Street Culture

Street Food
Of course, whenever you think of streets in developing countries the smell of sketchy meat cooking on the corner wafts into your sensory memory. Welcome to Colombia! Chuzos, or meat kabobs (usually chicken), are accompanied by a small white corn arepa and a mayo/ketchup sauce. You can also find a wide-array of fried food being sold anywhere in the country, including empanadas (corn flour crust stuffed with meat and potatoes), buñuelos (fried cheesy dough with a slight sweet twinge), or arepas con huevo (thin arepas cut in half and fried with an egg inside). There are even small establishments that will deliver the food straight to your car, an informal version of a Colombian drive-thru. But my favorite, and healthier option, is always the fresh fruit. You can buy a cup of guayaba (guava) and mango with salt and lime, sandia (watermelon), papaya, piña (pineapple), or fresas (strawberries). It costs 1,000 pesos or about 35 cents, and, whoever is running the little stand will pick out a whole fruit and cut it up in front of you, fresh! You can also buy whole papayuelas, granadillas, apples, oranges, bananas, and avocados in bulk or individually. Men will be pushing wheelbarrows topped off with stalks of bananas for sale, and then there are always the men pushing long carts with a wide array of your daily fruit and veg through neighborhoods shouting their own song featuring the special of the day. Or, if you are feeling a bit more adventurous, you could even ask for a juice in a water or milk base, resulting in a tropical milkshakesque delight. I already know what I am going to miss most about Colombia...

Street Performers
One of my favorite reasons for choosing to walk through the city is to be able to stop and watch the street performers. Jugglers, unicycle riders, mimes dressed in fatigues, or saxophone players dressed as Santa are all an easy source for amusement. My favorite was a man who had dressed his Jack Russel Terrier up as an old woman and danced with her to classic music, and at the end the dog did a back flip landing in his arms to great applause. Most of these performers will stand in busy intersections and try to collect a few coins from the people waiting in cars at a red stoplight. I find that taxi drivers usually collaborate, as well as most other people if the show was good. Performers will also board inter-city buses to serenade you with their gangster wrap or off-tune guitar ballads, and I must say I am a sucker to any kid who puts himself out to a captive audience rocking his socks off.

Street Owners
From where I come, people usually consider the street public property. And I guess it still is here. But any time there is a wide stretch of street in an area where people want to park, people suddenly appear out of nowhere demanding money for parking in their strip as if they owned the street. And nobody seems to complain, given that whoever they tip 500-1000 pesos makes sure their car is safe for however long they are off entertaining themselves off the street. When I have asked friends here if there is some sort of cooperative or organized rotation of street owners, they say it is just first-come, first-serve. Competitive business, eh?

Street Dwellers
Given the large amounts of displaced people, impoverished people, and just plain poor people, you can find people sleeping in the stoops of even the nicest of Medellin's neighborhoods. I hate that my heartstrings are stretched out and don't feel a sympathetic pull whenever I walk by a dirty blanket with mismatched socks sticking out like Dorothy's wicked witch, but it is so common that the street dwellers and their begging whine just blend in with the rest of the landscape.

Street Cleaners
One of the aspects of the city that impresses me the most is its continual cleanliness. Several decades ago Medellin was the pioneer of a street cleaner project, contracting people to walk around the city with huge trash bins sweeping up trash, debris, leaves, and ugliness. Not only does it create lots of jobs, but it means that the morning after a riotous futbol match you can't find a trace of confetti nor a single beer bottle.

Street Workers
Any major city wouldn't be complete without prostitutes, and Medellin has its fair share. Driving through certain streets at night you can find women of questionable biological sex flipping their platinum-blonde hair and cocking their wrists against their curvey hips. Or, walking through parts of the Centro during the day you can conveniently find similar women waiting outside of cheap hotels. Colombia has a huge problem with children being exported and sold as sex slaves, and Medellin is known for their 12-year old street workers. Thankfully I haven't had the opportunity of meeting one myself.

Street Art
Compared to Berlin or San Francisco Medellin does not have incredible graffiti, but there are some walls that are tastefully decorated. I find that there is less 'tagging' and more artistic portraits or scenes, actually adding class to otherwise scraggly streets. Of course walls are also a free source of advertisement, so whenever looking for a new dance studio, mechanic, or concert just look to the walls around heavily trafficked intersections.

Street Vendors
Did you know that Colombia pirates the second largest amount of movies and video games, after China? Well they do, and you can find hundreds of copies of the latest blockbusters for sale on the street, $5.000 pesos each. Belts, flowers, shoes, shoe repairmen, stolen belongings at garage-sale prices, snail slime (supposedly it has healing powers), vegetable graters, watch bands or batteries, jeans--you name it, they sell it. I love wandering through the Centro and listening to the vendors hawking their wares, wondering what use anyone would have for that.

In the street, anything can happen...

“Everything I have seen reinforces the idea that this it is a type of place where we can show our investments and its results, and how these can make a great difference”. --Bill Gates, President of Microsoft Corporation, during his visit to Colombia.

“Being in Colombia makes me think what happiness is. In Europe, where we supposedly have everything, people do not smile as they smile in this country, where apparently they have so little.”

--Rupert Eden, journalist of the newspaper and the magazine Voyeur of Barcelona.

Transported by Taxis

I know I might sound spoiled by admitting this, but I really miss having my own car.

(North) Americans are known for loving their personal transport, and in the context of Colombia I definitely fit that stereotype. Cars here are extremely expensive to buy (think high import taxes), insure, fill with gas (Colombia is the country with the second highest gas prices in the world despite neighboring Venezuela), and park (even outside of the city). Which makes them a luxury. But I still miss being able to travel independently.

The past few days have shown the effective change of weather to 'winter,' and it seems like every single time I want to travel anywhere within the city it starts raining as soon as I step out the door. Which means that I have taken up the Colombian past-time of standing under eves for long periods of time watching the water dump down on the city, excusably late for meetings and utterly frustrated. I wish that I could just get into my car whenever I want and travel door-to-door without having to pay someone else, give directions, or worry about safety beyond the normal perils of the road (arguably more life-threatening than anywhere else I have driven).

Mind you, Medellin does have a fairly well-organized transportation system. The metro is amazing; running efficiently, cleanly, throughout most parts of the city, and most importantly, close by my apartment. There are always buses careening through the streets, but despite my best efforts to understand their routes, I have not been able to find any consistency and often find myself further from my destination than when I started. And most importantly, there are always taxis.

Taxis have been my saving grace. When I am dressed up for a Rotary meeting and don't feel like changing modes of transportation three times in high heels, I will call a taxi. If it starts to rain and I absolutely have to be somewhere soon (and in a dry state), I will duck into a taxi. Or, if I have to transport a finished painting and I don't want to smudge anyone else's clothes on the metro, I will hail a taxi.

Another bonus is that Medellin happens to have the lowest taxi prices in the whole country. The minimum price is about $1.30, and rarely will I spend over $5 getting from one end of town to the other. Tipping is not customary so I don't have to add in an extra few pesos unless the taxista was entirely helpful, say, unloading my groceries into the elevator. Many taxi companies rent out their vehicles to associated drivers, and I have been told that it is not rare for a taxista to spend more on gas and payment to the company than they earn from customers. Sad indeed, but hey, I do appreciate their cheap labor.

The only problem is that the combined friendly nature of paisas and the lonely nature of taxi driving often lead to many undesirable or uncomfortable conversations. Every taxista has some story to tell, comment to make about the weather, or even worse, compliment on my eyes. (I have taken to wearing sunglasses, even at night, to avoid the gawking). The short, autobiographical story posted below is an example of such an encounter:

Voice of an Angel

The door was shut efficiently behind me. “To the Stadium, please. San Juan with 73.” We rolled out of the driveway, past the square fountain and parked cars, onto the rainy highway asphalt. When the clouds of afternoon fog unfurl every afternoons it is impossible to see the skyline of downtown, suffocating under tropical downpours.

“Where are you from?”

“Los Estados Unidos.”

“Oh, really? You must be rich then.”

“Ha, not really. Not everyone from there has money. Nor do we have this much rain. Most of my state happens to be desert.”

“Then you must have lots of snakes.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Almost nine months.”

“You’re basically from here, then. No wonder why your Spanish is so good.”

“Thank you, but I have studied it for a long time. I should hope that it is good.” Red tail lights in front of the taxi blurred across the windshield as the lunch-time traffic heading toward the center slowed down into a digestive halt. The ticking of pesos on the taximetro decelerated at an equal rate.

“So do you go out to party much?”

“Depends.”

“You should totally go to Corner 67. It is the best place in the city.”

“I think my friend invited me there last weekend for a capoeira performance. Where is it?”

“Down on the 33, behind Pintuco.”

“I like to go out on weekend trips so don’t make it to the discos all that often.”

“Right. So when are you leaving?”

“July. Sadly enough.”

“And when are you coming back?”

“Who knows. Depends on my money.”

“Do you have a lot of friends there?”

“Yeah, it is my home. But I also have a lot here.”

“Are the women very beautiful in your country?”

“Of course there are some. But percentage-wise, more here. And women here take better care of themselves going to get their nails done and wearing make-up and all. You should appreciate it.”

“You must be intelligent.”

“How do I answer that question? I like to study, and the more one studies the more they learn how little they actually know.”

“Then you are a teacher or something.”

“Actually a professor at the Facultad Nacional de Salud Publica at the Antioquia.”

“Man, that place has a lot of guerrillas.”

“Just last week they had to stop classes because the student leader groups were threatened by the guerrillas.”

“Yeah. They have so much money that they pay their people to go study there. Get specializations and stuff.”

“In what? What fields would help the guerrillas?”

“Oh, anything really.” The big shopping center to the left was full of umbrellas competing for head room and yellow taxis lined up waiting to take home purchased wares. It gave me the urge to ask him to stop early so I could wander through the stores smelling like chemically dyed fabrics with their invigorating music wooing the adrenaline rush you get when buying new things for yourself.

“You must like to eat a lot of fruit.”

“Ha. That’s a silly question. I do indeed, I love all the tropical fruits you have here.” For the first time since getting into the back seat the driver adjusts the rear-view mirror so our eyes can meet, and for extra measures he turns around to give me the look-over.

“Yup, you do have an apple face.” What does that mean? In shape or color or texture or some double meaning I don’t understand? Maybe I started sweating a lot more than I realized during the meeting and my skin got shiny like the waxed surface of imported apples.

“Is all of your family there? They must be mad at you for coming so far away.”

“I don’t have any family here. But they don’t mind, I will only be here a year and nowadays it is normal for young people to live in other countries. In fact, in order to get a good job you have to have international experience.”

“Do you want to get married? Or do you want to be independent forever?”

“Actually I do. I have a boyfriend and maybe we will get married in a few years. I would like that…”

“Where is he from?”

“He is from there.”

“But where does he live?”

“Here right now. He is a teacher of economics.”

“Oh. How fortunate you are! You have everything figured out.”

“Almost, I guess.”

“Do you like children?”

“Yes, a lot. What about you?”

“No, I don’t. I’m psychotic.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t like anyone, I have psychotic tendencies.” He paused as we entered the first large roundabout entering the strip of alternating stores selling motorcycles and interior garments. What a perfect combination. The two items that someone thinks is the best way to attract the opposite sex. “I was abused as a child. My mother used to hit me. She would take a long pole and hit the parts on my body that were bony. Here on my elbow I have a scar.” His right arm sticks out from the seat ahead above the middle console with the sleeve raised to show me what looks like a perfectly normal elbow. I notice that he has one of those thick leather watches on, a black band with square, black face. The hands are too small for me to be able to read the time. It must be around 2:30. “It made me hate people. I used to abuse other children because my mind was so ruined. I had indulgent tendencies and didn’t know how to make good decisions. Being abused affected me until I was old, like 22 or so.”

“And now?”

“I started listening to 710. On the radio.” A finger points to the dark, quiet radio. The only sound we aren’t making is that of tires trying to find ground under puddles and the squeaking of the clutch as he shifts gears. “The Señor saved me. I found the word of God. Every morning there is a program that has changed my life.”

“Who talks? I mean, what is the program about?”

“God’s love. It has changed my life. I am going to tell you a story. When I was 23 I was driving my taxi late at night at one of the barrios up top there. I had a beautiful young girl in the back seat. She got in at a corner bar where she had been drinking with her friends. She was so beautiful. So we started driving away, and I asked her where to. I didn’t hear anything so looked back and she was fast asleep on the back seat. Now this was before I had found the Señor, and I was full of bad things. I kept driving until I reached a forest. It was all dark around and just trees, nobody else. I pulled off the road and stopped the car. She was still sleeping so beautifully, didn’t even wake up when we stopped. So I went around and got into the back seat next to her. I reached over and slowly started unbuttoning her shirt.” I can see his eyebrows raising in the rearview mirror, the only discernable part of his expression besides a forehead and black tufts of hair sticking up. “I slowly unbuttoned her shirt, and then stuck my hand down. Touched her breast. Then I moved down to her waist. She was so beautiful. Moved my hand down into her pants. But I didn’t do anything. Right then, I heard this voice. Coming from the left window. It spoke my name, it knew who I was. It said, “What are you doing? Don’t do that.” We were out in the middle of the woods, you know, so there wasn’t anyone around. But I got out of the car and walked around, trying to find where the voice had come from. Nobody was there, of course, so I got back into the car and started unbuttoning her shirt more. The voice spoke to me again, and that second time I got scared. It was the voice of an angel and it was saving me. So just as I had unbuttoned her shirt I buttoned it back up again, arranged her comfortably in the back seat, and drove away. That voice saved me from all of the bad things. I drove back to the neighborhood where I picked her up. Didn’t stop where the men she was with were still drinking.”

“And she didn’t wake up through any of this?”

“No, she had drunk a lot. So I went passed the bar and stopped a few blocks up when I saw a young boy in the street. I asked him if he knew the girl passed out on my back seat, and he told me her name and that she lived a few blocks up. He came with me and I brought her home to her parents. I didn’t do anything. But I am sure that it was an angel that saved me. And the next morning, when I got into my taxi to work, I found 710, and have been listening to the program every morning since then. That was about ten years ago, and it has helped me to resist so many temptations.” By this time we had both been so engrossed in the story, me by horror and he probably by vicarious excitement of his past life, that we missed the usual turn to get home.

“Turn here at the right, quick.”

“Sure, sure. We will turn right here onto San Juan, and then onto 73, right? We’ll be right there. I am going to tell you another story. One night I was working at 3 am, driving through a barrio that is very dangerous. Up ahead, like where that silver car just changed lanes, I see this girl standing on the street with her hand out like this.” His fingers again stick out beyond the seat where I can see them, pointing in a more sensual version of how a woman would flag down a taxi late at night. “I pull over because it is dangerous for me and her and I wonder what a 9-year old girl is doing in the street at that time. She gets in and I ask her where to take her. ‘Where to, she repeats. Wherever we are going.’ I looked over and asked ‘what do you mean where we are going?’ And she tells me that I might want her, starting to take off her shirt and pulls down her pants to here.” I slightly bend forward so I can see his hands drawing a line across his legs right above the knees.

“She didn’t have tits, hair, nothing. She was nine years old! She said that I could have her if I wanted. I asked her how much she wanted, and she said however much I would give her. Now, she totally repulsed me, a girl that young made me feel sick because she was so undeveloped it wouldn’t be any fun. I told her that she wasn’t my type, I liked older, more voluptuous women. And then took her back to where she got in. Gave her 4.000. Now, I was curious because she said that she had a sister with a baby, and that was why she needed the money. I wanted to see if she was telling the truth. So I drove around the block a few times, and then came back. I caught a glimpse of her running up some steep steps into a house with a bag in her hand. I could tell that she had bought a bag of milk, some toast, and a small package of disposable diapers. Should I keep going over San Juan?” So revolted by the story, more by the fact that he had let her undress next to him than that there was a 9-year old working as a prostitute, that it took a few seconds for the relief to sink in that I was almost home.

“Yes, just a few blocks more.”

“I didn’t do anything. I could have had her. But I was able to resist with the help of the Señor I now have the strength to resist these things. For ten years I haven’t been touched by the same desires as before. My only weakness is women with money. When I see a car like this,” he points to a shiny blue SUV lumbering onto a curb to park, “with a woman driving, I lose the control He gives me. I don’t know why. Women with money just turn me on. They are so beautiful.”

“Turn to the right, this is the block. Now pull over at the black gate, perfect.” I reach into my purse and accidentally pull out a 1000 note rather than the 10000. They look so similar, one with a peachy background and coral lettering, the other beige with burgundy. And all folded up to fit into a wallet, it was an honest mistake. “Thank you.”

As I hand him the bill he looks into the rear-view mirror again and states, “I made you nervous, didn’t I.” After quickly pulling out the change he turns around with it in his hand, saying “But see, you are more than beautiful, so you didn’t have to worry.”

“Yeah right,” I respond, and step into a puddle slamming the door shut behind me.

Displaced Misery

Newspaper articles, prime-time stories, and movies all focus on the drug-related violence taking place in Colombia. A cocaine drop-off was intercepted by the Coast Guard in Miami. More kidnapped victims were released after spending six years chained to a tree in the jungle whittling rosaries out of seeds. Obama's administration applauds Plan Colombia's success at fumigating 100,000 hectares of coca fields along the border with Ecuador in 2008 (which was less than the 120,000 hectares of new fields planted during the same year). Does it ever seem strange that the people at the forefront of the information about Colombia involves paramilitary, guerrillas, and government officials? What about all the other (innocent) people involved?

The majority of Colombians have probably never even seen drugs before, let alone become involved in them in some way. But they do know that foreigners from the US and Europe consume large amounts of the cocaine and marijuana that feeds the violence affecting their country. It isn't the fault of Colombians that drugs are addicting and white people can afford them. Yet they still suffer the consequences of the growing demand for such stimulants.

A hidden and very serious effect of the narco-trafficking and resulting drug wars is the second-largest population of internally displaced peoples IN THE WORLD. Sudan, with over 5 million internally displaced people (IDPs) is first, IDPs making up 14% of the overall population. Colombia has around 3.5 million IDPs, constituting 7.8% of the population of the country and 1.5 times the population of Medellin. People have fled from over more that 90% of Colombian municipalities, either in response to or in anticipation of violence targeted against them by armed groups. But when you think of the Lost Boys and UN refugee camps set up for displaced Sudanese, you also think of some schools, clinics, and services dedicated to people fleeing violence. It makes them a much easier group to count, access, and to whom international organizations can administer aid. In Colombia, displaced families flee to the large cities, other rural areas, and sometimes across international borders into Venezuela or Ecuador but in general are so dispersed throughout the country that it is impossible to keep track of them all.

As the second-largest city in Colombia, Medellin hosts over 110,000 displaced people. They come mainly from the nearby district of Choco, are disproportionately Afro-Colombian, arrive without anywhere to stay and without knowing anyone, are unaccustomed to city life, highly uneducated, and more likely to end up living on the streets than anywhere else. Because of the intrinsic complications of secretive groups inflicting violence on civilians, it is too confusing to try to figure out whether the paramilitary or guerrillas are the primary cause of displacement, but at this point there are too many problems to undertake with this population that pointing fingers is the least of any one's worries.

When IDPs arrive in the city, they are encouraged to register their situation with UAO, an over-worked sector of the government set up to aid displaced people. However, because many people have been horrifically threatened and fear being discovered in their new location by entering their name on a national list, they do not register for the services of which they are in dire need. This serves as a problem because the majority of them aren't even entered in the national SISBEN registry and effectively invisible as far as the state is concerned--they do not exist. However, everyone, unregistered as it may be, are referred to one of four 'albergues', or shelters set up by private organizations, where they live while trying to acclimate to Medellin, find work, and contemplate their dire future.

Like in every other place in the world, women carry the burden of inflicted violence. One in every three displaced Colombian girls has a baby before she reaches 20 years of age, and one in five displaced women will be raped during their lifetime. What happens to these babies and what are the government or other entities doing about this huge problem? As a researcher, I have undertaken this difficult question but have yet to come up with any definitive answers. What I have learned so far has been through working one to two days at one of the shelters that can house up to 80 displaced people for a maximum of 3 months.

Most of the people living there are single mothers with anywhere from 3 to 8 children, although some come with spouses in complete family units or as a couple having left children behind. The environment is of idle fear, board children, and a sadness so palpable that every time I breathe I feel like I could drown in each person's sad story.

Rather than getting caught up in the past, I try to help the adults focus on their future by offering literacy classes. Most women haven't received an education past 1st grade; their children are better than them at arithmetic and spelling. I also try to the best of my foreign knowledge of the Colombian system try to research technical training programs available to them, and give classes on the correct way to dress and act when approaching a fast food restaurant or vendor of cell phone visits asking for work. Despite my best efforts, they seem so lost in their hopelessness that very few have responded with any action.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could only work with the children--at least they apply what I teach them during art classes and singing games and have more hope for their futures. But I know that several other people come to play, wooed by their sly smiles and ever hug-ready arms, leaving the adults abandoned and feeling even more despaired. In return for this work, they are also more willing when I ask if I can interview them for my research.

My project focuses on the experience of pregnant women during displacement. This involves how their lack of permanent home affects access to maternal services, what effect displacement has on family dynamics, and their worries about bringing a new child into such a difficult situation. It is heartbreaking to listen to a 22-year old girl younger than myself explain how she is pregnant with her 4th child fathered by a man who was drafted by the guerrillas and she might never see again. The other children all have different fathers and are living with her mother. She had her first sexual encounter at age 11 with a man who was 30, then pregnant by age 12 from a different partner. When I asked her why she doesn't use any sort of family planning she said she got pregnant again so she could be sterilized by PROFAMILIA, the national branch of Planned Parenthood, because they won't perform the procedure on anyone with under 4 children. Luckily, that same PROFAMILIA offers excellent, *free* maternal services to displaced women and so the actual pregnancy should result healthily for mom and baby alike. But what happens after the child is born, she moves out of the shelter, and again has no future?

I am trying to learn from my informants what difficulties displaced women face in Colombia in order to internationally make people aware of this issue that otherwise is undetected on the radar of human rights and health organizations. I wish that I could come up with some sort of solution, but the main problem that needs attention is education--the solution for many of the world's suffering people. As one foreigner I cannot override an entire system, but can elucidate the experience of IDP women by sharing it here and hopefully publishing a book on my findings after I complete my research term. Please interact with my postings to help me discuss and expand my research in forums other than those available to me in Colombia, and would appreciate any feedback readers might have.

Ciclovia Sundays

Running, biking, rollerskating, rollerblading, patinando, paseando, strolling, strutting, scooting, swishing. On Sundays between 7am and 2pm, Medellin brings out its best as over 37.000 people get outdoors to enjoy 29 km of streets-turned-pedestrian runways. Luckily the route starts right outside my front gate, and I can join the troops on the large loop around the stadium. Entire families will come out while young children wobble on training wheels while parents tug along a dog or grandma. Hairy men by themselves will sweat more liquid than I drink in a week as they slowly jog by. Young couples will never let go of the other's hand as they talk and stroll along. Each week presents new obstacles as I run at my own speed; avoiding older women learning how to ride a bike, kids in speedos running across the track to swimming lessons, puppies on the loose, sunglasses vendors, and your usual oblivious children. After anyone finishes their exercise, they will slump into plastic chairs around the fruit vendors and munch on a yellow hunk of pineapple or scoop out their salpicon (fruit salad with ice cream on top), drinking fresh-squeezed oj. Ahhhhh. The pleasures of living in the tropics.

Despite the city's horrible pollution, I am impressed with the local/national health-promotion programs in Medellin. The institute of sports and recreation, INDER, organizes lots of events to get the population out of their apartment blocks and moving around. Other countries could learn about disease prevention from the ciclovia, mass aerobics classes they offer throughout the mornings and evenings in different parks, sports clubs, portable gymnastics classes for children, etc. etc. It seems like everyone does some sort of exercise at least once a week, no matter how old or young or in shape or lazy. I guess the wonderful weather here supports outdoor activity, but it is great to live in a place that encourages physical activity.

Another preventative aspect of the country is that all (national) health insurance companies are required by law to offer a certain number of recreational locations throughout the country. Members pay a ridiculously low entrance fee such as 1.000 pesos, and non-members pay a slightly higher but still economical price. This includes water parks (think water slides and massive pools), nature parks with camping and boating, endless tennis courts or soccer fields, and perfect picnic destinations. It means that if a family is traveling anywhere in the country, they have affordable access to the outdoors. No wonder why there are so few overweight, unhappy people in this country. The majority of Colombians exercise!

Ambassadorial Duties

As a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, I am required to participate in my host Rotary club (Club Rotario Medellin), make 10-15 presentations throughout my district to other clubs and any other group of people who would be interested, partake in Rotary events happening throughout the city, teach people about Rotary and my scholarship, and spread 'peace and goodwill' throughout Colombia. All of these activities require a large amount of self-motivation and confidence since I frequently have to walk into a room of the wealthiest, most influential, and intelligent people in Medellin inspiring them to continue putting 'service above self'. For those of you who knew me before I went to Italy on the Rotary Youth Exchange, I could barely look my relatives in the eye and have a normal conversation I was so shy. Although remnants of that anti-social girl still poke through my current personality, constantly representing my sponsor Rotary District 5300 and my entire country has been a great exercise at not only being comfortable with but actually enjoying public attention.

One of the most helpful factors is the result of the energy I invested during my first months here meeting as many Rotarians as possible. It means that whenever I attend the meeting of a new club to make a presentation I am greeted by familiar faces who are always friendly and supportive. Moving to a foreign country on one's own could be a lonely experience, but Colombians and specifically Colombian Rotarians are some of the most welcoming people I have ever met and have never once felt excluded.

My presentations usually consist of a brief introduction to where I come from (Encinitas/Southern California), my family, my sponsor club, and then I explain my experience with Rotary through being a member of Interact in high school and going on an exchange to Milan. I then move into how I developed an interest in public health, starting with working in the Peruvian Amazon with an indigenous community, conducting diabetes research at the LA Free Clinic, and interning at The Carter Center. I emphasize the efficacy of projects with simple solutions such as filtering water with a cloth in Africa to prevent Guinea Worm, and how while internationally Rotary is one of the most successful organizations in this sense, local clubs should use similar tactics when developing community projects. Usually my presentation ends with thunderous applause and Rotarians coming up to me with business cards offering me access to the country club, a tourist agency to plan my next trip, visits to prisons, a weekend getaway to a finca, among other random opportunities. Rotarians help me keep a fairly busy schedule, to say the least.

Two weekends ago I participated in a seminar given by the district governor-elect and her club on the district's goals for the upcoming Rotary year (starting July 1), and it was more fun for me to float around between clumps of Rotarians visiting with people from all over the city than it is for me to go out to a discotec with young paisas. The minimum age to become a Rotarian is 30, but the average age of my host club is about 72 and most other Rotarians I know are around my parent's age, meaning that the people who I hang out with most in Colombia are double, triple my years. I find that they always teach me something new about Colombian culture, engage me in interesting conversations about politics or globalization, and are interested to hear about my opinions of the country.
Of course the Rotaract (18-30) and Interact (high school age) clubs help keep me up-to-date with the latest trends among Colombian youth. Last Saturday I worked with the Rotaract Club of El Poblado to organize a blood drive in the center. We thought that the location, at the base of the most important financial building and near a shopping mall, would be a difficult place to attract the 40 people we hoped would donate because of the fast-moving pedestrian traffic all around, but were proved wrong. As I stood outside handing out pamphlets and trying to entice people towards the gurneys and needles, I was surprised at how many people not only were aware of the benefits of donating blood but routinely offered up their veins. Compared to the blood donation culture of which I am aware in the US, Colombians are extremely well-educated on the difference it makes. By the time I left for lunch at noon, our slogan "Give blood, give life" had yielded us a line of people waiting to be attended by the nurses.

I have also enjoyed sharing the Rotary culture here in Medellin with my many visitors. My grandma and her new husband, farmer friend MK, and boyfriend James have all attended a meeting with me and been wooed by the gumptious old Rotarians over typical food and interesting presentations from outside speakers. As an ambassador, I feel like I am successfully accomplishing the task of serving as a liaison between US and Colombian culture, creating opportunities outside of myself for everyone to participate in cross-cultural experiences. If only I could be an Ambassadorial Scholar forever...