And it burns, burns, burns...

I had originally hoped that my next blog entry would contain something of great worldly significance, like an analysis of the many human rights violations that are currently taking place here in Colombia (Please note-- these include those of: antipersonnel mines, the highest rate of internal displacement in the world behind the Sudan, a high rate of child soldiers, murders, crimes, kidnappings, torture, lots of missing people, the huge narco-trafficking ring (that creates tons of violence in and of itself), gangs, targeted assassinations, etc.), or perhaps something about the conflicts and political controversies of the country, or even some information on the research that I’ve been conducting on the indigenous peace movement of the department (state) of Cauca. But, in reality, the story that I am most eager to share involves the history of a mattress.

Two weeks ago, I became the proud renter of an apartment in Colombia (which is way closer to my university—yay!!!). It had an extra room, so I decided to invite my German friend, Melanie, to stay with me. We were very content in our new home-sweet-home, although we soon discovered that taking care of our living space would require battles with cockroaches and other insects that appeared daily without warning. I also discovered that I had to “battle it out” nightly with my mattress, which was completely old, uneven, full of ridges, and pretty much the most uncomfortable space where I’ve slept in ever (which I feel says a lot, as I’ve slept on many hard grounds and rocky camping spots). When my back could no longer take it, I searched for a replacement.

This replacement came in the form of another mattress that was kindly lent to me by Lola, Liliana’s mother. When it arrived, it was pretty much the oldest, dirtiest mattress I’d seen (It had been her daughter’s 40-years-ago), and insects started falling out of it as we lifted it up to the apartment. It looked so bad that Melanie wouldn’t even let me bring it into our place. “We already have a bug problem!” she said, “I do NOT want it to get worse.”

When we asked the guard of our apartment complex (Rodrigo) if/how/where we could dump it, he only had one suggestion: set it on fire. He also offered to help with this process—that is, if we agreed to wait until his shift ended at 12:00am. “Setting the mattress on fire at midnight??? Si, señor, sounds like a plan!” (That was our reply).

Ergo, Luis (Melanie’s Colombian boyfriend) and I bought a bag of gasoline (yes, you can apparently by gasoline by the bag) and matches and prepared for our mattress burning ritual… It was all that we dreamed of and more! Here are photos of the event, which was quite memorable and rewarding… I am sad to report, however, that I am still currently sleeping on the floor. :(

This photo does not really do justice to the true ugly condition of the mattress.

Rodrigo prepares the mattress by covering it with our secret ingredient: gasoline.

Whew--- it was up in flames instantaneously!

I call this the “feel the fire of the burning mattress” ritualistic ceremonial dance.

Nothing says “invigorating” like a mattress on fire!

Presentation Circuit

I’ve begun my presentation circuit as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, and it has been quite an interesting process to be forced to reflect on my own culture, societal norms, and characteristics of my country and present this to various audiences.

Here I am with my Rotary Advisor, Carlos, after presenting yet another flag of the Rotary Club of the University District of Seattle (this time to the Club of Cali San Fernando).

I am deep in thought as the following question is posed for me: “How will each of the three main presidential candidates react to the current situation of Colombia if elected as president? More specifically, how will they respond to the actions of the crazy Marxist President Chávez [of Venezuela]?" Ay, ay, ay!! Can’t people just ask me about something easy, like American food or movies?

Just Call Me “Teacha [Teacher] Heeeeelary”

Due to some “logistical challenges,” my jump rope club in El Hogar María Gorreti has evolved into an English class. I can’t say that it wasn’t a disappointment to end this endeavor, but I do believe it will perhaps be revived at some point in the near future. In the meantime, I feel that the absence of this chaotic club in my schedule has freed up lots of energy for me, and I’m glad that I can still be a part of the girls’ lives.

My English class has presented its own unique set of challenges, but it has also provided me with some amusing moments as well. For instance, yesterday, four of the girls asked me if I would do them the favor of translating texts they had written. (As a side note, I have become quite popular as a translator here, constantly receiving emails with letters, applications, and documents to translate. Ergo, I am becoming very experienced and efficient at transforming Spanish into English!). I naively agreed and found that each of my students had written love letters to the boys of their “corazones” that were quite entertaining. My favorite was one that concluded dramatically with, “You know that I love you wholeheartedly and want to be with you forever. But you already have someone, and that someone is not me.” Ah, the heartache of teenage love!

Here I am with a few of my dear, oh-so-charming-and-well-behaved students.