3 Weeks, 1 Backpack

Not even a proper backpacker’s backpack, just a standard book bag.

Chillin' with a blowfish (pez globo in Spanish)

I am now in the comfort of my own, warm, Christmas-adorned home, where I will be for the next five days, but I spent the first part of the month getting to know some different cities within Colombia. I went from jungle trekking to scuba diving to historic city meandering. All wonderful.

Traveling is an art. It can be done lavishly or on a shoestring, hastily or lackadaisically, methodically or spontaneously, or some permutation of the aforementioned. No matter how you choose to do it, it opens your eyes to a simplified way of life. Restricted either by airline weight regulations or those of your own carrying capacity, you can only bring so much shit along with you. And you still probably bring more than you need.

Me and some militaries at La Ciudad Perdida (Lost City)

I’ve got more stuff than I’ll ever know what to do with. This particular trip made me appreciate the bare necessities. Uphill hikes through the jungle make insect repellent and a decently-sized water bottle much more important than spare sets of clothing, especially when everything you have will get wet anyways. And you can forget about a brush, hairdryer, straightner, or makeup of any sort. Not at all relevant. Your alarm clock is the sun, a bothersome rooster, or your noisy neighbors, whichever comes first.

Another thing I realized on this trip is that I’ve always liked to have a plan. I still do. There are many benefits to a plan. But sometimes you have to be willing to throw the plan to the wind. Make a new plan. Don’t stick with something just because you’re already mentally, physically, or financially invested in it. In psychology we call this the sunk cost effect. Basically, the impending dissonance involved in accepting that we messed up or had another, better option keeps us stubborn, resistant to change, or blindly hopeful. The funny thing is, children under the age of 2 and monkeys do not demonstrate this principle. So apparently, you have to be pretty smart and “rational” to do something so stupid.

Ready for a night out in Taganga

My mom used to tell me that I would say, “I didn’t even know I wanted this” when I would open a present that I liked yet hadn’t specifically noted on my Santa Wish List. Same goes for life. Not everything can be planned for or predetermined because you don’t always know you want something until it’s in your lap. Don’t wrap it back up just because it’s not part of the plan. Go on, take the money and run. – Steve Miller Band

Gunther

Playing parques with Benjamin

The following post will almost undoubtedly reveal my insanity.  Here goes.

The official trailer for the new movie The Social Network says, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies.”   This thought struck me. 

I’ve always been of the camp that I’m a good person and I am who I am, take it or leave it.  I can’t possibly make everyone happy, and I wasn’t put on this Earth to do so. Of course I like to be liked, but I don’t need everyone to like me.  I’m still of this camp.  I think.  But to an extreme, this mentality is no more than a good excuse to be unkind, unfair, perhaps a little stuck in my ways.  So I started thinking.  Who do I know that’s truly liked by everyone?  And what is this person like?  How can I be more like him/her?     

The first “person” who came to my mind was Gunther.  I’m 23 years old and I still sleep with a teddy bear.  His name is Gunther.



Gunth & Stemp

Gunther is the best listener; he’ll listen for hours on end, to anything really.  As Gunther is a bear, he’s naturally a protector, but he also likes to snuggle.  He’s the ultimate secret-keeper; loyal to a fault.  Gunther is open-minded and accepting of all others.  His best friend is named Stempy.  Stempy has no arms, and wears a silly lace collar and a mismatched, patterned sweater.  But Gunther sees through all that to Stemp’s good heart.   He knows how to forgive.  He’s humble.  Gunther is anything but manipulative.  He likes to party, but is also good for a night in.  Gunther is constant, sound, reliable, steadfast.  He’s not perfect:  his neck is a little long and he’s a tad chubby (gets the munchies sometimes) so he’s not threatening or intimidating.  Gunther is a good sharer.  He’s easygoing, far from high maintenance.  Gunther has a lot of love to give and lets you love him back.

Everyone loves Gunther; he wears easy on you, makes you happy. 

So am I going to fret and worry if not everyone I meet thinks I’m an angel in disguise?  Nope.  But I think I can learn something from Gunther about how to love and be loved.  I don’t need any enemies, just friends.      



In Colombia & At Vandy: warming him up after someone put him in the freezer.



Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving isn’t exactly big in Colombia.  The only tradition I managed to salvage was watching football; we put the Lions Patriots game on over lunch at work.  I had a ham and cheese sandwich. 

What’s the big deal about Thanksgiving anyways?  We gather together with family, watch football, and eat too much.  Whoopie-doo.  No presents, not many decorations, and let’s face it, even though it’s technically about the pilgrims and the Native Americans, you learn about it in second grade, make a cute hand turkey, and that about marks the end of it.  But everyone loves Thanksgiving.  I love Thanksgiving.

This is my third Thanksgiving out of the country, my first away from my family.  Having “seen” the holiday from an outsider’s perspective, I finally figured out what makes Thanksgiving so great.  It’s 100% American.  The United States has an extremely unique social culture, but when it comes to food and holidays, we kinda just steal from everyone else and Americanize it: burgers, pizza, Chinese food, sandwiches, etc.  We didn’t exactly invent that.  Christmas, Hanukah, Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day… not quite.  But Thanksgiving?  That’s ours; only ours.  We watch football, a game that the U.S. enjoys far more than any other country.  We eat turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, casseroles, stuffing, apple cider, and pumpkin pie.  There’s not even a translation for those foods in Spanish because they simply do not exist.  And even though I already negated the relativity of the pilgrims and the Native Americans, can anyone else claim that as part of their history?

Every day, every minute, this world becomes more and more globalized, less and less ethnocentric.  I’m all for it; I’m a citizen of the world.  But Thanksgiving, that stays with us.  I’m thankful for that.

This year, I’m also thankful for technology.  Ew right?  I’m supposed to say family, friends, and good health.  Plus, I’m not even good with technology:  I have a Blackberry, but I don’t have it synced to my email account and I still write my daily agenda on the palm of my hand; I have a kindle, but I have yet to play with any of its multifaceted capabilities other than reading from the screen; I have an iPod… correction had an iPod, with no more than 200 songs on it.  But this year more than ever, technology, primarily GChat and Skype, has kept me close to those things I’m really thankful for.   Last Thursday I watched the Bears beat the Dolphins with my Mom and Dad through Skype.  It was like I was there in the family room.  Today I got to talk to my entire family.  I saw my sister-in-law’s pregnant belly that holds my nephew; my Dad and my brothers; and my Mom preparing dinner.  I could practically smell the turkey.  And thanks to the 21^st century’s advanced mailing system, I received a hand-written letter from my Aunt Mary wishing me a happy day.

What’s not to love about Thanksgiving?     

Trust Me

One thing that has never come easily to me is trust.  Trusting people with my personal information, trusting people to follow through.  I would rather just not give them the chance to let me down, to disappoint.  But trust has managed to weasel its way into nearly every important element of our lives.  Even the one-dollar bill says In God We Trust.  The value of money itself is based in trust.  We don’t have gold reserves anymore.  Just think about capitalism… it’s trust.  Trust in those we don’t even know, those who don’t know us.  But society wouldn’t function without it.

I arrived at this rant about trust because of a current debate I’ve been following in microfinance.  SKS, now India’s largest MFI, announced an initial public offering  just over three months ago.  Compartamos, an MFI in Mexico, has been publicly traded for years, but this is still a big step, and possibly an indication of where the microfinance industry is headed.  From what I’ve gathered it boils down to a couple main points of contention: Does commercialized microfinance imply exploitation and/or mission drift?

The benefits of being an aggressively for-profit MFI are evident: SKS reports an annual compound growth rate of 165% since 2004.  That represents millions of poor people who now have access to financial services, and women who have been empowered.  Furthermore, because SKS has reached such a large scale, they have been able to utilize their unique distribution channels to strike special deals with other for-profit companies to offer products such as cell phones, water purifiers, and sanitary pads to the poor at drastically lower prices.  Things they wouldn’t otherwise have access to; things I take for granted every day.

So what’s all the fuss about?  Microfinance is about helping the poor help themselves, giving them access to capital, formal savings products, life insurance, things ordinary banks have denied them for centuries.  Its mission is based solely around the best interest of the borrower, the client, the poor.  With commercialization, new major players are introduced: stakeholders (and not just the clients themselves as in Grameen Bank).  Profits no longer solely go back to the borrowers, but out to other stakeholders.  Is this pushing the industry towards loan sharking and profiteering?  Will short-term investor needs overshadow long-term strategy and dedication to the needs of the poor?

Thus far, I say no.  Going public has helped SKS achieve significantly greater outreach, better and more diversified products and services, and they are now under the ever-critical public eye.  Governance must be more transparent.  But once again it’s a matter of trust.  SKS is an extremely powerful institution that could easily, I mean easily, exploit the poor.  In a big way.  So do we say it’s not worth the risk?  Or do we trust them, and ourselves, to put the right people in charge and stay true to microfinance’s mission so that this life-changing industry can continue to grow? 

It’s not an easy decision.  Trust me.            

There's No Place Like Home

Little Dorothy has had it right all along. Although I wasn’t “home home” per say this weekend; it sure felt like it.

This weekend I was reminded of so many things that I already know. But it feels good to be reminded. I was reminded of how strikingly beautiful Vanderbilt’s campus is on a warm, cloudless, October afternoon; of how you can’t go wrong with the plethora of options in a Panera’s You-Pick-Two; of how despite now being 23 I think I will always prefer a good frat party over a bar; and of how peanut butter and conditioner make a perfect combo for getting gum out of your hair. Exponentially more importantly, I was reminded of the value of true friendship; of the joy of a good surprise; of the strength of a mother’s love; of the comfort of sharing with those you trust; of the solidity of an honest, dedicated father; and of happiness so genuine it’s hard to keep down an obnoxious smile.

So why leave? Good question.

For me, the adrenaline, the leap of faith, and the test of personal strength and perseverance is just as important as the comfort of the familiar. When it comes to my room and my eating habits, I like it the same: if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. But when it comes to life experiences, I’m incessantly asking for more, for new. I think I have been able to love and appreciate travel because of how much I love home, not in spite of it. So thanks; I miss you already.

World Peace

World peace… every beauty pageant contestant`s famous last words. But wouldn`t it be nice?

I spent this past weekend in Sogamoso, a relatively small town in the Department of Boyacá. As part of the Indigenous Art Festival hosted by the city, I attended a free, outdoor Aterciopelados concert. The group has been popular for over 20 years, but they are 20 years young. The spirit of the group, the audience, and the message they sent could not have been more alive, genuine, and absolute. While the main singer, Andrea Echeverri, did partake in a few corny/hippie-esque demonstrations, like holding up a sign that said Amor y Paz (Peace & Love), what I got out of it was more than just an idealist let`s get together and feel alright sentiment.

I`ve always wanted to save the world. Don`t we all. And I`ve always been disappointed by those who say that you don`t have to make a big change in order to make a difference; every effort, no matter how small, matters; it`s the thought that counts. To me all of this always sounds like an excuse, a cop out, a way of accepting mediocrity.

Now I think there´s more to it. Peace takes political reform, from the top. Period. But there´s no means by which to compel compliance if we don´t have a solid middle class: a group of people who make peace contagious through their active positive attitude, acceptance of differences, and dedication to loving the good and doing the right. It´s a two way street, so unlike Harry P and Volds (new nickname), top-down and bottom-up, world-wide and inner-city, group and individual efforts can and must coexist.

So I guess every effort does count, but don´t get lazy; I´m still rather critical of that concept. You can give more, be better, try harder, so that when this Earth goes to rest, it may do so in peace.

You Are What You Eat

Some say the best way to get to know a culture is to eat your way through it. Sounds like a fat person’s rationalization to me; or anyone’s excuse for gaining weight on vacation. Been there done that right? Actually… in Colombia’s case, I tend to agree.

Colombians are really into their food. That’s not to say they’re overweight, just that, in general, Colombians derive a great deal of pride from the perceived deliciousness of what they eat. Everyone, I mean everyone, has asked me So how do you like the food here??? They ask genuinely, but they’re waiting for a very specific answer. Sometimes they even prime the answer by “asking,” Isn’t the food here amazing??? I must say, the food is good. Of course I miss my mom’s famous gooey noodles and French toast, but Colombia knows what’s up.

Being the domestic fool that I am (and as I am really busy), grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, pasta, and bizarre combinations of the three are as far as I’ve gotten. Even when my roommates cook, they give me remedial tasks like mixing things and setting the table. Pathetic I know. I’ve found some local “hot spots” to eat out on weekends, and Arepas rellenas off the street are so delicious and so cheap I’m not sure why I eat anything else.

My greatest eating experience thus far however, bar none, was the weekend I spent out on the farm. Benjamín (Ben-ha-mean in Spanish), a good friend without whom I would admittedly be rather lonely, invited me to travel out to Fresno where his parents live on a farm. Not the Illinois, flatland farms you’re picturing. This farm is in the mountains. It’s ridiculously beautiful, and they grow chocolate (yes, chocolate grows on trees here!), bananas, coffee, plantains, maracuya, guayaba, mangos, oranges, avocado; you name it, they grow it. They have dozens of fruits that don’t even exist in the US. Aside from fruit, as it is a farm, they also have chickens and the like running around everywhere. Most unfortunately, I woke up Sunday morning to a giant rooster hanging upside down with blood oozing down its face into a bucket placed appropriately below. Graphic I know. So this is where Benjamin’s mom comes in.

For starters, she’s ridiculous. She cooked all day Saturday and Sunday; I’m literally not sure she ever stopped. Everything’s from scratch. And I mean scratch scratch, like start-by-killing-the-rooster scratch. She prepared traditional Colombian tamales, which start as a mixture of potatoes, rice, carrots, corn, chicken, beef, and probably lots of other things I’m unaware of, and are then wrapped up in giant leaves (picked from the trees out back) and cooked in boiling water for 2 hours. She made 100… one hundred. It was almost comical, like a witch with a giant wooden spoon, ladling her magic potion in a giant cauldron. And the kitchen is far from high-tech. We’re talking coal and wood burning under the stove.

Needless to say, I overate. She just kept handing me food, and I kept eating it. She even sent me home with four tamales to eat throughout the week: hospitality in its purist form. I watched her cooking the whole time, intrigued, and when she caught on to my curiosity she asked, Well how does your mom make them? She struggled to understand what exactly we eat in the United States if we don’t eat tamales. Adorable.

In Colombia, food is a way of life. Boasting about your mother’s homemade meals is a common pastime. Sharing a good meal in good company is about as good as it gets J.

Wake Up Call

I was robbed today… by a guy with a knife.

Perhaps you’re imagining a narrow alley, late at night, creepy homeless guy. None of the above. Noon, sunny day, I had just gotten off the bus that I take three days a week between my two jobs. I had been walking pleasantly along the sidewalk of a busy street, when a guy about my height came up behind me, wrapped his arm tightly around my shoulders, held a knife to my cheek and mumbled something almost under his breath. As I was listening to my iPod at the time (Yo no sé mañana, great tune) all I heard was “iPod.” It’s the same in Spanish. Unable to take my eyes off the knife in my face, I frantically reached into the pocket where my iPod was nicely tucked away, grabbed my cell phone and iPod, threw them at his feet, and took off in the opposite direction. That’s it. Four seconds of my life.

Since I can remember, I have been fortunate enough to have a great deal of self confidence; a great deal. It has served me well and allowed me to be one of the happier people I know, but my self confidence has a tragic flaw. It managed to translate itself into a perception of near invincibility. It has allowed me to remain naïve. I’m not ignorant, nor do I maintain an “I’m invincible” attitude, just that my perception of security has always felt real to me. Today I was reminded that my perception of security is a mere state of mind, not a reality.

Bottom line, I’m fine. I was lucky (relatively speaking). He let me flee after I threw my stuff to the ground; for the first few moments I was sure he would follow me. I lost a cell phone and an iPod: a $10 cell phone and an iPod with a more than lame compilation of music. Somewhat traumatizing experience on the whole, but I already feel calm, and now that my Colombian friends know what happened their super-protection-Annie radars are back on. Learn my lesson and move on; sometimes that’s all we can do.

I Hope You Dance

“Si no bailaste, es como si no estuvieras allí” – 9th semester student, male. If you didn´t dance, it´s as if you weren´t even there.

Thus far my only workout has been going out. Pretty much anywhere you go, when the right song comes on (and that´s nearly every song), everyone gets up to dance. This dancing does not include standing in a circle and bopping up and down, not that there´s anything wrong with that, but I´m talking about Salsa, Meringue, and Vallenato. Each has its own rhythm and basic steps. I´m still working on distinguishing the difference between the three.

As much as I love soccer, dance will always be dearest to my heart. It´s culture is a paradox: creativity, discipline, expression, conformity, tradition, innovation, control, freedom. Saying so much without saying anything at all. It´s art. So does dancing in a noisy, crowded bar count? Yes. It most certainly does. Perhaps this is dance´s truest form: of the people, by the people, for the people. It´s dance´s vernacular. Sure there are dance studios (at which I´ll be taking lessons starting next Sunday wooot), but most people learn from their family and friends. The tradition is passed by “word of mouth.”

I spent at least 14 years of my life learning, practicing, and perfecting the art of dance. Although performing will forever be one of the greatest joys in my life, I like to look at dance from a more practical perspective these days. For one, it adds a level of sophistication to the standard drinking scene; an alternative if you will. It´s also a way to boost your game. If you´re not so cute, learn to dance, you´ll do just fine. On a simpler level, dance makes me happy. Not sure what it is exactly, but it´s one of the most genuine feelings of happiness that I can identify in life.

Dancing is a test. A test of courage, putting yourself out there; a test of faith, learning to relax and trust your partner; a test of balance, the push and the pull; and a test of assimilation, every new song, new partner, new space, requires you to change a little bit about yourself and your ways in order to adapt and survive. Do all of that, yet to thine own self be true. Therein lies the paradox yet again.

If I have succeeded in anything in writing this blog it has been revealing the intricacies and complexities of dance. What I wanted to do is regress to eighth grade and say, in every aspect of your life, “If you get the choice to sit it out or dance… I hope you dance.” -- Leanne Womack

Beautiful Game; Vulgar Hinchada

It is thought by some that soccer (fútbol) is the most popular sport in the world because anyone, despite his/her socioeconomic status can play. All you need is something that rolls (anything from the 2010 World Cup Official Ball going for $132 online to a blown up pigs bladder), two goals (regulation size or two stones to designate the area), and some teammates/opponents (talented peers or just random neighbors, family, and friends). It’s an interesting argument, but I think there’s more to it.

Soccer is a universal language. You’re most certainly better off muting the announcers anyways. The clock keeps running, as in life. If you need time to figure something out, it’s on your own time, you’ve got to do so on the fly. It’s just your body out there, as is: no pads, no rackets, no bats, no helmets. And shin guards do not count as they are currently more to protect the precious shins of young players, the ones professionals use, if any, are about the size of a King of Diamonds. Individual contribution is undeniably important, but acutely insufficient. Points aren’t easily accumulated, no battle easily won. There’s no one strategy, one alignment, one plan of attack. One size does not fit all. There’s room for veterans and rookies. It helps to move fast, but a well-placed pass beats anyone in a race. The good is not rendered meaningless by being equally glorified with the ugly. The fans make sure of that.

Soccer strategy reflects current national philosophy. Take Brazil, hasty progress turned to calculated, sustained development. So are politicians learning from the soccer players or vice versa?

Soccer satisfies our need to have both elegance and chaos. A beautiful game; a vulgar hinchada. The hinchada is the fan base. Beers are not sold in or anywhere within the immediate vicinity of the stadium, you’re not allowed to enter wearing a belt, a police force forms a semi-circle around the player taking the corner kick, and it’s the perfect place to pick up all of your much sought after Spanish swearwords. The fans are brutal to say the least. Even towards their own team. After a rough loss, players leave in a fully armed tank, not a bus. Regardless, soccer fans are the most loyal of all. They jump and sing the entire game, win or lose. There’s zero entertainment. I take that back, the Millionarios (Colombian team I’m currently supporting because I live right by the stadium) has cheerleaders, if you can actually call them that hehe. Next week I’ll make a video; perfect material for the fail blog. My point is, the seats are uncomfortable, there’s no beer, no jumbotron, the sound system is as pathetic as the cheerleaders, and yet, fans focus intently on all 90 minutes of every game. It real life, no frills.

In the words of Phil Woosnam, a once well-known Welsh soccer player and manager, “the rules of soccer are very simple, basically it is this: if it moves kick it. If it doesn’t move, kick it until it does.”

A Workin' Woman

Having officially been in Bogotá for three weeks now, I´ve finally started both of the official jobs that I was sent here to do. Thus far I´ve merely gotten my feet wet.

I am once again reminded of how much I love being a teacher. Perhaps it fulfills my innate tendency and desire to boss people around. My students are great. They act as if everything I touch turns to gold. Each week the professors tell me what the class is currently learning and I prepare some sort of lesson, activity, or presentation pertaining to that topic. This past week I taught everything from conditionals to my basic students, The Fall of the House of Usher to my intermediate students, and reported speech to my advanced students. Needless to say I myself am learning quite a bit about English and American culture… Additionally, I have tutoring hours where the students come visit me either with a question, or what seems most popular, just to practice speaking. I am fairly certain that my students think that I am absolutely nuts. Actually… I´m 100% certain. In refusing to speak Spanish with them (they desperately need total immersion), I am often reduced to jumping around, acting things out, drawing pictures, and making strange sound effects. It´s rather fun. A handful of students already chat me up regularly in the hallways and on Facebook, but I am hoping to develop a relationship with all of them.

On the north end of the city, I work with ACCIÓN Internacional. I am already fascinated by the work this organization does. My projects here are threefold: assisting Jackie Urquizo in her quest to systematize the organization´s findings and publications regarding rural micro-insurance and micro-savings throughout five different countries in the Andean region; assisting Mery Solares in the field launching her pilot project; and helping Paula with research and database analysis. At least that´s what I think I´m doing (all instruction was provided orally and in Spanish). Essentially, I´m in over my head, but luckily everyone here is extremely helpful and easy-going. Last Friday when I arrived at the office around 2pm there was a live Vallenato band right next to my pretty, little cubicle (the whole back wall is a window) and everyone was dancing. I could get used to his culture.

Weekends are fun too, and I´m expanding my Colombian friend-base little by little. Unfortunately, similar to Argentina, I have yet to make a single Colombian girl friend. All the girls I´ve met are super nice to me, but the relationship stops there. Never get an invite to hangout or anything like that. I´ve got a few British and American ones though! Any advice anyone?

Lastly, as you could have most likely inferred for yourself, little “Fail Blog” accounts continue to occur, so I will continuously update that particular blog post if you care to check it out each week.

İQue les vaya bien!

FAIL BLOG

Since when Lau? Lauren's been keeping a secret relationship from us all. The table at my favorite pizza restaurant says it all... No mercy: Apparently, dotted paths (as seen below center) were added to all the sidewalks in the city a few years ago as a means for the blind to more safely traverse the streets. Look a little ways ahead... not nice.

Good try, no cigar.

Don't ask: Went to the market with some friends Sunday morning. The boys ordered these giant bowls of assorted meats. Jeisson made me try a bite of the "delicious" meat that you see below. I'm open-minded about just about everything, especially in other countries, but this I chewed on for about 5 minutes and then proceeded to spit it into a napkin when no one was looking. I'm still not sure it was actually edible. When I asked what it was Jeisson replied, "Don't ask." Perf.

Mooooove it: Traffic jam caused by cows.

Shower before class: The ultimate fail. I stopped in the middle of a busy street (when the green "ok to cross" light was on) to help an older woman whose shoe had fallen off. By the time I looked up, four lanes of rush hour traffic were speeding towards me so I jumped onto the median. This "median" was 1.5 feet wide max. Busses, trucks, cars, and motorcycles went speeding by at a distance of about ehhhhh 3ft on either side and splashed me from head to toe about 15 times. It actually looked like I had jumped in a lake, a brown lake. To top it off I was in heels and a cute pink dress. A man at the candy stand on the other side of the street handed me three suckers for free. Miserable...

No wonder the place is empty: Read carefully, even if you don't know Spanish, you should notice something odd, something English, that doesn't quite fit with the fact that this is a student cafeteria.



English: randos who clearly don’t speak English very well teaching English. I should assume this is a joke… right?

Not so PC: when someone isn’t home at dinner time, his/her food gets left on the table with their name on it. This is what Consuelo writes on the black kid’s plate every night… Salsa: so I went to a salsa class at my university just to try it out. They assumed the gringa (that’s me) “no tiene ritmo” (has no rhythm) and paired me with this 45-year-old fat guy with two left feet. I don’t even know how he got there. I was dyyyyyying.

Real shoes: As most of you know I have grown very fond of my Nike flip-flops over the years, but now that I’m a teacher and working in a business casual office, Nike flops really aren’t an option. My feet are very serrriously rejecting the flats I have been cruising around in. I would put up a picture of my bloody and blistered toes and heels, but I figured that would be in bad taste.

From A to B: public transportation around here isn’t the most organized of systems, but I’m learning through experience. I got stuck in the turnstile during rush hour and caused a honking craze. At least I’m not drawing unwanted attention to myself.

"Cannot": A friend I live with is currently taking an intensive English course for his job, so I have been helping him with pronunciation etc. I have pretty much banned him from saying "can't" because no matter how hard he tries he very clearly pronounces "c*nt" every time. Awkward.

But you know what they say: If at first you do not succeed, try try again.

Tomorrow I’m headed to Parque Natural Chicaque to do some hiking and site seeing. Hopefully I’ll have some beautiful pictures to share next week, and I won’t have to include this adventure in my fail blog J

First Impressions

So my orientation program has kept me safely in “gringolandia” for the past several days, but I’m finally here in Bogotá! I must say that Bogotá is not the most beautiful city, at least not in the traditional, physical sense of the word. It’s huge and verrry spread out as most buildings are only two or three stories. But que buena onda! The people are magnificent. Everyone calls me “mi vida” (my life) after about two minutes of knowing me. So Latin-loverish!

I have so much to learn. Luckily I’m living with eight Colombians so I hope to catch on quickly. I’ve already arranged a few cultural exchange agreements through my contacts at the university, trading my only skill (English lessons) for salsa lessons, cooking lessons, and trips to local soccer games. This city is so alive. Today is a very important day as the new president, Juan Manuel Santos, will replace Álvaro Uribe, arguably the best and most popular president in Colombian history. La Plaza Bolivar is decked out in red, blue, and yellow, and thousands of people are out and about.

Most impressive thus far has been the group of students and professionals I have had the pleasure to meet over these past few days. Everyone is so intelligent, so motivated, so interesting, so worldly, and yet so down to earth. How did I get here again? There is so much I want to do, see, and experience. Ten months already feels like not enough time.

I shall close with a quote from Pillars of the Earth, the novel I have been reading: “but mourning the passing of his youth. Never again would he be as naïve, as aggressive, as hungry or as strong as he had been when he had fallen in love” (Ken Follet). Don’t worry, I’m not in love, just infatuated with the culture, the language, and the desire to soak up as much life and experience as physically possible, so I guess I should run with it now, in my youth, rather than fret about it later J

Amurica

I am overwhelmingly excited, nervous, anxious, and nostalgic all at the same time as today is my second-to-last day in the land of the free and the home of the brave. My two formal duties while in Colombia are to teach English at La Universidad Libre and conduct microfinance research with ACCIÓN. Luckily I am neither a trained teacher nor an experienced researcher. But I feel I’m right for the job. My greatest asset is most likely that I am American: a real, live, breathing, thinking, acting component of American culture.

Travel has taught me that some people love us, some hate us, some can’t decide, but either way almost all are interested. So what do I say? What is it like to be an American? Daily life, education, music, movies, language, friends, family, food, geography. So much to consider. “America is part of the human condition, within its borders there is vast variety of interest, amusement, goodness, evil, humor, absurdity, and all the other human attributes” (Alistair Cooke). Could we please be more vague?

One thing I know for sure is that I’m proud to be an American. Proud to call this place my home. Patriotic not just because I was born here, but because of the simple fact that we don’t need to rely on others to tell us that sometimes we need change. America is a self-critical nation. Read any newspaper, magazine, journal, you name it, the evidence is clear. America is in constant struggle to “be the change [it] wishes to see in the world” (Gandhi). I can pay my country tribute by doing the same.

Soo enough of my sappy America shpeel; I head out Sunday morning. Colombia’s first impression of me will be too much luggage (trying desperately not to over pack but I feel it’s inevitable), along with my broken nose, stitches, and fat lip. Cute. I’ll let ya know how it goes and more importantly what I learn along the way.

From Shiny Ceilings to Shining Seas

     Volumes upon volumes have already been written about all of the wonders that I have seen and learned about during our first week here in Italy.  Sooo, I’ll leave the Roman history, Pompeii excavation, and Renaissance Art to the experts.  From what I can tell, Italy has got it goin’ on.

     Given that I have primarily traveled throughout Central and South America, and now Italy, I have toured a number of Catholic churches in my day.  None as extravagant as the Basilicas in Italy, most constructed hundreds, some thousands of years ago.  St. Peter’s Basilica for example is bar none the most ornate building that I can imagine existing, anywhere.  The genius of Michelangelo ceases to amaze me.  These churches are jaw-dropping, huge (I mean huge), ceilings covered in gold, famous sculptures galore, frescos frescos frescos, marble floors.  In a word: excessive.

     Perhaps they are as such to demonstrate the power of the church, the power of one’s faith.  Or perhaps it’s a lesson in humility, like standing next to the ocean.  Maaaybe they foresaw that years from now they would be an endlessly profitable tourist attraction.  Either way, something about it makes me uneasy. 

     Are not the values and virtues of faith sufficient to attract and mai

ntain followers?  Is belief not enough?  Do I need a golden roof over my head to pray?  The contradictions are distractingly evident.  Or maybe I should just thank the Pope for contracting Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel for my viewing pleasure.  It most certainly is incredible.

     Of even greater beauty is the Amalfi Coast in Southern Italy.  Beautiful villas overlook dramatic coastlines, which meet a bright blue, shining sea.  From shiny ceilings to shining seas.  I even got to take a quick dip in the Grotta Azzurro.  The views, the people, the food… everything is beautiful in Sorrento.  Life is good.

More on Florence, Tuscany, Vienna, and Milan to come.

Arrivederci! 

Girl Power

Growing up with three brothers has (admittedly ironically) led me to like ‘boys’ even more. They possess an element of simplicity. A self-assuredness. A conviction. It’s charming. That being said, thank heavens for ‘girls.’ Last week I read Greg Mortenson’s second book Stones Into Schools and for the first time fully digested the potential for women to drastically impact our social, political, and economic quality of life. “Simply put, young women are the single biggest potential agent for change in the developing world – a phenomenon that is sometimes referred to as the Girl Effect” – Greg Mortenson. Wow, bold statement.

The data speaks for itself. A number of studies conducted by the World Bank and The Council on Foreign Relations demonstrate that investing in girls’ education boosts a community’s income growth, farming productivity, and women’s empowerment while decreasing malnutrition and the fertility rate. One major conclusion strikes me as I read that list of improvements: women (perhaps more so than men) utilize their education to directly benefit the family and their community. Their resources are immediately reinvested in continued social and educational development. It’s a win win.

One of the more discouraging things that I have read about higher education in developing countries is that often, these countries and/or communities lose their most well-educated demographic to already developed nations. With a strong education and an eagerness to see the world, many of these nations’ best and brightest leave the country to pursue work in other areas where they can enjoy more freedoms. Can you blame them? However, while I haven’t any data to back this up, I would guess that educated women are more likely to return home. I’m not sure whether it’s due to the matronly/care-giver gender role that women have developed over the centuries or what, but it’s sure hard to ignore the direct social impact generated from women’s education. It’s more like a springboard for the overall health and education of their families and local communities.

If you don’t know anything about Greg Mortenson or his mission throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan, look him up. It’s an inspiring story and one that will make everyone cherish their education, however little or much he/she has. So cheers to education in all corners of the world to men and women alike, and cheers to the important balance that our differences create.

In Good Company

Fact: life is better in good company -- company that “offers ease and thought and companionship as opposed to neatness, order, and properness” – John Steinbeck and Dwight Schrute. Perhaps I am merely reiterating a truism, but at least it’s a meaningful one.

Fresh off the plane from Guatemala, as I reflect on my trip, what stands out the most are the people: Dana. Kat, Carlos, Isabél, Machi and Bernardo. We got a lot of work done, but it would all be meaningless without the inherent “interconnectedness of humans with others” – Steinbeck again, Cannery Row, my entertainment for the return flight.

Carlos is just one of those individuals you like to be around. He’s courteous, thoughtful, smart, cooperative, a true humanitarian. At just 21, Carlos is a leader in his community, a hero. This past week he helped us find a home, quite literally. His uncle is building a beautiful home right in Chaquijyá, and Carlos helped convince him to let six random gringos (that’s us) who he has never met before, rent it for half the price that it is worth. Sincere solidarity.

Isabél, another Chaquijyá community member, dedicated her entire Sunday to ushering us around the well-known market in Chichicastenango. It was a long trip in the pouring rain, but she was genuinely eager to help. Without her, we would have undoubtedly gotten lost in the complex maze of fruits, meats, reggaeton CDs, and artesanía.

Machi is a young gentleman we encountered selling handmade jewelry on the main street in Panajachel. His hair, shoes, and thick accent screamed Argentina and we became fast friends. Kat and I mustered up the courage to invite him for drinks with us later (nearby locals were thoroughly amused as noted by excessive giggles) and he actually came! He brought his friend Bernardo along, adorned with a braided beard hehe. Although we were quite the unlikely matchup, coming from completely different backgrounds, the five of us had a blast chatting about life, liberties, and la incómoda.

Which brings me to Dana and Kat: true rock stars. The goals they have set out to accomplish over the coming year will touch the lives of many. Their selflessness and dedication will serve as role model behavior to hundreds of indigenous children. They are a shining example of compassion, benevolence, and joy, in a place and time of great need. We could all use an extra dosage of Dana and Kat in our lives.

Even the little things count, like being picked up from the airport by a loving mother and taken out for a much-needed American cheeseburger.

Although I believe in the strength of the individual, I would be nothing without all of you; we would be little without each other :)

Bienvenidos a Chaquijya

Mudslides have destroyed the humble abodes of twenty families in Chaquijyá. Why them? Why now? I feel the instant desire to scoop everyone off of their mud-caked feet and take them all to an easier place. Back in Guatemala, my heart has again begun to bleed and ooooh how that frustrates me sometimes. Frustrated because I do not have the time to turn into a rich-country, guilt-stricken wallower (new word). I think we have all seen enough of the depressing “I care” photos. While these have proven to be a successful marketing tactic for aid, they divert attention from a more functional agenda. Yes, monetary aid is good, and necessary, but it solves little. It’s another Band Aid; keeps things from falling apart.

Aid has become political, and somehow nearly all sides see the worst in it. Right-wingers see aid as a sort of international welfare contingency that serves the indolent, while left-wingers see aid as a means to support helpless victims. It’s all in perception. Two things I know for sure: they aren’t lazy, and we must stop treating them as victims. Sure, they’re victims of economic malfunction, but that does not mean that they cannot be an integral part of the solution.

I just finished a book called The Bottom Billion by Paul Collier, and he agrees: “we cannot rescue them. The societies of the bottom billion can only be rescued from within. In every society of the bottom billion there are people working for change, but usually they are defeated by the powerful internal forces stacked against them. We should be helping the heroes.” Hoorah asset-based development!

In Chaquijyá, the latter is a reality. Our heroes are the fourteen dedicated, young members of AsoAtitlán – an organization of the community, for the community. Kat, Dana, and I continue to realize a need to provide Manna programs for these heroes, not just young children. The internal force stacked against them is fondos, Spanish for funds. In many developing countries, convincing an indigenous population that continued education is invaluable proves a daunting task, most often for good reason (long story, won’t go into it now). But the convincing is not the issue in Chaquijyá. Most students here who wish to continue their education -- even past sixth grade -- cannot due to expenses. It costs between $75 - $100 per year; buildings need to be maintained, teachers paid, books purchased. If only we could offer every student a scholarship to attend high school… and then carrera… and then college… Somehow the families need a way to generate more income. Microcredit anyone? I need to think on it some more.

In other news, while in Panajachel I managed to have a bar tender change the channel from 80s music videos to the blackhawks game just in time to see us win in overtime…priceless.

For more detailed updates on our day-to-day proceedings, check out Manna’s blog as well
www.mpiguatemala.blogspot.com

Band Aids

So I’m Annie, 22, all-too-recently graduated from college, ready to take my first steps into the “real” world. Why society suggests the first twenty-odd years of our lives are mere simulation is beyond me, but it sure doesn’t inspire hope for what lies ahead. I am however quite optimistic. I have finally conned myself into thinking that starting this blog is a good idea (a little help from friends and insistence from concerned family members). So each week I’ll briefly chronicle my latest adventure, and smolder it with personal philosophies and the mental predicaments I tend to find myself in.

For starters, I leave tomorrow for Guatemala where I will be helping establish a new chapter of the organization for which I have volunteered somewhat tirelessly for the last four years. I am quite honored and thrilled to help. It’s called Manna Project International and I am in love with it; however, upon re-reading an old journal entry of mine, I found that I once referred to it as a Band Aid. What?

“Manna is a Band Aid, not a solution.” Ouch (no pun intended). Rather harsh criticism of an organization that believes in the power of asset-based development and services some of the poorest communities with its time, energy, spirit, and knowledge. Harsh, but arguably valid. Band Aids are temporary. But necessary… we can’t just abandon the wound while we wait for larger solutions. Band Aids have nothing to be ashamed of. They serve their due purpose. But has being a Band Aid hindered our foresight into the much larger, long-term movement to help these communities and individuals change their lives for the better?

Band Aids don’t get any of the glory, but somebody’s got to do it… right? In starting a new Manna chapter I take pride in being a Band Aid, but I’m not satisfied. We can do more and we’ve got a clean slate on which to do so. Perhaps more like a Band Aid with built-in Neosporin. One step at a time.

Oh, and go blackhawks