far away to visit during the semester. James and I had an awful flying experience with Aero Republica (I recommend flying another airline if you ever visit Colombia), ending up in Barranquilla with free trip vouchers but three hours later than expected. From there we met up with Natalia, a friend of mine from Medellin, and another British boy (yes, James is English), and traveled together into La Guajira.
A desert strip jutting out into the Caribbean, La Guajira is a sparsely populated battleground between a Wayuu native people and smugglers importing contraband drugs, gasoline, and Chavista politics from Venezuela. Only eight months ago was the department overrun with guerrillas and train robberies, so of course it interested me as a destination. After spending the night in a friend of Natalia's boss, we took a 5-hour jeep ride along bumpy dirt roads until reaching Cabo de la Vela.
The next two days consisted of deciding when to eat freshly caught fish, exploring the barren Caribbean beaches, sleeping in a hammock, and laughing at James's attempts at communicating with toothless Wayuu women. If your idea of paradise involves complete seclusion, delicious swimming, seafood and a night sky laden with stars, La Guajira would be your slice of heaven. It was fascinating to not only see the lack of tourist infrastructure throughout the peninsula due to security problems, but how the Colombian government has neglected the region without running water and electricity. Luckily the Wayuu are known as very hearty and independent people, so they have survived such extreme poverty.
Yet no such trip into nowhere can be complete without some sort of surprise. After vomiting for six hours, I had to find a nice driver from a nearby camp to take James to the health clinic at eleven our last night and hoped that this new calamity would result in a funny story to tell later and not a tragic, life-changing event. The clinic of course was closed for the evening, but tucked beneath the cheery Christmas decorations on the door was the cell number for the doctor. We called, waited for him to come, but were disappointed when he had no diagnosis beyond extreme dehydration. Instead of putting in the prescribed IV himself, the doctor and driver had to go 10 minutes down the road to wake up the nurse and bring her to the clinic so she could struggle for over half an hour trying to find an appropriate vein in James's arm.
While feigning calmness, I was freaking out wondering if I really wanted to be responsible for the life of my boyfriend. James couldn't understand what the doctor or nurse were telling him and was bossily asking me to pour water in his mouth, cover him with a blanket, and ask the nurse if she knew what the F*** she was doing. My anxiety was exaggerated by the fact that the floors were covered in a film of sand, three dead flies were floating in the oxygen tank, and the doctor was referencing his medical textbooks from John Hopkins University looking concerned. Working in the public health sector of Colombia has enlightened me with a substantial amount of knowledge of their medical services, and what was offered in this tiny, forlorn town was far below the standards I know exist in the cities.
Luckily James stopped shaking and the color returned to his face until he was calm enough to take back to the beach shack and unstable hammock bed. We think he just had one of the most horrible migraines imaginable, because the next day he was fine. But I kept wondering what I would have done if it had been something more serious, or worse, if we I wasn't a demanding gringa with cultural and economic capital to demand top medical attention. It gave me good insight into the lives of many Colombians who live in rural places without adequate medical care, the people I am studying.
Before the day had a chance to break the following morning a local family picked us up and I watched the sunrise from the back of their pickup truck as we bounced back along the desert paths toward civilization. Looking out at the small houses constructed out of dried cactus stalks, the children squatting in front yards with stomachs bloated from hunger, and the herds of goats roaming freely, I felt like I was in another country...far away from the affluence and organization that I have come to know in Medellin. By asking the young man riding next to me what value the goats hold in his community, I learned that the when a Wayuu woman gets married her family expects to be paid at least 40 goats in a dowry package. Which is worth about $2000 USD. Not quite the same as the apartment, finca, and car that Colombian city women expect from their husband...
The 'civilization' we entered consisted of another small coastal pueblo called Manuare, known for their salt-processing plant. We trekked into the mounds of salt with our overstuffed backpacks and cameras snapping photos of a group of 20 men watching one tractor shovel salt into a hole. Although it was fascinating to see so much gleaming salt right next to the turquoise blue water, we were soon ready to hop onto a cycle taxi and slowly head toward a real city: Rioacha. The running water and fresh fruit were wonderful after camping-like conditions, and even though James was feeling better I was relieved to be near a real hospital.
After resting a night the four of us were ready to brave the 8-hour bus ride to Cartagena, going from desert to jungle to desert again all while keeping the Caribbean close outside the window. We arrived inside the walled city very hungry, sore from sitting for so long, and amazed at the bountiful time-between-Christmas-and-New Year's celebrations taking place. On the search for a hostel we passed a throng of GORGEOUS Colombian girls, and only after saying "Welcome to Cartagena" did we round a corner and bump into the Ms. Colombia beauty pageant.
The next few days we wandered around eating fresh shrimp cocktails, treating ourselves to amazing gourmet restaurants, getting lost in the narrow cobblestone streets that all look the same, and falling deeper in love (if that is even possible). It was wonderful to be so relaxed together with no plans or stress imaginable, and further confirmed my assertion that Cartagena is the most romantic city in the world--although I will admit that I have never been to Paris.
Pretty soon it was New Year's Eve and instead of buying the package dinner/entertainment for $200 we wandered around with a bottle of champagne enjoying the live bands playing on balconies. It seemed as if all the wealthy families in Colombia had come together on this one night, talking on their cell phones and eating their 5-course meals. At midnight we snuck into one of the largest parties and danced salsa on the sidewalk then headed up to a wall right on the ocean to watch the ensuing fireworks...a perfect way to welcome in 2009.
Eventually we had to emerge from our cocoon of non long-distance love and say a tearful goodbye at the airport, knowing that any uncertainty of staying together while living in separate countries had completely dissipated after a fantastic two weeks in Colombia. I enjoyed sharing with James the life I have created for myself here; places, friends, and my comfort with operating solely in Spanish. In return, he helped me see the country with a fresh perspective, noticing things I overlook due to familiarity and asking me uncomfortable questions about the poverty and suffering of people that is easy to look past on a daily basis. Two weeks in Colombia was long enough to make James to become as enchanted with the country as me, and I don't think it will be his last visit.
Chapter 2: Bogota, a return to the Caribbean, and Medellin
Despite having a long and tiring trip with James, my duties as tour guide were just beginning. The next morning I woke up at six to pick up my grandmother and her new husband up at the Bogota airport. Yes, my 80-year old 'Yaya' braved the kidnapping threats and showed up with five weeks notice as my next visitor.
Tired after an overnight flight, our first day in the capital consisted of visited the newly remodeled Gold Mueseum and Botero Museum. One of my only frustrations with Medellin as a city is that it lacks a diversity of culture, so spending hours looking at smelted artifacts, reading about the native Colombian cultures, and giggling at Botero's bloated figures was like drinking a glass of fresh water after running a marathon sipping at a bottle of tepid tea. The next few days we visited Monserrate to get a beautiful view of the endless extent of Bogota, the low dwellings eventually merging into the hazy horizon. We also visited a small lake called Guatavita and the extremely tranquil town planned around its banks. I loved hearing Dwight and Yaya exclaiming at the beauty of the countryside from their back seat in our guide's car throughout the entire day.
On the way back into town we happened across an imitation Taj Majal and a naked, male version of the statue of liberty that an Avianca pilot built as a theme park for people...random and hilarious but without comparison to Disneyland. Our guide also took us to a huge store belonging to one Swiss-owned dairy company where they sold all of their products and had bottles of yogurt and cheese wheels larger than me stuck into the lawn. It was like a surreal dairy heaven...
Thinking that Bogota was similar Medellin in that escaping the suburban sprawl and see the surrounding pueblos is a good use of time, we spent our last two days driving around in a northeasterly direction. We saw a salt cathedral built underground inside of an old salt mine in Zipaquira. It was more extensive than I imagined, encompassing 14 little chapels representing Jesus's walk with the cross and opening up into a huge basilica that seemed more like an artistic sculpture than a place of worship. Along the windy roads we passed hours of non-mechanized dairy farms, watching families go out into the fields in the afternoon to hand milk their plentiful cows and then wait on the side of the road with warmed milk cans for a truck to come by and pick then up. Later on that afternoon we touched down in Villa de Leyva, a town with one of the largest plazas in Colombia set in the middle of dry mountains and boasting of uniform white buildings with green balconies. It was very touristy, which meant that we had a wonderful French dinner and found beautiful jewelry in the small shops...food and shopping being the best parts of traveling abroad, of course.
The following morning we woke up early to head to the far-off destination of Laguna de Tota. After driving through rather boring towns for four hours we arrived at a dirt road that took us ALL around the lake to a white sand beach which wasn't really worth the bumps we endured to get there. However, every inch of land around the lake was farmed for green onions, and as we passed through field after field of green and white spikes sticking up towards the sky I realized that Colombian food does not only involve a lot of the vegetable for taste, but because they grow so many they have to put them in every dish just so the huge crops don't go to waste!!
During these road trips I visited three new departments, which for me validates the excessive driving because it introduced me to a whole different perspective of the country than what I have previously known (although I am not sure if my grandparents felt the same way...). Being at a higher altitude in the Andes reminded me much more of Ecuador and Peru due to the terrain and colder cultures--more of what I was expecting from Medellin. I noticed that the people weren't quite as friendly or outwardly confident as the paisas I know, proving to me how regionalized Colombia is. However, after getting a good feel for Bogota I wasn't jealous of the capital and glad that I chose the city I did to spend the year.
Then I was back in Cartagena, this time staying in a beautiful old hotel in the historical city center. I hadn't really minded the heat during my previous stay, but after seeing how much energy it drained from Yaya instituted a mandatory mid-day siesta. Again I woke up late, ate a fresh breakfast at the hotel, walked around the city (this time with a guide), and people-watched from a sidewalk cafe at night. We learned where Gabriel Garcia Marquez has a waterfront house, and was jealous of the inspiration that the famous Colombian author must entertain when living there (he wrote '100 Years of Solitude'). I guess the history of the city is full of real-life stories, being one of the main ports through which all of the riches gathered in the New World was shipped to Europe, attacked by pirates, and with a precarious decadence built on the productivity of a slave culture.
We also took a day trip to one of the Rosario Islands an hour off the coast, spending the morning floating in crystal-clear water and visiting the Oceanarium. In large open-water pens swim loads of turtles, big fish, show dolphins, and huge nerf sharks trained to perform for their food. The diversity of Colombia's terrain never ceases to impress me; going from capital city to mountains to lakes to coastal city to Caribbean islands, all in a matter of hours just blows my mind.
By the time I returned back to Medellin after three weeks I was utterly exhausted but still not allowed to rest. I took Yaya and Dwight to the big open market where we picked out fresh produce for the week, made similar tourist visits up the metrocable, Santa Fe de Antioquia, and explored the city center including the main museum in Medellin. But it was was nice to come back to my apartment where we could cook, hang out reading comfortably, and sit around a dinner table talking for hours after finishing a meal.
We also attended my host club's first Rotary meeting of the year, and I loved showing off all of my friendships with the 70-year old + members even if my grandparents didn't understand the jokes they told in Spanish. My Rotarian host counselor was extremely hospitable and drove us around the city, as well as invited us out to a great lunch with his wife that ended with us all laughing at traveling stories till we had tears running down our cheeks. As an ambassador I feel like I am fulfilling my duties of creating cross-cultural understanding, resulting in Yaya, Dwight, and James heading back to the US with rave reviews of Colombia and all the myths about violence and drugs having been dispelled with their travels.
And now after this long-winded account of my recent adventures I am back to laundry, research work, and sleeping in my own bed...all while entertaining one of my dear friends from Atlanta who has come to Medellin to study Spanish. Although ready to have my own space and normalized schedule, it is emotionally strengthening to be able to make jokes that are laughed at and be around people who know me well after extended periods of living alone and feeling out of place in a different culture . It is the familiarity of these things that I have missed the most during the past six months, and feel extremely blessed to be reminded while in Colombia how many wonderful people I have in my life.
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