Distracted!

Although I should be concentrating on more important things (like term papers), my mind keeps shifting to all of the upcoming exciting explorations that I'm soon to experience. Alina (another Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar studying in Medellín) arrived this morning for a few days of local adventures, and Erica (my beloved sister) will come on Sunday (I'll make her write a blog entry like all of my other guests, of course!). She and I will journey to the Amazon, while we'll see the famous pink dolphins and be one with the deep jungle; Santander, where we'll visit beautiful pueblos and partake in extreme sports in Colombia's "adrenaline capital;" Santa Marta, where we'll marvel at the one-of-a-kind view of a snow-capped mountain next to the beautiful Caribbean Sea; Guajira, where we'll sleep in hammocks on the tranquil beach after days of excursions with fascinating indigenous people; and Cartagena, where we'll enjoy one of Colombia's most historical and breathtaking cities.

How can I focus if I have so much to look forward to?!

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

Transportation in Cali still proves to be an interesting and sometimes frightening part of my daily life. Not only could I still continue to write my motorcycle diaries (my friend, Paola, often gives me a ride to class on her bike), but I could produce an entire book filled with my regular escapades on the bus.

Yesterday, for instance, after my journey from my apartment (in the South of the city) to Liliana and Fernando's house (in the north of the city), I arrived without enough money for the return bus trip (which is 1,500 pesos, or about 75cents). This was due to the various entertainers, vendors, and beggars who had given their spiels to us, the bus passengers (who, after all, are a captive audience). First, a crippled woman got on and presented to all of the passengers, explaining that she and her children had been displaced (due to violence), and she had not been able to find work in Cali. Although people always tell me to be skeptical of people asking for money like this (who are everywhere), I gave her a few coins. Then, a man performed by singing about how women should not be abused with his little guitar and reciting poetry (while still playing the little guitar) about how black and white people should get along, and I gave him some coins as well. Next, a man selling hand-crafted dolphin pendents boarded. I didn't buy one, but he had obviously worked so hard on his little sales pitch (talking about the endangered pink dolphins in Colombia's Amazon) that I felt he deserved a few coins, too. Finally, a man selling tooth brushes that fold-up hopped on, showing us how practical they could be. He ended by saying, "And by closing this tooth brush, you will prevent cockroaches from walking on the bristles!"... And, with a quality like that, how could I not buy one?!! =)

Even though cars are true luxury here and the majority of the population relies on buses and/or taxis, it is important to note that Cali (unlike Medellín and Bogotá) does not have a public transportation system. They are working on finishing a project of a bus line called the Mio, but (due to corruption and vandalism) this has been a very long-time coming. Therefore, all buses are privately-run businesses, and they can pretty much follow any rules that they want. There are no designated stops; bus drivers can arbitrarily change their normal routes; they will lie to you and tell you they go to places they actually don't (just so you'll hop on board); and they race with one another to pick up the many Caleños flagging down buses on the side of the road.

Bus performers must delicately keep their balance in the aisles. This Andean flute and guitar player ended up in my lap after we swerved to miss a large hole in the road.

The buses must maneuver through the crowded streets of taxis, pedestrians, cars, carts, horses, trucks, etc. Since they allow people to get off or on anywhere, this can prove to be quite a mess.

The trend seems to be "the more = the merrier." While I don't often get to ride on a "chiva" like this one (which is actually filled with indigenous people headed to the protest), I do often get to stand with lots of others in the aisles, packed in like sardines. This is particulary uncomfortable in the "busetas" (or smaller buses) because I am too tall and must hunch over, hoping that a seat will soon become available.Then, however, there are the times when I am alone on the bus. This makes me nervous because the driver sometimes gives me my money back and asks me to get off in some random place, as it "isn't worth it" to continue driving for just one person. This means I am left to find another bus to get me where I need to be, starting the whole process all over again...

Un-Constructive Criticism

Saturday was not a good day for me.

Still recovering from the 17-hour bus ride from Bogotá to Cali (that should have only been 12 hours-- tops, mind you!), I wasn't exactly in my best of states. I was groggy and exhausted. Our professor had assigned us 3 major group projects to present in one day (talk about pressure!), and my group members and I had frantically worked very hard to pull it all together before I left for my trip. Still, it had all turned out quite nicely.

However, as I've mentioned before, I've had a bit of a complex and have always struggled with feeling like the "weakest link" of my graduate program. Things have certainly improved, but I'm still the only non-native Spanish speaker, and I am one of the youngest members of our cohort. I have often felt like people are a bit condescending to me and underestimate my abilities. Although they treat me with kindness, I've always felt the need to prove to them that I am a capable, qualified, and intelligent human being-- not just the "funny little American."

Therefore, in presentations like these ones, I try really hard to show that I know what I'm doing and can understand and communicate complex ideas. I probably put more pressure on myself than I should, but I want to blow everyone away with my capabilities... or at least that's the idea.

Our first presentation was about women, as a protected group in International Humanitarian Law (the main focus of the program), in the context of Colombia. Rosario, Sonia, and I had prepared almost 150 PowerPoint slides for our presentation, but (when it was our turn to present) the professor announced that we'd only be given 15 minutes (whereas other groups had presented for over an hour). As I showed our slide with our list of what our presentation would include (our "road map" or table of contents), she told us that we should skip basically everything that I was going to present, moving right along to Rosario's part.

I skipped all of the precious slides that I had so carefully created and rehearsed in my mind until I arrived to the ones pertaining to the topic she requested. She then proceeded to talk over me, using more and more of our precious 15 minutes.

Furthermore, she insulted me-- right in front of all of my classmates. It was like a slap in the face; I couldn't believe it. This got me flustered, and I said, "Now you've made me nervous!" Everyone laughed, but I wasn't trying to be funny. She had made a personal attack in a public environment; I didn't find it humorous at all.

Then, she interrupted me once again, saying: "If you're nervous, why don't you just speak in English?"

This was another insult. Was she doubting my capabilities as well? Perhaps I was a little harsh, but I instantly snapped, "No" at her. I had done all the work in Spanish, and it was her who had thrown me off course-- not a language barrier.

I continued as fast as I could, skipping more and more slides to get to the point where my other group members could present. I ended abruptly, skipping my last several slides and announcing that Rosario would then begin with her part. I then proceeded to sit down.

In front of everyone, she told me, "If you want to work with victims, you'll need to learn to manage stress. You'll never be able to handle it." Excuse me???! I was incredibly ticked off. What did she know about me? What gave her the right to say this in front of everyone else? This was personal insult #3.

I felt like saying, "If you want to work with victims, you'll need to learn something called respect and something called tact-- or maybe even something called empathy." However, I just told her "thank you" and filled my mind with more negative thoughts than I probably should have allowed.

I have pondered sending her an email with all due respect, explaining what I feel about her actions and how they affected me. However, I think she'll probably just brush it off by saying it was all just a "cultural misunderstanding." Part of this could be true, but I think that a lot of what she said/did would be considered rude in any culture.

And, in case you were wondering, she gave us a rare and impressive 100% on the project. Perhaps she just enjoys intimidating her students??? I, for one, was not amused.

Arka Foundation

I spent today visiting two sites of "Fundación Arka," an organization that provides full days of educational activities and nutritional food for 200 children between the ages of 2 and 5. The children come from very "marginal" communities and are rated on a scale of necessity, which focuses on kids who have: high rates of malnutrition, come from overcrowded homes, have only one source of income in their household, have a family income of less than $1.25/day/person, live in a very risky physical environment, live in a potentially risky social enviroment—such as housing with drug addicts/criminals/abusers, and/or come from areas with high environmental risks-- like landslides.

The idea is that the education of children must start early, in order to really make a difference. The programs are based on the following concept: "In Colombia, poverty is hereditary. Unless we intervene by changing the children’s environment and helping them develop study habits, 95% of the children whose parents did not complete primary school will ultimately also drop out. This lack of education is the surest way to condemn them to a lower income bracket." --Fedesarrollo.

María Eugenia, the Director of the Program, was more than kind and even rode the bus for a total of 4.5 hours to be able to guide me around the sites. I learned a lot about the philosophies, goals, frustrations, and plans of the foundation, and I got to spend a lot of time with entertaining preschoolers.

Within the schools, the children seemed like "normal" kids. They laughed, picked little fights with one another, begged and begged to get their picture taken (of course!), sang little songs, drew pictures, and had some mischievous moments.

I accidentally captured this moment of shame as this little one got into trouble.

This group just returned from the park.

These children became distracted from their lunches as they waved at me shouting, "Take my picture! Look at me!"
These little ones are heading for a trip to the potty.
And, of course, what day would be complete without nap time?!

Yet, as "normal" as they seemed, it's not "normal" for a child to be malnourished, to live without basic needs being met, to lack basic hygiene habits, to have to share a small space with several others, or not receive the attention that a developing mind needs ... But the Arka Centers really seem to bring that needed "normalcy" to the lives, hopefully undoing all of the harm done as soon as they leave their schools and enter their "abnormal" home environments.

Drawn by Nature's Valley

Friday, I took the overnight bus to Bogotá. When I arrived on Saturday, I was kindly welcomed by Rotarian hosts for the week, who invited me to various activities throughout the day. I even took my first warm shower since I was traveling with my family! I have had many neat experiences since I arrived here (like dining with a local member of the City Council), but the most impacting of them thus far was a day spent with a local community surrounding Bogotá. It is an area similar to many found outside of Cali, consisting of lots of displaced people who've migrated to the city and set up their new homes with makeshift materials. Most of these neighborhoods are technically "illegal" because they are not officially recognized by the government and therefore are not often provided with basic services, like water and electricity. (Many outside of Cali have recently been recognized). In order to reach these communities, one must hop into one of the jeeps that can transverse through the steep and uneven dirt roads-- an ascent which is impossible after heavy rains. Luckily, we were able to make it!
The day was special because the people were celebrating the opening of a new community room (made possible through various organizations), which will soon be the home of useful trainings, workshops, and events of the people.One of the first people I met was María Cecilia, one of the local leaders who has been involved with all sorts of projects to improve the zone, serving as an adviser and liaison between the people served and the agencies and organizations working to help them. She told me about how her life had been threatened by paramilitaries, who often see people like her as a threat because they help to empower others-- who will then not be as easily intimidated. (For instance, human rights workers are often listed as victims of targeted assasinations). She had recently returned after being "protected" for a little while. She told me, "I've already been displaced once, and I'm not going to be displaced again!"The service project of the day was basically a yard sale that sold clothing and household goods to the people for very cheap prices (like 50 cents or less for each thing), with the proceeds going to other projects. While this was interesting to watch, what will stick with me the most was my encounter with these two boys:They are two brothers (named Diego and Cristian), and they have lived in this area for all of their lives. Cristian (the older brother) had to interpret for Diego because (as much as I tried) I had trouble understanding him. He had obviously been born with a cleft lip and pallet. Although he told that he had had five surgeries to fix it (funded by Operation Smile), his speech was still really unclear, and the poor thing really struggled with communicating (even though it was obvious he was saying really intelligent things). I think perhaps his teeth were simply in the way of his tongue??

Here I am with Diego. He bought this sweater at the sale because he said he was always cold.

The two instantly began following me around, pretty much attached at my hip for the entire day. At first, I thought it was because of my digital camera, which always makes me very popular with the kids. Like many others of their age, they enjoyed getting their picture taken and taking pictures of other adorable children, like these ones:


Soon, though, I told them that they were going to take their "very last photo" because the "camera was retiring," and they still were right there beside me. I thought that perhaps they were just drawn to my evident charm or kindness (haha!) until I opened the second half of a Nature's Valley Bar. I could tell that they really wanted some, but they were just afraid to ask for it-- and it dawned on me that they'd become my shadow shortly after eating the first half. I gave them some pieces of it, and they seemed quite satisfied. I later went to buy some water (in a bag, of course!), and I bought them some empanadas. Other volunteers went to get some soft drinks and snacks, and they shared with them as well. The people in charge of the little sale had brought sandwiches for us, and I gave most of mine to Diego and Cristian, too. They never actually asked for anything, but they were always there, patiently waiting for an offer.

I learned a lot about them throughout our conversation. Their father had died, and they lived with their younger sister and mother, who does not work. We started talking about food, and I discovered why they were so eager to eat everything, "We only get food at school on weekdays. On weekends, we don't get anything, unless we find something," Cristian told me. I have seen many families begging for food or spare change in Colombia, but what struck me about these two was that they never, ever asked. They were strategic, but very dignified and gracious, in finding ways to eat.

Health Service Fair Fun!

Last weekend, I partook in yet another “jornada de salud” with my host Rotary Club in a poor neighborhood in Cali. The children of the community’s school were offered free eye care/ vision tests, dental treatment, and haircuts. I was in charge of dental services registration and had quite a few stressful moments. I often become frustrated because we can never serve everyone who greatly needs these check-ins, and it was up to me to tell frantic/begging parents that their kids could not receive the free dental care we were offering. I became frustrated when I discovered that other volunteers were allowing young children (4 or 5-year-olds) in to see the dentists (even though we were told this was not allowed). I had already turned away a few mothers who told me very convincing stories about how their small kids really, really needed dental care. 80( I felt really bad about this.

However, my interactions with the people soon started cheering me up. I had funny conversations with entertaining boys, and this adorable family was one of my favorite groups of people that I met throughout the day:

Indigenous People = United!

I’ve done a lot of research projects on the indigenous people of Colombia in my studies, so I’ve really taken an interest in their cultures, ideas, and “civil resistance” tactics. Because they live outside the major cities, they have always been one of the groups most affected by the violence of the country; many of their people have been killed for no reason whatsoever. They also have been historically discriminated against and have done a great job of becoming united together to work for peace and achieve all of the rights they deserve.

One huge mobilization of the indigenous people of this area of Colombia began over two weeks ago. They were protesting for land that had been taken away from them and against the TLC (or free-trade agreement with the United States), among other concerns. Thousands of them marched down the Pan-American highway into Cali, carrying their typical symbol of the staff, which they held to connect to one another (like a long chain of people connected by large sticks). Sadly, under mysterious circumstances, two of them were shot and killed by the Colombian army along the way (even though it was a peaceful protest). Seven (including a child) had been killed recently at a demonstration outside of Bogotá (*not sure about the details*) , so it was certainly a risky endeavor! [There was also a protest in their name (although not by the indigenous themselves) by a group that always protests in the setting of Cali’s public university for all sorts of human-related issues (they just finished protesting in honor of the workers of sugar cane plantations). However, this group often becomes violent and destructive. It used “papa bombas” (potato bombs) that we could hear for two afternoons straight. It also left the nearby streets covered in broken glass, and several buses without tires.].

When the huge peaceful group of indigenous people arrived to Cali, we went to watch the rally at the local city center. Many of the participants wore their traditional attire, while others were clad in the modern gear of jeans and t-shirts. There were so many people that many had to climb into the trees to watch the speakers!

The president of the country (Álvaro Uribe) came all the way to Cali to address their concerns in person (it was the least he could do after so much had happened), but he arrived very, very late to their meeting point in the city center. Most of the indigenous people were offended by his late arrival and decided to leave in order to show how disrespectful he was to them. There were only a few people present when he arrived, and the stage had been destroyed. He was forced to talk through a microphone on a pedestrian bridge, and many people (who I actually don’t think they were indigenous) shouted rude insults at him. I know that they would have been “kindly escorted” away by the authorities had something like this happened in the United States, but they were allowed to continue their verbal attacks. President Uribe even responded to them, yelling back through his megaphone. He became particularly upset when these two particularly feisty hooligans began calling him a “paraco,” a term implying that he is involved with the paramilitary groups (Many, many members of the congress are being investigated for their connections to these right-wing violent groups, and rumors also claim that Uribe has ties to them as well). He shouted right back at the men, saying: “Don’t you ever, ever call me that again! If you want to say something, come up here and say something that’s productive!¨ He also made comments like, “Did you just invite me here to insult me?”

There have been a few other talks between the indigenous groups and the Colombian government since this very interesting encounter that I witnessed, but things have not yet been fully resolved. The government did agree to sign the United Nations Declaration on Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which is great progress. Here’s hoping they can come to some agreements soon!

Gotta' love the broom man!

SWEET! I finally got a picture of the “broom man,” whom I mentioned in my blog about cultural differences. There are actually quite a few of them, and I find it very impressive how they’re able to balance their cleaning supplies for sale on their bikes, while pedaling around in the pothole-filled streets. I don’t know why I find them so amusing, but I thought you’d enjoy getting to see one of these famous “broom men” for yourselves!

Here he is making a house call to a large, wealthy apartment complex. “Anyone need any mops, toilet scrubbers, or brooms? Come check out my bike!”

He then rounds the corner onto a traffic-filled main road, sure to be met my many cars honking at him. Poor guy!

Team 10!

Friday, I took part in a triathlon that featured competitors from four of the local universities. Some of you may remember my pretty horrible triathlon bike crash experience from over a year ago (which left me unconscious and with 3 fractures in my cheek bones and one in my left wrist) and question my desire to participate... But the beautiful thing about this one was that it was in teams! I simply had to do one leg of the race, which was not bad at all. Each team had to contain at least one woman, which made me popular (female athletes are rarer in these parts).

I was on a team with two guys from the swimming group that I’m in: Ricardo (age 41, although I had thought he was much younger) and Jairo (age 17, although I had thought he was much older). I chose to do the running part, although I regretted it later when I saw my fellow runners (all men, except for one other woman, because all of the women chose to swim) in their competitive track uniforms and warming up faster than I usually run at a “fast” pace... Yikes!

We ended up finishing fourth in our category (which were formed by the sum of the ages of the team members), and I was very pleased with this placement. I was hoping for third (just so we could get a medal) but fourth was okay, too. Here is a re-cap of the event:

First, we got ready for our race to begin. We were labeled by our team number (with permanent marker that didn’t fully come off for another two days, might I add!), and here we are proudly displaying our number 10’s. Go team 10!!

Ricardo began with the swimming. He started out way too fast and burnt himself out (even having to stop briefly at one point), but he did a great job and finished his part of the race nonetheless.

Next, Jairo was full speed into the bike course. It was really hard (and included lots of hills), but he did really well and made up for some of the time Ricardo had lost us. Cycling is the national sport of Colombia, and there are many amazing cyclists in the country. However, I watched as even the best of them fell on the course... but they all got right back up and kept going along, like true champions.

Finally, it was my turn! It was pretty unpleasant in the true heat of the day (at 1:00pm, yikes!) and with the many mosquitoes that bit me along the way (in spite of my fervent application of bug repellent), but I attempted to keep up a steady speed and not trip on the many tree roots throughout on the path. I would like you to know that no one was blinded by the glowing whiteness of my legs (hahaha!), and I finished strong (mainly because I kept thinking, “The faster I run, the sooner I can get in the shade!”).

Yay team!

Democracy from abroad

Happy Election Day!

I would like to proudly announce that my ballot is officially in the mail, and I’m looking forward to discovering how things unfold tonight on the news. Voting from here proved to be a lot more challenging than I expected. My absentee ballot (which was sent from King County several weeks ago) never arrived, and (due to the unreliable mail system of Colombia) I was sure it wouldn’t come until far after the election—if ever! Therefore, I made a few phone calls and was sent an email ballot on Friday. I thought that I could simply fill it out, attach a signature from the “paint” program, and send it back... but no, no that was definitely NOT allowed! It had to be sent through the hit-and-miss Colombian snail mail.

My first step was printing the ballot on 8.5” by 14” paper, which I had to convert to centimeters (21.59cm by 35.56cm). I then had to walk to three different Internet Cafes to find one that was capable of printing on this paper (or at least offered that size as an option). I had a lot of trouble with the printing of it because the numbers, letters, and dashes at the bottom of the two pages wouldn’t show up. It was an un-rewritable pdf file, so I couldn’t modify it to allow these to be visible, so I simply hand-wrote them in (perhaps this will invalidate the ballot???). I then went to send it, only to discover that it would not leave Colombia until Tuesday (as it was a national holiday over the weekend), and it said it had to be postmarked “by” November 4th. I called the voting hotline listed on the absentee ballot, and they assured me that being postmarked on the day of the 4th itself would be okay. Therefore, I returned to the only mailing place that was open on the national holiday (which still wouldn’t send it until Tuesday anyway) and followed the instructions that were included with the ballot.

The instructions were very specific and said that I must put the ballot in a sealed envelope labeled “security envelope,” then put in my voter affidavit and seal them both in another envelope. I attempted to follow these rules, but I was told that an envelope inside of another envelope was not allowed for security purposes. I begged to the woman attending me and explained that my ballot would not be counted if I did not do as told. She finally agreed to this and handed me my bill: over the equivalent of $35USD. I then received a call saying she had made a mistake, and it was actually over $50USD, and I would have to return to the office (over a 45-minute bus ride away) to pay the remaining amount... Geez—exercising my democratic rights from afar sure is a hassle and certainly is expensive! 80) I just hope that it arrives and is counted, but (if not) no one can say that I didn’t try!

Reasons Why I'm not in "Kansas" Anymore...

Traveling always introduces us to new ways of life and reminds us that no country on the planet does things exactly the same same way, which is one of the many beauties and frustrations of living outside of one's familiar territory. I could keep a daily blog that would be full of such observations, but here are a few of the clear distinctions from my "homeland" and my current country of residence that are coming to mind as I quickly attempt to keep this blog afloat:

• Pharmacies: I think that one thing I've come to expect and take for granted in the USA is the fact that pharmacists are professionals who have had extensive training in their fields and, well... truly know what they're talking about. In Colombia, I have discovered that this is not the case. My best story to illustrate this finding involves a wart on the pointer finger of my right hand, which was born shortly after my arrival to South America. I eventually decided to use a USA-purchased nitrogen spray to freeze the little bugger off, but it was apparently determined to stay put and did not disappear. Therefore, I resorted to a local Colombian pharmacy, where I showed the "pharmacist" (AKA: the man selling medical supplies) my wart ("verruga" in Spanish). [As a side note, you need no prescription to buy any medicine here, and you can buy pills individually in unmarked packages without any instructions or descriptions. There is no such thing as the FDA]. He "prescribed" me a little glass bottle of something with a name I can't remember and told me to apply it to the wart three times a day, surrounding it with Vaseline to protect the nearby skin. He said it would fall off in four days.

I religiously applied the ointment as directed for far over four days, and my little wart friend still had not gone away. I knew that it was stubborn, and it seemed to be making some progress, so I continued the treatment for another 20 days, keeping the vile in my purse at all times and applying it more than the recommended three times per day. After day 28, I had become disillusioned. I showed the wart and treatment to Carlos' mom (who, once again, is a doctor). She instantly started laughing really hard. "That's what men put on their penises!!!" she told me. "I beg your pardon???!!" I had no idea what she was talking about ... She then explained that I had been given a treatment for sexually transmitted diseases, which had obviously had no effect on my wart. I felt very betrayed by this little container, which I had so carefully taken with me everywhere I went for the past month. It definitely let me down!! "Colombian pharmacies are just like any other store that someone owns to make a living. The workers there will sell you anything," I was told. I think I learned my lesson.

• Selling: That last note is a great transition to another cultural norm that one finds in Colombia: any person of any age can sell you anything, anywhere, at any time. The informal sector of the economy is incredibly high (I once attended a conference on the economic "competitiveness" of Colombia that talked about specific numbers which I should be able to share with you, but I apologize for having forgotten them all. Just trust me that they are very high). People make a living by selling things on street corners, on buses [Note: I hope to do a full report about buses soon], in neighborhoods, at stoplights, in parking lots-- basically anywhere that people might be. The sad part for me has been to see the number of children who work selling items (mainly gum, candy, fruit, and avocados) at street lights and on buses, but I suppose families do what they can to support themselves.

This bicycle belongs to the man who, like many others, roams daily about our neighborhood, announcing his products by tooting a horn and calling them out in a megaphone. He sells mazamora (a drink made of corn and milk) and champus (a drink made of corn, lulo, pineapple, and cinnamon) and usually begins at around 7:00am. It’s a concept that reminds me of the "ice cream man," although I don't think that people get as excited about things like shoe polish, brooms [another short digression: one of my favorite images is the man awkwardly riding a bike while trying to balance his supply of brooms, dust pans, and mops on the front], and limes as children in the USA get for ice cream. =)

• Paying bills: I have to say that one of the most annoying things that I’ve had to do here is pay bills. I won’t go into detail about all of the minor and major situations that have arisen from our monthly obligation to pay for water, telephone, gas, electricity, and public services, but I will say that I have learned to GREATLY appreciate the simple system that we have in the United States. Let’s face it—paying bills is NEVER fun... But receiving the wrong bill or the correct one after payment is due, having to go to inconveniently located places to hand over the money (as you have to pay in person), being forced to wait in long and chaotic lines, and being told that I’ve come to pay a bill too early and need to return a few days later are some of the things that have happened that have been just too much for me!!!

P.S.: Shortly after beginning this reflection, I realized that we had paid the WRONG phone bill that arrived to us a few months ago, which totaled over 120,000pesos (over $60USD)!!! I hadn’t even noticed that it wasn’t even our phone number. I just blindly trusted that is for us, at it arrived one day to our apartment address. Grrrrr!

• Phrasing: Of course, Spanish is very different from English, and the language has its own way of phrasing things (case in point: “I have 25 years,” instead of “I am 25-years-old”). But what I’m talking about here is that Colombians have a distinct way of talking about certain situations—due to a different outlook about them (which even varies from other Latin American countries I’ve been in). For instance, whereas I would say “two weeks” or “one week,” Colombians say “15 days” or “8 days.” So, if today were Saturday, and I was going to see you next Saturday, I would say “See you in 8 days” (apparently today would count as day 1).

Another example is that you are often asked what you are, and you must reply according to what you studied (basically your university major in the form of a noun-- like “political scientist,” “social worker,” “sociologist,” “psychologist,” etc.). This gets confusing because people may not work in exactly the same field that they studied. My Italian teacher (yes, I’m randomly taking Italian classes in Spanish!), for example, studied law (which is only an undergraduate major here, not exactly like the law school system in the USA), so she calls herself a “lawyer,” even though she doesn’t practice law. The majors offered in the U.S. make this a little challenging. Like, if a person studies “International Studies,” does that make him/her an “international studier?” Or, since I majored in both Communication and Spanish, does that make me a “Spanish-speaking communicator?”

They also use terms like “vieja” (the noun for “old lady”) and “gordo” (which is basically “fattie”) to refer to others (who are neither old nor fat). They say things like “the bus left me,” instead of my natural inclination to say, “I missed the bus.” Etc., etc., etc.... Ergo, I’m trying my best to speak and think like a Colombian!

• National Pride: Something that I’ve found amusing is the extent to which Colombians are very proud of their national and local anthems. They sing all of them (their national anthem, department [state] anthem, and city anthem) at all formal events, and (surprisingly) almost everyone seems to know all the words. I had a friend once tell me that his sister had a true life changing experience when she left her country for the first time and discovered that Colombia’s national album was not the most beautiful song in the world. The national anthem is played on all radio stations at 6:00am and 6:00pm daily, and it is also played periodically throughout the day. I find it funny when a song of popular culture—such as one of reggaton, pop, salsa, or merengue—is followed by the national anthem, and people begin to sing along with true patriotism. I mean, can you imagine listening to something like Britney Spears, and then pow! “Oh, say can you see...”…I guess people from other countries probably think it’s odd how children in U.S. schools recite the Pledge of Allegiance every morning … so my conclusion is that all patriotic traditions are only understood by those from the country in which they originate.
• Fixing pets: Perhaps we can thank Bob Barker, but we North Americans are really into getting our pets spayed and neutered. This is ingrained in our minds since the very first time we get a pet, and I hadn’t realized how much this idea was a part of me until I ventured Southward and saw not just 100’s of non-fixed stray animals (There’s no such thing as an animal pound), but also the private pets of most families still having all of their parts (*note: I’m talking about Colombians who are “well off.” I wouldn’t apply the same pet care standard to those who live in extreme poverty) . The same expectation of scooping poop also seems to be unique to the U.S., which has provided for some unpleasant experiences. =)
• Bags: It seems like almost any product in Colombia comes in a plastic bag. This includes the gasoline that I mentioned during the mattress-burning incident, in addition to all dairy products. I’ve attempted to explain the concept of a milk carton to various acquaintances, and it’s just about as foreign as I am! Yogurt (which is completely liquid, not like the stuff we eat with a spoon at home) also comes in the same style of bags. Refrigerator storage of opened bags of such products after they’ve been opened has proved to be a little challenging.

Here I am drinking water from a plastic bag, a very common and cheap way to become re-hydrated after a day in the sun.

• Activities/games: As expected, the typical games at gatherings and parties in Colombia have their own distinct sets of rules and expectations. Sometimes, I’ve thought, “Oh, I know this game,” only to discover that it’s not exactly what I had in mind. I once was invited to this to a party which involved drawing the name of an “amigo secreto” (secret friend) a few days before the event. It seemed a lot like a white elephant exchange (which I LOVE, by the way), only I was told that there was a minimum spending requirement of 30.000 pesos (about $15USD). Hmmmm... I’d never heard of a gift exchange with a price minimum before! Furthermore, each person had to request what they wanted, and my “amigo secreto” had asked for a sweat suit set (not just sweatpants or a sweatshirt; he wanted them together). This proved to be very challenging in the warm weather climate of Cali, Colombia, and I spent several hours of time that I did not have searching for his requested gift. I almost gave up and bought him a gift card. However, I finally found a warm-up set (which, by the way, was far over the minimum price), which I assumed was what he wanted... although he didn’t seem too pleased with it upon receiving it the next day. I consoled myself by thinking “oh well, at least I tried” and enjoying the typical Colombian woven hat my “amigo secreto” purchased for me.
• Seasons: I hadn’t realized how much our lifestyle in the Northwest of the U.S. revolves around the seasons of the year until spending so much time in a place without seasons. Cali is known as the “land of eternal spring” because it is basically between 80 – 90 degrees (26.67 to 32.22 degrees Celsius) year-round, perhaps only varying in the amount of tropical rainstorms it experiences. I find myself saying, “in the spring” or “in the winter” to refer to times when certain events will take place (like schools start in the “fall;” graduations take place in the “spring;” students have “summer” vacation), only to be received with blank stares. I’ve realized more and more that the way I think, what I eat/drink, and what I do are all affected by having seasons—a non-existent concept in these parts.
• Horns: The driving here in Cali has been quite scary for me after having driven down the calm and quiet streets of Idaho and Washington, and I’m still not accustomed to it yet. However, yet even more difficult for me to handle has been the seemingly over-abundant usage of the horn. In a city of 3 million people, it becomes overwhelming when people use their horn repeatedly for everything, and once one person begins to honk, many others join in. I’ve even seen horse-drawn carts that also have horns! Sometimes, I can see the necessity of it-- like when a bus is about to pull right over on a motorcycle that is buzzing right along the side of it; the motorcyclist must let the bus know it’s there. Yet, it seems quite unnecessary when cars are stopped at something over which they have no control, like a construction site, and several of the cars/buses/taxis behind them begin honking over and over again-- as if that makes the situation any better. I guess honking can be a way of expressing one’s frustration, and the others who join in the honking are simply acknowledging that they feel the same, like a form of empathy. Perhaps it’s just another form of communication...
• Violence: I hope to blog more about the violence of Colombia in a future date, but I just wanted to note here that the years of conflict and violence have created their own sets of cultural norms and expectations. Having lived my entire life in a peaceful setting, it has been hard to get used to the precautions that one must take, the guard that one must put up, and the sights that one sees in the non-touristy sites of Colombia. I know that things have drastically improved, and I’m not exactly living in a war zone, but things are certainly different. The first thing that I was taught after getting off the plane was not to “give out papaya,” which is a local way of expressing not to draw attention to myself, show-off any valuables, or be careless with my possessions. Newspapers being sold on the streets show the bloody and mangled bodies of people who’ve been tortured and killed (often related to the drug trade), and the various armed rebel groups (like the FARC, the ELN, and the paramilitares) are constant topics of conversation. My classmates (many of whom work directly in the field of violent crimes) often talk about the graphic details of deaths, and emails circulate with photos of people who’ve been killed in horrendous ways. I know that I would call 9-1-1 for anything suspicious in the United States, but I was shocked recently when we heard 4 gunshots outside of our apartment (don’t worry; it wasn’t too close!), and it didn’t even occur to me to call at all (a realization I made a few days later). (I don’t even know the emergency number here; people seem to be distrusting of authorities, and those who report anything must live in fear afterwards). One of my thirty-six-year-old classmates told me, “People of our generation have never known peace”—a statement that greatly impacted me... Yet, in spite of everything, Colombians have consistently been shown to be some of the happiest people in the world—very inspiring!

Donkey + books = biblioburro!

Check this out! I found this story (as published in the New York Times) to be a refreshing view of the grassroots service action going on here in Colombia: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/20/world/americas/20burro.html?_r=1&em&oref=slogin . It definitely shows a more hopeful side of the country-- enjoy! =)

I promise not to leave all of the writing up to the New York Times; I hope to have some of my own reflections and discoveries posted soon...

Familiar Faces

My days are always brightened by coming across someone who recognizes me as I run from place to place in my daily activities. I'm not talking about friends or classmates (although that, of course, is always nice); I'm talking about those who would have otherwise been "strangers," yet have somehow taken an interest in me. I'm talking about the men who work in the "panaderías" (bakeries) which I never seem to be able to resist as I walk to the bus stop; the woman who works in the coffee shop where I like to study; the people serving food in the university cafeteria; the man who sold me two electric adapters once and continues to greet me daily as I walk past his shop; and even this homeless man whom I see sporadically and always shouts in English (no matter what time of day), "Good morning, Teacher!" ["Good morning, Teacher!" seems to be an English phrase that everyone here knows, although very few people know its true meaning]. I think that being a foreigner (especially in Colombia) makes me seem interesting and vulnerable at the same time, and I've realized how much people have taken to me when they've made comments like, "It seemed so long since you'd been here that I was worried you had left for your country!" or "I saved you some of the fresh potato bread because I know how much you love it!" or "I didn't see you yesterday; where were you?" I feel safer walking down my usual routes knowing that these locals are looking out for me.

This is one of those "friendly faces" (although she didn't want to look directly at the camera, so you get a profile shot of her face!). I don't even know her name, but she always puts down her knitting to smile and wave at me as I walk past the spot where she sells fruits, plants, bracelets, and hats.

Internal Displacement

Due to its very violent history and high prevalence of armed groups, Colombia has the highest rate of antipersonnel land mines and the second highest rate of forced displacement in the world behind the Sudan (source: Refugee International). Sadly, this number does not seem to be lessening, and ReliefWeb even claims that the country currently has the highest number of war refugees in the past 23 years.

One of the most worthwhile Rotary projects that I’ve witnessed supplies prosthetic limbs and training on how to use them for victims of antipersonnel land mines. It is certainly life-changing in many ways for the recipients, and I've been really impressed with what the Rotarians have been able to accomplish for these innocent victims of this conflict.

Another related project that I recently undertook was translating accounts of displaced women who’ve arrived here to Cali from Buenaventura. It was a little challenging because the women spoke in their own informal vernacular, but here are some of their testimonies:

INTERVIEW 1
Name: Sandra
Age: 23

“The reason that I became displaced with my three kids and nephew is that my husband was shot three times in a shooting in La Independencia. I was living in La Independencia when the shooting began. I was on my way with my son to buy some medicines for my daughter because she suffers from asthma. The shooting began in the neighborhood of La Independencia, and by chance, some shrapnel hit me... They killed a boy, and by chance, my son left running and hit his forehead really hard on the ground, and the shrapnel got me, and I knew because I felt the heat... I want the community or some group to collaborate with me because we are displaced; some days we have absolutely nothing, we are passing a lot of time without work... My cousin is the one who helps me, but she is not working now because she had an accident; now we are going through a very difficult situation; I am going hungry...I want to work, but now nobody has given me work because of the problem that I have in my leg; I want to continue studying and begin to work...

INTERVIEW 2:
Name: María
Age: 55

“I lived in Buenaventura in the neighborhood of Unión de Vivienda; I lived with my son. My son was formerly of a group [the Colombian government has a program to get young men reintegrated back into normal life if they vow to leave their past in armed groups behind], so the “paras” [paramilitaries] of the other group attacked us; they shot at us, then they destroyed my house; my son belonged to the FARC, but he was demobilized by the government and wanted to start a new life, but they were after him... I got myself out of there, and he left, too... My son was 32-years-old; they killed him here December 2nd in Cali in the neighborhood of El Refugio [by the way, that’s MY neighborhood!!] , and since then, I am fleeing from one place to another to another; I live in a shelter now... They call me to the telephone, saying: “Watch out, if you accuse us of killing your son, we will kill you.” I am threatened; I spend all my time shut up; I don’t go out into the street; my neighbors give me food; sometimes, they take my clothes to iron because if I leave with the clothes, I’m surely going to get killed. For seven months, I have been threatened; they call me, saying they’ll give it to me; whenever they see me, they’re going to get me. And where there are people that know me, they tell them, “Tell that lady to take care because we’re going to kill her. Until we have gotten rid of all of them, we can’t be at ease,” and I don’t even know what group it is...”

INTERVIEW 3:
Name: Yamileth
Age: 34

“They killed my husband. I lived in Buenaventura; I lived with my husband and my three children in Bellavista, then soon after they killed him, they continued after me... I got out of there; I left the house because they chased me, it was just unbearable there...I worked in Buenaventura selling “chontaduro” [a chestnut-like fruit]; I left my work to come here...I don’t leave the house now because it scares me that they call to threaten me; I had to change my telephone number; in the race to get away, my phone fell, but they call me where I’m at now...Now they aren’t shooting people in the street like they used to do all the time; now, they are making people disappear and taking them to whatever beach is nearby. They ask you what you know, and sometimes what you know is nothing, and so they keep asking you things that you don’t know how to respond to, and if you respond in any way, the person kills you because you’ve thought of something like that...”

INTERVIEW 4
Name: María
Age: 41

“We lived in Buenaventura: me, my husband, three children, and mother-n-law. My husband worked in a launch boat; he was the owner of this little boat that loaded passengers for coastal trips…. The FARC began to chase him, or at least that’s the story I got about who they were, and the story went that they already waited for him there. In his business where he worked, they stalked him; he could not come out to the business any more; we just left it alone. They came to look for him in the house; they called his cell phone and told him that they already knew him, and people said that strange people were around, and they came and knocked on the door of the house. Because of all that, we left and came out there. We lived in La Independencia, near where they threw a bomb that shattered all the glass in our house; we were not super-close, but it was able to break all the glass in the house and everything, and already the kids could not sleep peacefully... For that reason, we moved and now we are in this neighborhood here... We arrived that day to the place of one of my brothers, but we were so many people in one house—him with his family and those daughters and me with my family. We arrived to the neighborhood of Manuela Beltrán, and from there we looked for a little room and pawned everything we had, so we have been able to survive from then until now, but we don’t have anything anymore...Everything that we had there was damaged, and now we are renting a house in Manuela Beltrán; neither my husband nor I is working... This is horrible...”

INTERVIEW 5
Name: Anabel Gutiérrez
Age: 45
“A year ago, I left my homeland of Buenaventura; I left with my three oldest daughters: they were 13, 10, and 2 years-old when I left. I left from the neighborhood of Panamericano. The dad of the girls had disappeared 2.5 years ago when I was pregnant with the last one, when he left one day for a trip to Panama... I started working selling food in the neighborhood of Palo Seco. Every once in a while, the police had search warrants to search around because in Buenaventura they’ve said that the guerillas are in one neighborhood, and the paramilitaries are in another. And the neighborhood where I was supposedly had the guerilla fighters, and I put my little food shop there, and I had my friendships with people there, and I had no problem. And, even though everyone there was completely civil, one day they did a search with a search warrant, and they searched the house where I was living, and the same police told me that it was very dangerous for me and my girls to be there; that the neighborhood was a hot zone for shootings that could happen at any time. And, as the house was on the corner and made of wood, they said that a bullet could bounce over to us and could hurt me or one of my daughters, so they suggested that I look for another neighborhood. Nothing was happening to me in this neighborhood, but no one can be saved from a stray bullet, so I found a friend in the Panamericano Neighborhood who let me rent a little place. I began to sell food again...Then, day by day, my sales lessened and lessened, and soon I was only selling about 10,000 pesos [about $4.75USD] worth in a day. I was asking God with all of my heart what was wrong; the children didn’t play with my daughters anymore; no one came at all; those who came were those who came from far away and didn’t know anything. What happened is that my same friendships from the other neighborhood where I had lived before came to the new neighborhood saying that I came from a neighborhood of the guerilla, and that I was a member of the guerilla forces; they said that I was a spy, that I was an informant. They said I had an alarm that I could set to make a bomb explode, so the people became afraid and didn’t get close to me. The few people who bought were those who had not realized this yet, and thank God, they didn’t see a man in the house, and nothing happened to me...

There was a festival in Cali, and so I left in one of the small buses with my three daughters, and I came here. I left with the bag of my daughter; I just put in an outfit for each one of us. This was on the 28^th of September, 2007—a Saturday, the day that we came here. At one in the morning, the pastor was sending me back to Buenaventura with everyone else, and I told her, “No, pastor. Please don’t send me back there because I’ll have to sleep on the docks. I’m not going to Buenaventura. Everything of mine is damaged in Buenaventura...”... And that’s when here in Cali I learned what hunger and humiliation are. When they hear my age, they deny me work. I am 45-years-old; I have three daughters who look like they’re my granddaughters. My suffering has caused me to age prematurely; my stress has damaged all the fillings in my teeth; because I was skinny, I’m lacking calcium…. I am doing a Project that SEDECUR, an entity that performs social action, is arranging for me. They give us a little training so that we can start a little business, so that we women can get started. Meanwhile, we have to be paying for our bus rides; they don’t give us money for transportation or food or anything; you just have to put up with it, as there’s not anything else to choose from. My daughters can’t pay the 5,000 pesos [about $2.41USD] for school supplies for each one, and for not having this 10,000pesos [about $4.81USD] to pay the school supplies for the two of them, they won’t accept the girls in the school...

It has been hard in Cali because I didn’t know anything about living in a city. I didn’t know how to catch a ride; I didn’t know how to catch a bus; I didn’t know anything, and they had to pick me up and bring me home. During the first few days, they help you, but then after a week, you become a nuisance… They have trained me in fast food preparation, and through the SENA, the Carvajal Foundation, and the Bienestar Familiar [Institute of Family Well-Being], they have the girls in a home…What the Bienestar Familiar [Institute of Family Well-Being] told me was that, if things continued as they were, I could give up the three-year-old, but I didn’t come to give away my daughters. The problem is the house; I don’t have money to pay for rent—because you can’t just go to live anywhere with three girls. Asking God for permission, I hope to find a place to live for me and my girls…”

Although I am far-removed from a lot of the violence and suffering, reminders like these regularly keep me aware of the many problems found in this country.