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