tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89175873894599565732024-03-13T15:05:22.835-04:00GOING NOMADMy Global Travel BlogLSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-55002801764342044462011-04-23T05:15:00.002-04:002011-04-24T03:51:13.702-04:00MovedHello,<br /><br />I have moved. You may now find me at www.peregrinational.com.<br /><br />Thanks!LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-3581713108872591182009-11-05T22:58:00.004-05:002009-11-05T23:58:25.881-05:00El FinThese past four months in Colombia were incredible. At times I grew tired of the high heat and humidity. At times, I really, really, didn't want to get up at 5:30 to go teach English in an animated fashion for a few hours. But hey - heat and sleep deprivation aside, can one really complain when there is fresh mango juice on every corner, there are at least three different beaches within busing distance, and even the citizens still in diapers have killer dance moves? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWjJSQfzuk7BYV7IUkI2AYYxyWMHGbg8SdHoYt2Y7232EDYIZeGIdMeHA_TDNdqmO-qtoD-Wgls9Hj7ulpj57f005loYY6CWsO9Gvc5sDJ2gyXO9ku1S36X2gCPAoFzcV541NoFr0erEd4/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+110.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWjJSQfzuk7BYV7IUkI2AYYxyWMHGbg8SdHoYt2Y7232EDYIZeGIdMeHA_TDNdqmO-qtoD-Wgls9Hj7ulpj57f005loYY6CWsO9Gvc5sDJ2gyXO9ku1S36X2gCPAoFzcV541NoFr0erEd4/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+110.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400837269758723490" /></a> Colombia gets a lot of flack for a reputation it doesn't deserve. Everywhere I went, Colombians constantly asked me what Americans (or 'North Americans' as they call them in Colombia) think of Colombia. They laughed when I described the land of drugs, sex tourism, kidnappingm and guerrilla warfare that Americans had in mind. To those Americans who remain doubtful - Yes, there are a lot of men and women in uniform in Colombia. Yes, they are there for security reasons. No, I never felt in danger wherever I went. No, no one asked me to traffic drugs back to the United States. <br /><br />Colombia's government has been on a vigorous "rebranding" spree, painting Colombia as the country of flowers, not the country of guns. Everywhere I went, I saw people with heart pins and bags or t-shirts with the phrase "Colombia es pasion." The phrase works as a response for many situations, such as: <br />"Why is this guava juice so amazing?" - "Porque Colombia es pasion!"<br />"Why do we need to keep dancing?" - "Porque Colombia es pasion!"<br />"Why won't my students just sit still and be quiet?" - "Porque Colombia es pasion!"<br />But seriously, all joking aside, there is some truth to the statement. The picture in the top left corner is of a traveling dance troop that stopped in Cartagena. To me, the group epitomized the general spirit of Colombia, as well as of other countries I've visited in South America. I've found the people to be open, joyful, and eager to share their country with me. Yes, poverty is rampant throughout Colombia. Yes, prostitutes and drug dealers were certainly not far away from where I lived. My roommate got a lot of money stolen from her. We saw a student protest in Bogota with plenty of armored tanks just in case things got ugly (they didn't). These things are present in Colombia, but the country is no longer fighting the war against the FARC to the degree they once were, and militism is just one of color in the background - the country is no longer monochromatic militia green. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrAaLlavFPejysGWW9pl5WuTcwS6fcPyB_PNhFtEErSf_SE34bUQUpqfLyzqEjIzQ2R6N93fxDnAVGPYd2kVpy38KHxS0FKNQk3bxgKN-fENzqFZYZ7vzDciN9mwg6tgUPx-Zy7JF2DRL/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+363.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrAaLlavFPejysGWW9pl5WuTcwS6fcPyB_PNhFtEErSf_SE34bUQUpqfLyzqEjIzQ2R6N93fxDnAVGPYd2kVpy38KHxS0FKNQk3bxgKN-fENzqFZYZ7vzDciN9mwg6tgUPx-Zy7JF2DRL/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+363.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400846360795640882" /></a><br />At the end of the day, I made some fantastic friends, saw some beautiful places, improved my Spanish, and developed a slightly unhealthy obsession for Reggaeton. Colombia is a HUGE country, and I was only beginning to experience parts of it. I will miss the people and places I knew, but I know I'll be back. It's good to be back in DC, but I know that within a month or two, I'll get the fever to jump over an international border or ocean or two. Here's to the next great adventure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6JuSgGKXkf5MoJ-3073hJSQcBVL7lfVaaWLljfLl8zya1ykhyuTIZJei3vd9f_Vj-wHvbmBIrySMs3s0rI9pKxlMAjBvS2Qxwx5JZjtnPjRo0kCV-mPUB_0Zf6miVEvfmnpBBhOcxhiD/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+213.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6JuSgGKXkf5MoJ-3073hJSQcBVL7lfVaaWLljfLl8zya1ykhyuTIZJei3vd9f_Vj-wHvbmBIrySMs3s0rI9pKxlMAjBvS2Qxwx5JZjtnPjRo0kCV-mPUB_0Zf6miVEvfmnpBBhOcxhiD/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+213.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400850140215761874" /></a>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-41877445824683738592009-11-05T15:23:00.011-05:002009-11-05T22:56:08.792-05:00Bienvenidos a Bogota<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRDv9Bkgubfs9gddEcod16xLxoHl8ylNV6tKp6ezMAyGc21AfPqRshNhRjyGINj6Y6vbVn7rFmU-xysITqFe5NScE6Wf4-hcGvTByQenFXCgaxZaolxLsUjVuSw6wxHB_XF-7KANdBE0M/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+218.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRDv9Bkgubfs9gddEcod16xLxoHl8ylNV6tKp6ezMAyGc21AfPqRshNhRjyGINj6Y6vbVn7rFmU-xysITqFe5NScE6Wf4-hcGvTByQenFXCgaxZaolxLsUjVuSw6wxHB_XF-7KANdBE0M/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+218.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400720321598725570" /></a> I'd reserved the last week in Colombia for Bogota. My mom had some trepidations about my going there (probably because a friend at graduation had told us her dad thought it was THE most dangerous city to go to...excellent timing...) but everyone I'd talked to in Colombia didn't seem to have any problems there. Bottom line, I'm a smart cookie and I wasn't about to do anything stupid. I wasn't worried.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8mnM_tnvGcv9z3DvRPGq4zVp5avu5e01qLCfSnlvcbyKHXFX2Y6LjzxkzDA0XZnoT90aUAaFroWSdG6RjFFEs-zWpFC_9CAy1NXTygA04rt_m6kQENnPfxBZpUMHCuK6qu23Ntzos8IW/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+236.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8mnM_tnvGcv9z3DvRPGq4zVp5avu5e01qLCfSnlvcbyKHXFX2Y6LjzxkzDA0XZnoT90aUAaFroWSdG6RjFFEs-zWpFC_9CAy1NXTygA04rt_m6kQENnPfxBZpUMHCuK6qu23Ntzos8IW/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+236.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400719059411896930" /></a> Bogota is enormous. The picture to the left was taken from the top of Monserrate, the mountain on the edge of the city. Como se dice "urban sprawl"? I went to Bogota to visit friends, but I'd met someone in Cartagena the week before, and Bogota just happened to be the next stop on his tour of South America. Lawrence and I spent a lot of time together that week. <br /><br />We hit all the highlights. Monserrate...gold museum...Botero museum... <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoETWrbTU43reoFaiDExTV9Mw8CMrm3jiL60O0OyKqDHQe6Exyoll1zv4-Y4-JBKwoI6WYEBnvPadcxuCbCNGrahqQT5tfu-bj8Rz6f2F74FwLiB4ROXSrrFNqmObeIFYhq9LgpbHaWhCl/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+234.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoETWrbTU43reoFaiDExTV9Mw8CMrm3jiL60O0OyKqDHQe6Exyoll1zv4-Y4-JBKwoI6WYEBnvPadcxuCbCNGrahqQT5tfu-bj8Rz6f2F74FwLiB4ROXSrrFNqmObeIFYhq9LgpbHaWhCl/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+234.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400827395486066130" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjlvGrP5554mSVobXcLEwikbcdmhyphenhyphenblXNPKDqoDwNGFLwH5rTBGKkmaShuZKEtkHNCCMbchpMxpLxfebQacgjlSepSyDATU5MAm0L5D14VxZFxUjQIbrs5wgLBf2yTHki6JHaAWzKHmCU/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+266.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjlvGrP5554mSVobXcLEwikbcdmhyphenhyphenblXNPKDqoDwNGFLwH5rTBGKkmaShuZKEtkHNCCMbchpMxpLxfebQacgjlSepSyDATU5MAm0L5D14VxZFxUjQIbrs5wgLBf2yTHki6JHaAWzKHmCU/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+266.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400825880036698242" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLpeSmrjqeETINPotcXjYvC4Ph5Y5c54sgmvyS2CIDxyjsvfPZwiOEypQ59Yy739DOSQ4ILsdiXRaFHo9p-xhdm4pZdzN0VPBMBwX9CKf_IfZS3zeJxFr1vfo4ow-zx1IBj2u-5fpfAjl/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+252.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLpeSmrjqeETINPotcXjYvC4Ph5Y5c54sgmvyS2CIDxyjsvfPZwiOEypQ59Yy739DOSQ4ILsdiXRaFHo9p-xhdm4pZdzN0VPBMBwX9CKf_IfZS3zeJxFr1vfo4ow-zx1IBj2u-5fpfAjl/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+252.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400826643307085826" /></a><br />The best weekend was the last one there, because it was Halloween. Halloween is a HUGE deal in Colombia (little did we know...). It is over a three-day weekend, and everyone dresses up all three days. We went to a Calle 13 concert on Friday. Calle 13 is a really popular hip-hop artist. Manuel had introduced me to his music back in Cartagena, so I was really excited to see him live. The concert was insane. It took us about two hours just to get to the concert at what looked like a giant, abandoned warehouse outside Bogota. Everyone was dressed in costume, and people kept trying to sell us bottles of Colombia's national brew. This life-affirming moment brought to you by Aguardiente? We passed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtAS37-lXd82nqn2a_d74WQHAiAJ2UDH7tZpAtFocdCPbVHQ1VKfQ1gKAM8HQBG4WnLVdAX1QgG13vtel27AjqZAHv3_kskl5_V3JfLIjPm3jd1XUX1fQLzWW1EzfKaRSdHXeX_brRLfo/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+293.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtAS37-lXd82nqn2a_d74WQHAiAJ2UDH7tZpAtFocdCPbVHQ1VKfQ1gKAM8HQBG4WnLVdAX1QgG13vtel27AjqZAHv3_kskl5_V3JfLIjPm3jd1XUX1fQLzWW1EzfKaRSdHXeX_brRLfo/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+293.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400829423399422290" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6vLg_1Pjm_8yj8PKmFxwN8a-sRTzq-JBEWmm21WOD_pM88azelST242emjtuB6XucDAhA4Gzb1vOdlCOP2iiOR5GACf06GDr7nFWdpTy_1ygeungnh-vMHMQbrkTBd5jqkjyARP7R6gQ/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+316.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6vLg_1Pjm_8yj8PKmFxwN8a-sRTzq-JBEWmm21WOD_pM88azelST242emjtuB6XucDAhA4Gzb1vOdlCOP2iiOR5GACf06GDr7nFWdpTy_1ygeungnh-vMHMQbrkTBd5jqkjyARP7R6gQ/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+316.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400830794087950066" /></a> The last highlight of the trip was Saturday. We went to a church (of course...what else would the good Christian people of Colombia do?), which was highly unusual, because it was carved out of rock in a giant underground salt mine. Creepy, but cool. Fun fact: apparently the only other church like it in the world is in Poland. You know what they say - if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If life gives you salt, make...churches?<br /><br />After the salt mine we caught the bus to the coolest restaurant I have ever been to. It's called Andres Carne de Res, and is a HUGE steakhouse outside Bogota. It apparently started as one small shop, and then kept expanding...and expanding...It would probably take up about two New York city blocks easily. Everyone was dressed in costume (of course), and we witnessed many weird and mythical creatures parading and generally making merry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbC5bjEkcDiQqWu-29scSM6EmUbDuh-Ghjf3-ZSTklDdJKeaRgUT-1zSRDoDdTMvw82qugZicVkHtshKfFy3kZGVi9IzrP-wlek6ergWGxvScK9UPGLKigfLbRfeYhxHTyUAX9fMYQnA_/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+331.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbC5bjEkcDiQqWu-29scSM6EmUbDuh-Ghjf3-ZSTklDdJKeaRgUT-1zSRDoDdTMvw82qugZicVkHtshKfFy3kZGVi9IzrP-wlek6ergWGxvScK9UPGLKigfLbRfeYhxHTyUAX9fMYQnA_/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+331.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400832460368262530" /></a><br />Soon it was late Sunday night and time for me to go to the airport. I had a fantastic week in Bogota. After confirming with three different airline employees that I was not, in fact, a drug trafficker, I made my way to the gate and caught my red-eye back to the states with no problem. I didn't sleep much on my way back to states, but with three full days between me and Colombia, it really is remarkable how quickly I'm moving back into the (admittedly much quicker) pace of life back in DC.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-53027657410552967412009-10-16T14:57:00.007-04:002009-11-05T15:22:20.704-05:00Quick! To the Batcave!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgln4NwjQ-UU7hbS0TV7Zm-D7d8s1M06SdZ2Bt5PaJ6HLnTCBalxFZ5A27Kl1AzkbOp5sehIkZE22nbNKoj8yIckCG3V1sOi_MUlCrl9SKpVZRMD_7EDmd3ADQKDGiZf8XsGnKaDzkVwk6u/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+049.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgln4NwjQ-UU7hbS0TV7Zm-D7d8s1M06SdZ2Bt5PaJ6HLnTCBalxFZ5A27Kl1AzkbOp5sehIkZE22nbNKoj8yIckCG3V1sOi_MUlCrl9SKpVZRMD_7EDmd3ADQKDGiZf8XsGnKaDzkVwk6u/s200/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+049.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400716397709311794" /></a> Last I heard, Batman wasn't Colombian. However, if he were, I am pretty sure I know where he would hide his ride, and it's not in Bogota. <br /><br />Last weekend we went to San Gil, which is known for extreme sports and outdoor adventures. Being the intrepid explorer that I am, I'm always ready for anything that involves waves, "gear", or a required waver-signing before attempting it. <br /><br />San Gil is about 14-16 hours away from Cartagena, depending on how generous your bus driver is feeling to roadside travelers, and how long your transfer is in Bucaramanga. We left Friday night after classes, and got into San Gil about 2:00PM on Saturday. After a much-needed shower and teeth-brushing, I caught a bus to a town just outside of San Gil where I could go cave exploring. I just made the last trip of the day. Julia had gotten to San Gil a few days before, since she had a week off from work, and the other people in our group had decided to stop at a park. This meant it was just me and five 17-year-olds, who turned out to be good sports. <br /><br />Once outfitted with our helmets and life-vests, (life-vests? really?) we set off. Our guide took us through dark caverns. We ducked under stalactites and turned off our headlamps at certain points so as not to "freak out" the bats. Right. It was seriously cool slithering through tunnels or wading through pools of muddy water. At the end of our trip, we reached what looked like a huge diving board...if oil tankers came with diving boards. The board was over a huge pool about 15 feet below us. We were supposed to jump off and swim across the pool. A ha. Hence the life-jackets. One by one we leaped off into the blackness. It seemed like an awfully long time before the others hit the water, but hey, what the hell. The water was definitely cold, but I was laughing as I swam to the other side. This would SO never fly in the United States...<br /><br />That night the whole group headed to an outdoor Vallenato festival in a little colonial town next to San Gil (Vallenato is a type of Colombian music). The town was beautiful, and it's always nice to practice my Colombian dancing skills, even if I am still rhythmically challenged. Maybe I'll get the hang of it in the last three weeks I'm here. Ok... so there's not a future spot for me on "So You Think You Can Dance."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXoGgVthV_zgLOcj_VKtrq-iAsdjfeyB3w5ks-pR4kyy2z1pvp7vOnmcsf5rh206z5nHuXIap3aLco-H86SbUtbpxvpQ_bCFifLTUbQM87pkijNHgZAaOrEVJlE_iSpdP2lY1qonQo41i/s1600-h/DSC02938.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXoGgVthV_zgLOcj_VKtrq-iAsdjfeyB3w5ks-pR4kyy2z1pvp7vOnmcsf5rh206z5nHuXIap3aLco-H86SbUtbpxvpQ_bCFifLTUbQM87pkijNHgZAaOrEVJlE_iSpdP2lY1qonQo41i/s320/DSC02938.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400715832920611874" /></a> Next morning Julia and I went down to the river for rafting. I found that our guide was none other than one of the guys I had danced with last night! Well nice to see you again, too. Rafting was great fun, as always, and afterward we headed out to lunch with some new rafting buddies and drove out to the hill where people can go paragliding. I was so excited to go, and started taking pictures of all the paragliders, knowing I would be up there in a minute. Alas, the wind didn't feel like cooperating, and died about two minutes after we got there. So much for that.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSH52Lz5hF1jqjyGYSHMriIfuPtwgehHzTd9Y52nM_Ep8fTBYXaVUtXwVXSZygzA2c19S3vARs4_9bk3LcHJDmP_yFWXOZQk4GiRmpCJKJD87SLy9rVYGhW-YEML4mNvy8oQfGqx0GSxXY/s1600-h/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+064.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSH52Lz5hF1jqjyGYSHMriIfuPtwgehHzTd9Y52nM_Ep8fTBYXaVUtXwVXSZygzA2c19S3vARs4_9bk3LcHJDmP_yFWXOZQk4GiRmpCJKJD87SLy9rVYGhW-YEML4mNvy8oQfGqx0GSxXY/s320/The+End+of+Cartagena+and+Bogota+064.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400716865552941714" /></a><br />Monday morning I chose to leave earlier than the rest of the group, because I had to be back by 7:00AM on Tuesday morning, and I didn't want to be late. Last time three of us had been 15 minutes late for class, and it was a big deal. I work at a private language center where students pay very good money to attend classes, and it happens to be one of the few places in Colombia where it actually matters if you're on time. Because of this, I missed the waterfalls and hike through the forest that the rest of the group took that morning. I wish I'd planned better and gotten a substitute for my Tuesday morning class, but I didn't, so I sucked it up and headed back on the 2:00PM bus instead of the 4:30 from Bucaramanga. <br /><br />A few hours into the trip, Julia texted me to say that they hadn't gotten to Bucaramanga in time, and would have to take the 6:00 bus. I certainly thought that the other girl who teaches with me would be late for class. I'd warned her what our boss had told me, but she'd still decided to take the late bus. My bus took exactly 14 hours from Bucaramanga, and I got home at 4:00AM. For some miraculous reason, the other bus took 12 hours and got back at 6:00AM with enough time for the other girl to get to Centro Colombo on time. I was pissed, but I realized something important. I value my work extremely highly, and if someone thinks I am not taking a job seriously, that's a problem for me. There was no way I was going to make that phone call telling my boss I couldn't make it to work on time. It's stressful trying to fit everything in a 3-day weekend here, and truthfully, I don't have nearly enough time to see all I want to see. However, I learned this weekend how highly I value others' professional opinion of me, which was a good affirmation to make. If I have to sacrifice a waterfall to learn that lesson, then so be it.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-87793518595676256662009-09-28T16:20:00.009-04:002009-10-02T16:03:33.695-04:00Dr. Seuss Goes Birdwatching<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-Da4nh3OUwuzBI6HNzXUGRqwGBJxd_92hn6PLJCvoox6Fm4HMe_-WQAaM96lNMgqEqlcK200Bf72UWo8WqnNwbOV_JgA2sb0DbUnrdGIev-7gJMerXQZXBXy5OfphnZBtzk5IaT3JUzo/s1600-h/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+018.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-Da4nh3OUwuzBI6HNzXUGRqwGBJxd_92hn6PLJCvoox6Fm4HMe_-WQAaM96lNMgqEqlcK200Bf72UWo8WqnNwbOV_JgA2sb0DbUnrdGIev-7gJMerXQZXBXy5OfphnZBtzk5IaT3JUzo/s200/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+018.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388095614478856754" /></a> Before Julia and I left for Minca, we were perusing her guidebook for helpful things to see and do. The book mentioned that aside from organic coffee and picturesque walks through the jungle, Minca was also known for its many, many birds. Julia's guidebook devoted almost an entire page just to cataloging bird names. Among others, the book listed: the chesnut piculet, the blue-knobbed curassow (which to me sounded more like a cocktail than a bird), the tyrian metaltail, and the brown-rumped tapaculo, not to be confused with the Santa Marta tapaculo. Now, I couldn't tell you what a brown-rumped tapaculo looked like if my life depending on it, but with a name that could come right out of a Dr. Seuss book, how could it not be ridiculously cool?<br /><br />We spent Saturday just wandering around Santa Marta, exploring the town and then heading off to the beach. It was hot and steamy, but the water was exactly the right temperature, and cleaner than the water along Cartagena's beaches. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KJnc7ZXB38fiPJn5hK8PqQ0-FiGy-E-0Ie2jcqGJa4uw5b2Goc1BOxfsDZo25uCUiJC6I-Vng7Z6Bx9brspK0mXPlpaJyKev2gmtsk9zF_TtXGr-E6QnOpTkufykSGDmSPnc2LHP5neS/s1600-h/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+007.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KJnc7ZXB38fiPJn5hK8PqQ0-FiGy-E-0Ie2jcqGJa4uw5b2Goc1BOxfsDZo25uCUiJC6I-Vng7Z6Bx9brspK0mXPlpaJyKev2gmtsk9zF_TtXGr-E6QnOpTkufykSGDmSPnc2LHP5neS/s200/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388095048022604258" /></a> Saturday night we had the most amazing Mexican food I've had since the last time I was in California. After that we wandered down to a different beach and made some new friends from our hostel.<br /><br />Sunday morning we wandered through the market, trying to find the bus that would take us to Minca. After getting lost among juice stands and bicycle-repair shops for awhile, we found the "bus" to Minca. The small car looked like it had been made long before the Berlin Wall came down, but Julia and I squeezed in along with 4 other passengers, and we headed off to Minca. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptWrSi8IaRj9qA2wRsg_d8xBbG96mKB92CMizh5gB0aNPaGJebIly6bk8HXOj6-rBgUOYumNH7H-gF-xsUagbm_kCB4KaFizrsY-t5ufI9mjV1DTiYecuxAxBXDcp3QoecNtvhrS63BX8/s1600-h/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+025.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptWrSi8IaRj9qA2wRsg_d8xBbG96mKB92CMizh5gB0aNPaGJebIly6bk8HXOj6-rBgUOYumNH7H-gF-xsUagbm_kCB4KaFizrsY-t5ufI9mjV1DTiYecuxAxBXDcp3QoecNtvhrS63BX8/s200/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+025.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388093094506314274" /></a> The walk through the jungle was perfect. We walked about an hour away from the town of Minca, scouting for birds. We'd decided to name at least one bird for ourselves, but there didn't seem to be any around. Our destination was a pool and waterfall which used to be a sacred site for the Koguis, the tribe which inhabited the mountains before the Spanish came. The pool was beautiful...the water freezing. After our swim, we sat out on the sunny rocks to dry. Suddenly I started to notice several red dots appearing on the tops of my legs. I looked on the backs of my legs and realized they were covered. Julia and I had been attacked by jenenes, tiny mosquitos that you can't see but which cause deep bites. It was time to go<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrtTox6KnGyl7jvB8e15ebYUJ7JDB7tQkZpKgqbdOlup7rI-3Q1IwrEQoCbS0XD3WOaCiMjyRBXPwjQVr-VXfopAxxn6X5PDLpHfJM2sgla1byo9DsTIFMAj2P-w5bne7W5aS140hcRjf/s1600-h/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+024.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrtTox6KnGyl7jvB8e15ebYUJ7JDB7tQkZpKgqbdOlup7rI-3Q1IwrEQoCbS0XD3WOaCiMjyRBXPwjQVr-VXfopAxxn6X5PDLpHfJM2sgla1byo9DsTIFMAj2P-w5bne7W5aS140hcRjf/s200/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+024.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388093730663086946" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVnz2R6RVLs8W9oQ41rHpSi3jURxyCDMxdMcwlTeKIRCGkK24cNHoS7YY-1z1auMrz-7GXydplDj6Rr5WAd1kZGjQvELCCOqKcWBSSuz9TLNR0CdPeeD1dHrU33M-yJyRRxKZgB_sDw2r/s1600-h/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+027.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVnz2R6RVLs8W9oQ41rHpSi3jURxyCDMxdMcwlTeKIRCGkK24cNHoS7YY-1z1auMrz-7GXydplDj6Rr5WAd1kZGjQvELCCOqKcWBSSuz9TLNR0CdPeeD1dHrU33M-yJyRRxKZgB_sDw2r/s200/Santa+Marta+and+Minka+027.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388094435930052658" /></a><br />On the way back, we kept looking around for birds, hoping to see something that we could christen. Alas, the only thing we saw was a rooster. Rooster OR...red-spiked jungle pigeon...? Tomayto-tomahto. Perhaps the elusive jungle pigeon will have to wait until the next time. Maybe after my jejene bites heal, I'll consider going back.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-31549582160167551872009-09-22T18:12:00.002-04:002009-09-22T18:17:57.098-04:00Water, Water, Everywhere, and Not a Drop to Drink<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://zonks.blog.co.in/files/2009/08/savewater.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 369px; height: 536px;" src="http://zonks.blog.co.in/files/2009/08/savewater.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> Last week was a little bit dramatic. I came home from school to find we had no water. Maria, our house Mom, told us that no one in our area had water, and that “they” were trying to do something about it. Now, I haven’t been in Cartagena very long, but I’ve spent enough time in South America to know that when “they” do something about a problem, often mosquitoes go through entire lifecycles before the problem gets fixed.<br /><br />It really is amazing how much more you appreciate something when it is very suddenly taken away from you. We couldn’t do dishes or make a lot of food that required boiling things…bathrooms everywhere in the city were out of service because the main pipeline several miles away had burst due to unseasonable erosion and exposure. All inconvenient bathroom-break strategizing aside, the worst part was that we couldn’t take a shower. Now, when the days in Cartagena are 90°F with 75% humidity, showers are necessary. I also love to run, and sometimes get up very early in the morning (read: 4:45AM) to go running before it gets too hot out. These two days especially, I really needed some exercise.<br /><br />The water turned on sporadically for the next 48 hours, and we were able to gather enough water for small amounts of cooking, for flushing the toilet, and for taking bucket showers. I’d never taken a bucket shower in my life before. Any time I’ve gone camping, I’ve always washed in the river or just sucked it up for a couple of days. For some reason it’s easier to do that when you’re expecting not to have access to a shower, as opposed to being blind sighted. Also, lack of plumbing in the forest (aka – an area with general lack of civilization) isn’t really a problem, since…well…no one really cares if you just pick the nearest tree and go about your business. Cities without plumbing are a bit more complicated, but a couple bucket showers now and again never hurt anyone. I was still able to go for my runs.<br /><br />A city-wide lack of water is apparently very unusual, but things got more stressful than that. Aside from no water, our internet also shut down for a few days, our phone wasn’t working, and…we had a few new friends who’d moved into our room. These friends were not welcome. The first one had four legs, a tail, a love of cheese, and still lives under Julia’s bed. The second had eight legs and set up camp in our bathroom. Julia had warned Anezka and me not to use the bathroom, but we scouted it out and the spider seemed to have left. That night around 4:00AM I got up to use the bathroom. I opened the door and was greeted by a giant black spot on the floor. The spot moved. I screamed, slammed the door, and caused my two roommates to awaken, terrified, and demand in the name of all that was holy why I was acting like an axe murderer had come for tea. I explained. They went back to sleep...or ignored me.<br /><br />The next morning, our friend with too many eyes and too many legs had gone, but that night he returned. Moreover, he’d grown bolder, and had ventured out from the bathroom. I was alone. Julia and Anezka were nowhere to be found. This was serious, and I needed backup. Unfortunately, there was no boy readily available, and Manuel refused to come over and kill it for me. For some reason he thought I was being silly and could do it myself. Right. Screw chivalry. Of course I could. <br /><br />I strategized. The spider was crawling across the wall and over my bed. I pulled my bed into the center of the room, so any dead spider remains wouldn’t fall on it. Then after jumping up and down a lot and shouting colorful things (which did nothing…surprisingly), I picked a book from my closet and hurled it at the spider. Spider and book fell. I had won. Let me just say that Mario Vargas Llosa comes in handy for more than practicing your Spanish.<br /><br />The water returned the next day, our internet returned the next day, and one of our guy friends came to sweep up the spider carcass. I’ve climbed mountains, crossed borders, hitch-hiked through foreign countries, made friends with unusual people…but it’s good to be reminded that even something the size of your fist, or something as simple as not taking a shower can still throw you off your guard. I’m thankful for small reminders like that. And for the fact that through all of this, our air conditioning still worked.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-28169381735643825112009-09-01T16:18:00.004-04:002009-09-01T17:12:56.408-04:00"Teacher, why is the mens walking if they can drive a car faster instead?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://compsci.ca/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/calvin_and_hobbes_ch940127.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 190px;" src="http://compsci.ca/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/calvin_and_hobbes_ch940127.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It's now been two months since I began teaching English in Cartagena at <a href="http://www.colombocartagena.com/">Centro Colombo Americano</a>. The first month I just observed classes, and the second I taught full time. I teach three regular classes plus Speaking Corner, which is an informal class where students come to practice their speaking. <br /><br />Teaching is not easy. I'd had plenty of tutoring and informal teaching experience before, but I'd never taught full-time before coming here. It looks simple when you observe someone who knows what she's doing - the class moves smoothly and everyone looks engaged. At the end of the month, everyone passes with flying colors. Simple, right? Things get tricky pretty quickly though, when you don't know the right questions to ask to elicit student participation, you explain too much and end up lecturing, you don't come up with good examples that demonstrate grammar nuances, or, of course, if you just don't have the energy. <br /><br />I never thought before how accountable teachers were for their work. If a student loses interest, you immediately see. If a student doesn't understand, the test or quiz will demonstrate that quite clearly. And if students don't like you...well...they can certainly say so on the teacher evaluation. I am not a person who can sit comfortably in front of a computer all day and stay far removed from her work. I need to be engaged; need to see the fruits of my labor right in front of me. I want results. Luckily, teaching is perfectly conducive to that. It is not always easy, but I love the challenge.<br /><br />Last week I was nervous. My students had their final exams, and I wanted them to do well. Two of my classes were fantastic, but the third one was full of students with terrible attendance and bad attitudes. They didn't participate, and it was hard not to take something like that personally. I always wondered if there were something I could be doing better. Luckily every one of my students passed, even if some just scraped by. My greatest victory was a student who failed his oral exam, but I worked with him to understand the grammar, and he aced the written part. He was shaking when I told him he could move on to the next level, and he gave me a giant hug.<br /><br />Despite some minor pitfalls, last month was full of highlights, and I'm excited for more. I had several students tell me they loved me at the end of class. One student told me I was the best teacher he'd ever had. This month I'm teaching one of the groups of students I observed my first month here. They got to know me because I taught a few lessons for their main teacher. When I walked into the classroom yesterday, they all shouted, "Leah! Yaaaaay!" It was indeed a very warm welcome. I may have a few Calvins again this month, but hopefully I'll be better prepared. May the Susies triumph once again.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-19891875387682865882009-08-12T22:08:00.011-04:002009-08-13T17:45:00.420-04:00Made in MedellinColombia is famous...or infamous...for many things. The FARC and drug trafficking are two subjects that often come to mind. However, my month and a half here has confirmed what I already believed before leaving the US: that Colombia is turning around. A couple of weeks ago I met the head of security for all American armed forces in Colombia, and according to him, only a few years ago cities such as Medellin were still largely unsecured. Today that has changed. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQDoM901HC89aD5y9yetVJcrbEXSZW4LyJMvNBzXPvRfyeSJbAls1eSAJ5ZKjiliolHx_3y5lK1yPIkR05r8ZqVBraRPA25lahgC_xnfmA5ZkWiabGO2qJqKNwGN-buw4uiIgYYRXy_cM/s1600-h/Medellin+041.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQDoM901HC89aD5y9yetVJcrbEXSZW4LyJMvNBzXPvRfyeSJbAls1eSAJ5ZKjiliolHx_3y5lK1yPIkR05r8ZqVBraRPA25lahgC_xnfmA5ZkWiabGO2qJqKNwGN-buw4uiIgYYRXy_cM/s200/Medellin+041.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369566059744721362" /></a> Medellin is known most widely as the birthplace and burial place of Pablo Escobar. For those of us who are not loyal fans of HBO's Entourage, or who think that Vinny Chase's bloody portrayal of Señor Escobar may not be entirely accurate, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Escobar">Pablo Escobar</a> is Colombia's most famous drug lord. At one point it is said that his Medellin cartel controlled 80% of cocaine shipped to the United States. This feat helped land him on Forbes Magazine's 1989 list of the 10 richest men in the world. The drug lord/billionaire even had the audacity to visit the White House at the time he was one of the most wanted men in the world. In his biography, there's a picture of him standing with his son in front of the White House lawn. Unfortunately, life tends to be rather nasty, brutish, and short for drug lords, and Escobar was no exception. He died in 1993. <br /><br />All interest in drug cartels and the US government aside, my friends and I did not go to Medellin for the Pablo Escobar tour. We were going for La Feria de las Flores. After all, more than cocaine is made in Medellin. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZR0nP6pOE94uRcm_AwLvr-6MeRjOocGr1tP5l8NWsru52XGoQFcToXW8y8awhyphenhyphenY1NaVcCVCzoJCDDEQ-qzgflRS0EVYYR2tFlJOHj0g0qQQmnWd8zxpcTwQpX-eJE7qX6NMqMHvat-33/s1600-h/Medellin+011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZR0nP6pOE94uRcm_AwLvr-6MeRjOocGr1tP5l8NWsru52XGoQFcToXW8y8awhyphenhyphenY1NaVcCVCzoJCDDEQ-qzgflRS0EVYYR2tFlJOHj0g0qQQmnWd8zxpcTwQpX-eJE7qX6NMqMHvat-33/s200/Medellin+011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369557339996826994" /></a> La Feria de las Flores is a two-week long celebration of...you guessed it...flowers! Historically Medellin was a flower mecca; peasants from the surrounding mountains would decend to the city carrying flowers on giant woven circles attached to their backs. At the flower parade we went to on Friday, puppets of hummingbirds, flower beauty queens, and people carrying flower displays on their backs paraded slowly past us. I couldn't help thinking how few men I knew in the United States who would willingly adorn themselves with bright pink tulips and go out in public. A city that devotes two whole weeks to a celebration entirely about flowers? You had me at 'hydrangea.' <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcV4sef9mzvuysYS0EqIU_S4o418KbMU8TUgqYjRtDvKc1e4LEcHAcBa7BZDaTOY-g5kudKokjvYnHbHFD1Hmpv9anB0NlY0EtJuw-l_lwJSJi4UPqw9U8Brhlp-nK5C9QS2R8YUeDQt5/s1600-h/Medellin+029.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcV4sef9mzvuysYS0EqIU_S4o418KbMU8TUgqYjRtDvKc1e4LEcHAcBa7BZDaTOY-g5kudKokjvYnHbHFD1Hmpv9anB0NlY0EtJuw-l_lwJSJi4UPqw9U8Brhlp-nK5C9QS2R8YUeDQt5/s200/Medellin+029.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369558058865373906" /></a> That night my friends and I met up with other members of AIESEC in Medellin. They told us we were going on a Chiva Tour. A Chiva Tour is basically a Colombian version of a party bus. Directions for proper Chiva Tour: take roughly 6 dozen twentysomethings and put them on what looks like an overgrown schoolbus with no seats. Add alcohol and filter in very loud latin music. Start driving. Voila - chaos, shaken, not stirred. <br /><br />Saturday and Sunday passed by in an instant. We shopped, we ate delicious food, we walked around the botanical garden exhibition and saw beautiful flowers and handicrafts, <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0U_QBkLTmCT43Gj9MjUrTziN87akBHLVlBEju_VNmk_xUzWLhaSv6kVH-HKYkYZfYryARQvXPjFtkrESl1Pg8gU5kxD7JYKlX124tAxO4SJL7vDPp5abWZ0W-dRnVGnvpOTZKUCH_dusO/s1600-h/Medellin+054.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0U_QBkLTmCT43Gj9MjUrTziN87akBHLVlBEju_VNmk_xUzWLhaSv6kVH-HKYkYZfYryARQvXPjFtkrESl1Pg8gU5kxD7JYKlX124tAxO4SJL7vDPp5abWZ0W-dRnVGnvpOTZKUCH_dusO/s200/Medellin+054.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369559422858400002" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOh057eScy5klBbpNAoHCVsAl65wk1pt51cQvd1v13J9rXayMburO-rDqq0X-Q-fOjWKd5oc5yerEzEdQb98-4hlsTzNR3Zy-CoeLpC5lTUDJ2JGHZtKZrmlfy1lEGunz_E0u0yuE8hnHU/s1600-h/Medellin+058.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOh057eScy5klBbpNAoHCVsAl65wk1pt51cQvd1v13J9rXayMburO-rDqq0X-Q-fOjWKd5oc5yerEzEdQb98-4hlsTzNR3Zy-CoeLpC5lTUDJ2JGHZtKZrmlfy1lEGunz_E0u0yuE8hnHU/s200/Medellin+058.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369560360747320786" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXIDq2Wb8HJkjiyIgKDryc25ngsqWoFPm2OvZN3XYIbxTPASDtER1kKhur4FjjdYDtcDpkaqa-KXWtwFOsVU13lXI2eBOkq17JLT1ft79ZaQt4nIKVml7_S0hBjT0wtCFIE2baPvMqpXH/s1600-h/Medellin+062.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXIDq2Wb8HJkjiyIgKDryc25ngsqWoFPm2OvZN3XYIbxTPASDtER1kKhur4FjjdYDtcDpkaqa-KXWtwFOsVU13lXI2eBOkq17JLT1ft79ZaQt4nIKVml7_S0hBjT0wtCFIE2baPvMqpXH/s200/Medellin+062.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369560891394562930" /></a><br /><br />we rode the cable car up the hill to watch the sun set, <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF98_Xo2OM9RAjoGvGBkBiH-l_teLQ4o4wFDFmpWlA9KS69sWAp1l2iQ7Wf-prh26hIUTUqRtEFqFqjOW32YKEqdqDgmhclCbAJdk9rKU9GC0fN5BP6poRZMuG6_Apl26IRM-M7EH2j1k2/s1600-h/Medellin+077.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF98_Xo2OM9RAjoGvGBkBiH-l_teLQ4o4wFDFmpWlA9KS69sWAp1l2iQ7Wf-prh26hIUTUqRtEFqFqjOW32YKEqdqDgmhclCbAJdk9rKU9GC0fN5BP6poRZMuG6_Apl26IRM-M7EH2j1k2/s200/Medellin+077.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369561808030858146" /></a><br />went to the <a href="http://www.art.com/gallery/id--a726/fernando-botero-posters.htm">Botero</a> museum, and of course we took advantage of Medellin's very active nightlife.<br /><br />Unfortunately the bus coming back to Cartagena took 14 hours instead of 12, and we were a little late to class on Monday morning. Our boss wasn't too pleased, but we'll know better for next time. Lessons learned this weekend? Medellin is an amazing city, absolutely anything can be decorated with flowers, and when in doubt, take the 10:30 bus. I can't wait to go back.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-8053883729424704872009-08-03T14:36:00.005-04:002009-08-12T22:08:50.883-04:00L'Auberge Espagnole<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpyHbcrnb-hZ-sWSSLz6HpgxJZPLkvv1OQFzsL41FNJz8Sb2h9Pk1DUAaBIFButz3rEEO58belO4rRFNZY4H9OH98BduN3lF9rlLL5SNG-Skccf0vVvgCFM-kRSbDmpucW716rjGFGTQj/s1600-h/Aubergeespagnole.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpyHbcrnb-hZ-sWSSLz6HpgxJZPLkvv1OQFzsL41FNJz8Sb2h9Pk1DUAaBIFButz3rEEO58belO4rRFNZY4H9OH98BduN3lF9rlLL5SNG-Skccf0vVvgCFM-kRSbDmpucW716rjGFGTQj/s200/Aubergeespagnole.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365844921944707218" /></a> In the movie L'Auberge Espagnole, a French engineering student named Xavier goes to study for a year in Barcelona. He moves into a cluttered and chaotic house of Europeans. They speak a hodge-podge of different languages and constantly get in each other's way, fall in love, and then annoy each other. At times it all seems rather dramatic. Then again, this is all just part of the learning/growing/travel experience, n'est pas? <br /><br />Here in Cartagena, life often feels a bit like L'Auberge Espagnole. I am the only American in my program, and am constantly surrounded by either Europeans or Colombians. We have people from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, the Czech Republic, Germany, Canada, and the US. The girls from England and Slovenia left right after I arrived here. Everyone speaks English, Spanish, or both, so communication isn't really a problem at all. That being said, some cultural exchanges will always inevitably be lost in translation. <br /><br />I was talking to my roomate Anezka the other night. She said what I thought was, "I want to buy some yearbooks."<br />I knew this probably couldn't be what she meant, so I asked, "Yearbooks, really?"<br />"No, no, ear blocks."<br />"Ohhhh...ear plugs."<br />"Yes, that is what I said."<br />Main bien sur.<br /><br />Thomas is another exchange participant whom I adore. Like Anezka, he hails from the Czech Republic. One time in a cab, I was commenting on the fact that I was getting annoyed at people who kept telling me I had to go to the beach to work on my tan.<br />"Ah, yes," said Thomas. "You are like...what is her name...? Snow White."<br />"Haha, yeup," I said.<br />"And here in Cartagena, you are going to find your seven dwarves."<br /><br />It's true that most Colombian men tend to be on the shorter side, but the idea of seven Colombian dwarves following me around singing 'hi ho, hi ho, hi ho,' was absolutely riduclous...and hilarious. In another episode of 'Thoughts: By Thomas,' we went to a restaurant for lunch, and Thomas was remarking on the design of the placemat. The design was an abstract graphic of a woman with a large afro and various shapes and musical instruments coming out of her hair. Thomas asked, "What are all these things coming out of her hair? It looks very dirty. She should really use Head and Shoulders." He was kidding, but for some reason these comments strike me as ten times funnier when they come from non-native speakers.<br /><br />Here all languages seem to mix up a little bit more every day. Last week Anezka taught me a Czech drinking song. I can greet people in Russian and Polish. I needed to consult the Colombian teachers today on how to explain English grammar, because I didn't know the rules for when to use a negative in a certain construction. Pretty soon I'll have to read 'Gramatica de Ingles por Dummies,' which is sitting in the office of Centro Colombo, where I teach. Life here is definitely an unusual hodge-podge, and if I begin to start forgetting English a bit...well...that's okay with me.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-12016191434614814492009-07-21T01:22:00.014-04:002009-07-21T14:40:26.829-04:00Flora, Fauna, and PachamamaThe night before my roomates and I left for Santa Marta, we were all sitting around the kitchen table when a giant, winged thing came buzzing into the room and landed on the fridge. Naturally the three extranjeras screamed and shot into the hallway while Maria sat unconcerned.<br />Me: Oh my lord! Maria, that thing is the size of a truck! What on earth is that?<br />Maria: A cricket.<br />Me: That is NOT a cricket.<br />Maria: Yes it is. We have smaller ones, and that size, and bigger ones, too.<br />Me: Ummmm...like in the place we're going this weekend?<br />Maria: Yes, we have a beautiful array of flora and fauna in this country.<br /><br />Needless to say, the thought of crickets roughly the size of Panama did not exactly thrill me. We were headed to Santa Marta, which is about a 4 hour busride from Cartagena, and is the hub for two very cool places: Tyrona, site of a huge national park; and Taganga, an old fishermen's village now playing host to juice stands, hostels, and flotillas of tourists. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgae1_WX5iKK5Xt0frRXMt776qu3azFwrKGEukMoBTRFS7CVmedSXAFqkQA0YF995ZwDqq-1YGRYalEdPJYeiAerqBt4tD-UuIHj2h7ET0JdddQ4_ODdbm4yeA1o4Jf7Q6YOaobvekH2H1c/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+008.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgae1_WX5iKK5Xt0frRXMt776qu3azFwrKGEukMoBTRFS7CVmedSXAFqkQA0YF995ZwDqq-1YGRYalEdPJYeiAerqBt4tD-UuIHj2h7ET0JdddQ4_ODdbm4yeA1o4Jf7Q6YOaobvekH2H1c/s200/Taganga+and+Tyrona+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360979701863185026" /></a> We left at the very reasonable hour of 4:30AM on Saturday morning. After a few delays with buses (shocking, really), we rolled into Santa Marta just in time to meet Julia's two friends from Bogota. One was French and one was Australian, and they'd brought along a Colombian friend. One of my roomates is Czech and the other is Polish, so all together we definitely made an international crew. <br /><br />We immediately set off to the park, grabbing provisions on the way. We had to walk for 45 minutes once inside the park to get to our camping ground. For $4, we rented a hammock for the night. Sleeping arrangements made, we traipsed off to the beach and spent the rest of the day riding the waves and watching the sunset.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ScErmigtDBid-E7NGYvM9PcRq1eO1ltv1QVxCF_-Sb16iMDe9Cq_-_iia62sH3wYq4Xh9k_8_Wgep5t7KovAHXIvfH6ewhByL6mXwro8yS7p-2o7pA6G4_9D7QmnC6FSjaJ7KZI8-L5D/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+016.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ScErmigtDBid-E7NGYvM9PcRq1eO1ltv1QVxCF_-Sb16iMDe9Cq_-_iia62sH3wYq4Xh9k_8_Wgep5t7KovAHXIvfH6ewhByL6mXwro8yS7p-2o7pA6G4_9D7QmnC6FSjaJ7KZI8-L5D/s320/Taganga+and+Tyrona+016.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360979058403915106" /></a><br />One of my absolute favorite things about traveling is hostel life. I love sitting down at a big communal table, eating freshly made food after a long day, and meeting new people. While at our campsite, I started talking to a Colombian, who was very knowledgable about the park's history. We decided to take a walk to the beach and go see the jungle at night. We had to walk past another campsite to get to the beach, but I was really hesitant to keep going because an incredible sound grew louder and louder as we approached, and I thought we were about to walk into a troop of howler monkeys. We then realized that they were not in fact monkeys but rather...frogs...? No problem. We leaped across the stream, over to the beach, and out under the clearest stars I've ever seen. Amazing. Aldé then proceeded to tell me about the history of Tyrona Park, and about how it used to be the garden for the <a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/The-Kogi-Guardians-of-the-Heart-of-the-World"><strong>Koguis</strong></a>, the indigenous people who inhabited the mountains before the Spanish came. Some of their cities were so well hidden that the Spanish never found them. In 1998, the Koguis allowed a BBC film crew to document their culture and spread a message to their "little brothers", aka us. The message was that the Koguis had noticed rain patterns already starting to shift in the mountains; if the little brothers did not learn to be more in harmony with the earth, great disasters would come to pass. You can watch the movie online <a href="http://www.dancewithdestinydocumentary.com/component/content/article/35-wise-counsel/60-the-mamos.html"><strong>here</strong></a>. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryAcTcU3yb9cd3sc780nqtyYMCiFsFM9NQaUu-e_NG2MF7G-ckripUHIR-hlhLnaXIi5Ia7ibuvXtbK7nP7F5r_eGEO378Usru_MnfnF_vTVoDNUKuWWTQ0sjIOdJXGGRfBAVEjwtsKKK/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+026.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryAcTcU3yb9cd3sc780nqtyYMCiFsFM9NQaUu-e_NG2MF7G-ckripUHIR-hlhLnaXIi5Ia7ibuvXtbK7nP7F5r_eGEO378Usru_MnfnF_vTVoDNUKuWWTQ0sjIOdJXGGRfBAVEjwtsKKK/s320/Taganga+and+Tyrona+026.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360982155112767474" /></a><br />Aldé also told me that the Koguis were very concerned with maintaining the balance of male and female elements. Women were apparently already in tune with Pachamama, or Mother Earth, but men had to work harder at it and spend time in the forest trying to understand nature. I have to say that with my bare toes in the sand and salt still in my hair, I felt pretty in touch with Pachamama and the state of the world.<br /><br />The next day was a little bit more intense. The Frenchman and Colombian girl had gone their separate way, so Julia, Anezka, Ross and I set out for Pueblito, one of the well-preserved ancient cities of the Koguis that the Spanish never discovered. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RY3zszL4loFHkqmtf0JbnTEJtWbQSNwzDM0PuWkI-T1-Nf-c5BMMURCijCJCBKxF1VUFVQ9RyIdGYSOrjATorSBvj8_TY1BeMgjdlZvdb3mKDG5EmuMaBttVm9hhRO7-62W8kfAVvo9o/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+045.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RY3zszL4loFHkqmtf0JbnTEJtWbQSNwzDM0PuWkI-T1-Nf-c5BMMURCijCJCBKxF1VUFVQ9RyIdGYSOrjATorSBvj8_TY1BeMgjdlZvdb3mKDG5EmuMaBttVm9hhRO7-62W8kfAVvo9o/s320/Taganga+and+Tyrona+045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360977854725185202" /></a><br />Julia (Poland), Me (US), Anezka (Czech Republic), Ross (Australia)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSaJaBTKpzULT1gEVMXbY4Ji0R5awy4TIq8fKoyPHnUTWWnApib8vBB-1U185_F6BlsZn8zDGCLD5ePdunyY0q0Q3l8Ko4d6RR-xvXCRzMc0-yxkjxmMoR01Egs-zt4K1WuXxPQUklJcR/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+019.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSaJaBTKpzULT1gEVMXbY4Ji0R5awy4TIq8fKoyPHnUTWWnApib8vBB-1U185_F6BlsZn8zDGCLD5ePdunyY0q0Q3l8Ko4d6RR-xvXCRzMc0-yxkjxmMoR01Egs-zt4K1WuXxPQUklJcR/s200/Taganga+and+Tyrona+019.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360980544514492738" /></a> It was 45 minutes from our campsite to the next beach, then a two-hour hike mostly uphill to reach Pueblito. It was 85 degrees with 85% humidity and I was soaked by the end. Another two hours downhill led us back to the water and...a nude beach! Surprise! We walked back to camp, appreciating everything and everyone in his/her/its natural state. <br /><br />When we got back to camp, it turned out that we could not in fact take a bus from there to the front entrance of the park (Conflicting travel information? You don't say). It was ONLY another hour and a half walk back, so after 6.5 hours of walking, we stumbled back to the entrance and on a bus for Taganga. Note: I was stumbling, but it seems everyone else was just fine. I thought I was in shape, but these Europeans and Australians just seem to leap over things. I swear, they are built with springs in their knees.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mEheivfRIclQ-ZqRu-qtUjGuKVv8khtXextEHfzCbLnVLwI02g7XfqjXtUaG6-7zQrUAAhIcW8e_cP4zfvVrw8L4V7RgOcQ1hBQfZF1jfBNLf0u7lZ61UrFcPokwq-7qThYZIbqDqteF/s1600-h/Taganga+and+Tyrona+035.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mEheivfRIclQ-ZqRu-qtUjGuKVv8khtXextEHfzCbLnVLwI02g7XfqjXtUaG6-7zQrUAAhIcW8e_cP4zfvVrw8L4V7RgOcQ1hBQfZF1jfBNLf0u7lZ61UrFcPokwq-7qThYZIbqDqteF/s200/Taganga+and+Tyrona+035.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360981304497946210" /></a> We spent Saturday night and most of Sunday in Taganga. It was another day at the beach, and quite lovely. Then we caught a taxi and buses back to Cartagena, and rolled back into our room around 11:30. Whew. One very busy but incredible weekend - two days in the park really wasn't enough, and hopefully I'll get to go back before November.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-13645293099181295452009-07-13T18:36:00.007-04:002009-07-17T15:15:45.377-04:00Did Someone Call for a Doctor?There are many things I will never be. Some examples include: Olympic gymnast, carpet salesman, nun, marine biologist, Hell's Angels biker, bodybuilder, dictator of a small island nation, card-carrying member of the NRA, Pokemon card collector, or...a doctor. Those who know me well know I tend to pull a Wicked Witch of the West and melt into the floor when people start talking in too much detail about blood or needles. I hate blood...a lot. Thus, it may surprise others to know that when a bunch of American soldiers came to my school to ask for volunteers for a medical project, my first response was not, "Uhhhh...no thank you." In fact, I said, "Yeah, that sounds great!" Caveat: the soliders did not need people to tie sutures or administer IVs to burn victims. They had set up a medical center in a school, and needed translators. Now I may not know my tibia from my fibula, but I can speak Spanish pretty well. I was game. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirM9keJ_un2b6X2y6VjlMhw2AWLwX0plz3y4s7OTd0tyd1GgMuyeyaGQxFDociuDezgmHO3g5LrAXggiCJz6leODV6CCqqrkS7CB2ODCXApWu3blY4w_1WWEs4IfSotdn1q6th4rf0B3hd/s1600-h/Omayra+Sanchez+017.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirM9keJ_un2b6X2y6VjlMhw2AWLwX0plz3y4s7OTd0tyd1GgMuyeyaGQxFDociuDezgmHO3g5LrAXggiCJz6leODV6CCqqrkS7CB2ODCXApWu3blY4w_1WWEs4IfSotdn1q6th4rf0B3hd/s200/Omayra+Sanchez+017.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359508195190051330" /></a>The school where the Army and Marine personnel set up the medical center is located in an area called Omayra Sanchez. The name itself has a pretty incredible story. Omayra Sanchez is named after a 13 year old girl who died when Nevado del Ruiz volcano errupted in 1985. Omayra was trapped up to her neck in mud and rubble, and the villagers didn´t have the technology to extract her. She stayed trapped for three days before dying, but there are photos and a video of her speaking that can be found online if you´re so inclined. (I haven´t had the nerve to look at the video yet.) <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3yl94Y5I6RbgDka8Wmk1izE9IPgu8xOaGPsmI0V_btgfzqO-kyE4V9Hc9d6nU_HZTg6aGRttsAYZcBxIbg-eAMyWzP656f-tsmv2gDR0iNNsrf7fCK1mopWVRLPJWWNL4tH5ruCOs3H_/s1600-h/Omayra+Sanchez+010.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3yl94Y5I6RbgDka8Wmk1izE9IPgu8xOaGPsmI0V_btgfzqO-kyE4V9Hc9d6nU_HZTg6aGRttsAYZcBxIbg-eAMyWzP656f-tsmv2gDR0iNNsrf7fCK1mopWVRLPJWWNL4tH5ruCOs3H_/s200/Omayra+Sanchez+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359509122158721986" /></a> Omayra Sanchez didn´t die anywhere near Cartagena, but I was told there are many neighborhoods all over Colombia named for her. Throughout my two days working at the center, I kept thinking about her incredibly courageous story. It seems so obvious that today we would have the technology to save her, but hearing the story made doubly important the work that the American troops were doing - they were bringing technology and expertise to an area which would otherwise go overlooked. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcElv1Rgy6-vRrf_6EIgazdHRfSm7jjaTq_rMP-Ty1H_j7VG9HulhS51mYebFdsFDLygyeKYWAKrVO74qWp4d0Z1pvHDmVT2oMNVPqU1a2A2w-cApkUuKCXEoHC1bO4CSNkP276OAvTZl/s1600-h/Omayra+Sanchez+014.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcElv1Rgy6-vRrf_6EIgazdHRfSm7jjaTq_rMP-Ty1H_j7VG9HulhS51mYebFdsFDLygyeKYWAKrVO74qWp4d0Z1pvHDmVT2oMNVPqU1a2A2w-cApkUuKCXEoHC1bO4CSNkP276OAvTZl/s200/Omayra+Sanchez+014.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359509663010331586" /></a> The first day was basically a crash course in Spanish medical terms. I sat next to the triage nurse and a Colombian translator, and wrote down everything I didn´t know. The second day I had a firmer knowledge base. A Colombian triage nurse would ask the patient questions, and then I filled out the medical form in English for the English-speaking doctors. It was so interesting. The majority of patients who came in were pregant women or women with children. On breaks, I sat with the soliders/marines (who were great) and learned about life in the armed forces. Fun fact: I can now recite the chain of command for both enlisted personnel and officers. It is long. The army, apparently, is big on organization. <br /><br />At the end of two days, I felt like I´d definitely made a contribution. One of the officers asked me at the end if I´d like to translate again when a large medical ship comes into port to perform on-ship operations and do more advanced medical treatment. They´ll be here starting the end of the month, and I´m already getting excited. I may never be a doctor, but it seems I can help them do their job.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-72811496063556756332009-07-05T22:12:00.016-04:002009-07-09T00:41:06.135-04:00How to Cook Like a Colombian GrandmotherThis year is the second in a row that I celebrated the Fourth of July in South America while toasting the US's independence with British people. Odd, but fun. Last year it was Iguazu, Argentina. This year it's Cartagena, and I drank rum and mango juice instead of <a href="http://www.cocktailtimes.com/dictionary/cachacas.shtml">cachaca.</a> <br /><br />Toasting the holiday with a British girl in my program was great, but the meal I'd had earlier that day was the real highlight. It wasn't exactly the meal I'd normally eat to celebrate the holiday of Beer, Barbecue, and Freedom, but was delicious nonetheless. I've been telling Maria, the house owner, that I really, really need to learn how to cook Colombian food. On the 4th she gave me my first cooking lesson.<br /><br />Before I go into further detail, a word about Maria: I adore her. She is one of the sweetest, most gentle, giving people I have ever met. She loves to mother everyone who's staying in her house. She only has one biological son, but plenty of other adopted children. For the first few days I was here, she would constantly hover, worrying about me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcS-gZzb_VVF0S3tcWu1ccTMneT5lMqzqtf46Zoi9dRNsdvJEcZJReH4rM5HaLMdDgTInWf8mjd1m9JLq2WsEhJLzSpzh63Z3-sHwAsTmm65WcAFoj7kGRe-VTpN95WNkZwqOawlr52XJ/s1600-h/Picture+041.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcS-gZzb_VVF0S3tcWu1ccTMneT5lMqzqtf46Zoi9dRNsdvJEcZJReH4rM5HaLMdDgTInWf8mjd1m9JLq2WsEhJLzSpzh63Z3-sHwAsTmm65WcAFoj7kGRe-VTpN95WNkZwqOawlr52XJ/s200/Picture+041.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355482513253536738" /></a> Conversation we repeated about a dozen times my first week here:<br />Maria: "Leah, you have to eat more. You're young, it's hot outside. You need energy."<br />Me: "I'm not very hungry, Maria. I just got here. That happens when I travel - I need a few days to adjust."<br />Maria: "Ok, do you want some <a href="http://www.whats4eats.com/breads/arepas-recipe">arepas</a>?"<br />Me: "No, no, really, I promise, I'm fine."<br />Maria: "Ok, well I'm making some meat now. With salt, garlic...really delicious. I think you're going to like it."<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />Maria is always cooking something, which makes all her houseguests happy, because she happens to be very good at it. In honor of me and America's Day of Independence, she cooked a huge feast with coconut rice, fish, salad, soup, fresh juice, and fried plantains. Ay, dios mio. I watched carefully as she cooked everything, cataloging the steps.<br /><br /><strong>Coconut Rice</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pAEM7PU4vgXdcPxprO8cQAgg51MGAsIQNiCJAj-ZY7DRP-l8k8V0yhMs7gJPVCKQ91glRPZEY-5XgS1Ge5F5ixhTQW_5pDTSbsRNRu6il-WLDU2P_B4GvtLYwjQDYdnMsakHCl_u0br9/s1600-h/Picture+039.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pAEM7PU4vgXdcPxprO8cQAgg51MGAsIQNiCJAj-ZY7DRP-l8k8V0yhMs7gJPVCKQ91glRPZEY-5XgS1Ge5F5ixhTQW_5pDTSbsRNRu6il-WLDU2P_B4GvtLYwjQDYdnMsakHCl_u0br9/s200/Picture+039.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355483703709095026" /></a> 1. First, you put either some coconut water (or milk) in a big pot with some sugar.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkIhOS3IumP0WwMrHlli-I_f5NFnFXvM9ZakFfe2poqwc2JZYRsIR63YCMY-uxzucvJC09M65g6w0crzPvZpjt4SZ9K3D2EhBrZiBex7QQtojz9Bp8DfaHOa43ussIsISJV1hwsiMezNQ/s1600-h/Picture+043.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkIhOS3IumP0WwMrHlli-I_f5NFnFXvM9ZakFfe2poqwc2JZYRsIR63YCMY-uxzucvJC09M65g6w0crzPvZpjt4SZ9K3D2EhBrZiBex7QQtojz9Bp8DfaHOa43ussIsISJV1hwsiMezNQ/s200/Picture+043.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355484452334430034" /></a> 2. Wait until the coconut water and sugar reduce to a thick, honey-colored paste.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0JRcnTRCDVBz4lUdHda6g1I2RmNnkrvSOFW4C2nv108yGaFHJbS9jIyjwETZI7t21CWVdzNqG_9FY9YwBGReuU8J60QKVLpjijR05EuJRry_hdagR1o0I1Jog3tSrPSDF3IQvRLEpgEw/s1600-h/Picture+040.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0JRcnTRCDVBz4lUdHda6g1I2RmNnkrvSOFW4C2nv108yGaFHJbS9jIyjwETZI7t21CWVdzNqG_9FY9YwBGReuU8J60QKVLpjijR05EuJRry_hdagR1o0I1Jog3tSrPSDF3IQvRLEpgEw/s200/Picture+040.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355562932087627554" /></a> 3. While waiting, sit around, snacking on nispero. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_VRHnaGvvIE0x1hJvY5fluX-kXKkdrmrrxKTEDhcAuLhHQtIjUNA_DP9O8luV_sFArf0IwUQWEYNkTUXWZQep69TK6ZgJPrxnLvg5lgYJ2zlSu7_Ryzblr58VuSeEo9TF5PTib4p_urn/s1600-h/Picture+042.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_VRHnaGvvIE0x1hJvY5fluX-kXKkdrmrrxKTEDhcAuLhHQtIjUNA_DP9O8luV_sFArf0IwUQWEYNkTUXWZQep69TK6ZgJPrxnLvg5lgYJ2zlSu7_Ryzblr58VuSeEo9TF5PTib4p_urn/s200/Picture+042.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355485396962661234" /></a> <br />4. If you happen to be four years old, eat popsicle and practice looking deceptively cute and innocent.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTMLebmTtQg0gAj60RVkofnxXhAgl2G9ZNA-qSeKhrt2xmm0eW3J34xI5zCYkKv7bYLM7SfHEEr6uK7kjDhuq-l8T0QffhGUVPTlJfH86tD95mooUE0vOUpFpwluWtHVuw-4pEdSZ7BI9/s1600-h/Picture+044.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTMLebmTtQg0gAj60RVkofnxXhAgl2G9ZNA-qSeKhrt2xmm0eW3J34xI5zCYkKv7bYLM7SfHEEr6uK7kjDhuq-l8T0QffhGUVPTlJfH86tD95mooUE0vOUpFpwluWtHVuw-4pEdSZ7BI9/s200/Picture+044.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355485828377122226" /></a> 5. Yay! Time to add the rest of the coconut milk, coconut rind, and rice.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbl_VHLd5pK9cLry_j6CYfUdAg528osBNeSZzfD8cqNmL2z9KjgtjaumGlr4ct4Xu6u3d82aIrbaLlFGpp-93hKnGHfXp_rljYufYFbCFexyYORbXbhU0YRsW8WCPq2XD2vcgRUITrFhAB/s1600-h/Picture+047.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbl_VHLd5pK9cLry_j6CYfUdAg528osBNeSZzfD8cqNmL2z9KjgtjaumGlr4ct4Xu6u3d82aIrbaLlFGpp-93hKnGHfXp_rljYufYFbCFexyYORbXbhU0YRsW8WCPq2XD2vcgRUITrFhAB/s200/Picture+047.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355486304849695266" /></a> 6. Cook for about twenty minutes, then serve, along with fish, salad, fried plantains, etc.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />7. If a minor flood happens to inundate your kitchen because the part of the house next to the kitchen has no roof, ignore water and continue eating. Note: this happened. We were relatively unconcerned. All turned out fine.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-55211534280217171582009-06-30T12:02:00.008-04:002009-06-30T15:07:23.560-04:00Welcome to the Caribbean<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JZrA4V_JifAU08dRRXCnr8b9QIjpUNirgb_hllqU8ML4SpDRAEypnpKgF584bNMndXkO7tCd-WKjWEAkohe0h38Kam56S0MHhP9iRjNj2HlPjTXRxmPGBWc77l2Rl6ivtaH0w3FGklku/s1600-h/Picture+007.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JZrA4V_JifAU08dRRXCnr8b9QIjpUNirgb_hllqU8ML4SpDRAEypnpKgF584bNMndXkO7tCd-WKjWEAkohe0h38Kam56S0MHhP9iRjNj2HlPjTXRxmPGBWc77l2Rl6ivtaH0w3FGklku/s320/Picture+007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353152671524212338" /></a> I only arrived a few days ago, but it seems a lot has already happened since I've been here. On Friday (my second day), I went to a dinner to meet all the other people in my program. Somewhere around 10:00 it came up that a group was leaving the following day for Islas de Rosario, or the Rosario Islands. They were leaving around 7:15 - did I want to come? Absolutely. So I got up the next morning at 6:30, packed my bag, and headed off with them to the docks to chart a boat. At that hour it was already hot enough to make my waterbottle sweat, and I was anxious to get on the boat and feel the breeze. Of course it took a few hours to bargain for a price and wait for the boat, but the cool and refreshing hour-long ride to the island made up for the wait in the sun. The boat stopped at one smaller island in the middle of our ride, but our destination was La Isla Grande, the Big Island in Islas de Rosario. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWALiLuerbYRCwjadgnm8exQZ9Ma9PDR_oz-2fc9yKzWCFOP_8Ms6RGhU2N2_XS4uuHKuMa-ca6eI_MvDhJGZRKYl7aIniwryS2S3gGf8Sc-0VYt8ly3LoMS6xyFElk3XOp4iYfoREPzxs/s1600-h/Picture+010.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWALiLuerbYRCwjadgnm8exQZ9Ma9PDR_oz-2fc9yKzWCFOP_8Ms6RGhU2N2_XS4uuHKuMa-ca6eI_MvDhJGZRKYl7aIniwryS2S3gGf8Sc-0VYt8ly3LoMS6xyFElk3XOp4iYfoREPzxs/s320/Picture+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353153044572725154" /></a> What greeted us as we arrived wasn't exactly what I'd expected...it was better. The woman back in port had mentioned a kind of touristy, resorty place. The five guys in chairs and hammocks didn't exactly exude tourist central, which I was glad for. Juan, our adorable, house-elf sized host greeted us with a huge smile, and we agreed to pay 40,000 Colombian pesos for one night's accomodation in cabins and three meals. $20 - not too shabby. <br /> <br />That night we ate dinner early because the sun sets around 6:30, and Juan and our other host Gorgi needed light to cook our meal. Our site didn't have electricity. Our dinner had been swimming only an hour or so before, and it was absolutely delicious. After dinner I wandered out alone to the end of the long dock and sat down to watch the sunset. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWXpM7qtTzVCeeFLbBLsErNh6YyKERYJZNIqgp1dTZ8k1bEjEhLLkJM4-Sr7lUWGeRTS7KzBHGz3kSumxLyKpc63wjVExGOTsVct0F6uziSfLGKZZIAQ7iN9I7FWLZSURw4OdolvjwzMz/s1600-h/Picture+014.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWXpM7qtTzVCeeFLbBLsErNh6YyKERYJZNIqgp1dTZ8k1bEjEhLLkJM4-Sr7lUWGeRTS7KzBHGz3kSumxLyKpc63wjVExGOTsVct0F6uziSfLGKZZIAQ7iN9I7FWLZSURw4OdolvjwzMz/s320/Picture+014.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353153354182941026" /></a><br />Soon moon-spangled waves sparkled around me. The only noise was the waves beating underneath me and the scuttle of crabs who shared my dock. Once 3-D clouds now bled into the sky like deep eraser marks of someone trying to smudge the stars, and lights of neighboring villages lit the shore. Apparently I was out there longer than I thought, because I started to hear voices from my group shout across the water, so I wandered back to convince them I hadn't been eaten by a shark.<br /> <br />There were seven in our group. We came either from AIESEC, my program here, or knew someone in AIESEC. Most of us had only met that morning, but we all got along really well, and just spent the evening talking. I think we were all pretty friendly, laid-back people, but then again clear turquoise water, beaches, and beer aren't exactly conducive to awkward social situations.<br /> <br />The next morning at breakfast, we were graced with a visit by Javier, the village drunk. He sat down and proceeded to tell us that he was jealous of no races, that he loved everyone, and then asked if we believed in God. Apparently some of our answers in the affirmative didn't convince him, because he asked us again several times to make sure. After breakfast we followed Gorgi around exploring the island. Highlights: the battered door with "50 Cent" graffiti-ed into the green paint; chickens; and the stone offering to La Virgen de Rosario, the Islands' patron virgin protector. Lowlights: mosquitos. Gorgi showed us the local way to keep the little bloodsuckers away. It involved taking a light branch of leaves and gently flogging yourself while you walked through the forest. We flogged. The mosquitos kept biting. My branch broke. I gave up. We did find the more resorty-type place with a full bar and cute little huts, but I was glad the boatman had dropped us off at our location.<br /> <br />After an afternoon of more swimming and beach-lounging, we headed back. A weekend on the island was the perfect introduction to Cartagena. I didn't spy Jack Sparrow anywhere or come across a secret stash of rum under the coconut trees, but the trip was amazing nonetheless. Sun, clear water, wonderful people, and fresh seafood? A girl could get used to this.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-84311242809246237882008-08-08T23:12:00.003-04:002008-09-08T21:29:38.696-04:00The end of the end<p class="MsoNormal">Today our trip is over. After catching a short flight back from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Salta</st1:place></st1:city>, I find myself back in the city I’ve learned to love over the past two months. The end of our cracked-out, mad-hatter dash across <st1:country-region st="on">Bolivia</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Peru</st1:place></st1:country-region> means that the end of my 6.5 months as an ex-pat is fast approaching. In three days I’ll be in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, surrounded by immediate and extended family members. Nat and I covered a lot of ground over the past two weeks, in more ways than one. The best way I can think of to sum up our trip (without getting too corny or bogged down in desultory details) is to write a list. So, here it is. The grand tally, as it were:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Number of:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" >Flights taken: 3<br /> Bus rides: 11 <br /> Long cab rides (excluding to and from airports and bus stations): 3<br /> Train rides: 3<br /> Border crossings: 4<br /> Times we ate alpaca: 2<br /> Times we were hit on by ‘a real life Inca!’: 1<br /> Llamas seen: not enough<br /> Warmer pieces of clothing purchased: 7 (mittens count as 1) <br /> Volcanoes climbed: 1<br /> Bad sunburns: 2<br /> Mummies seen: 4<br /> Love-tokens purchased: 1 (by Natalie, but in her defense she just wanted a picture with the love-token seller…) <br /> New friends/ people we can stay with when we keep traveling: many<br /> Times we got kicked out of a cab: 1<br /> Andean music videos we were subjected to: too many (and yet, never enough)<br /> Times we got fed-up with other traveling Americans: a lot<br /> Times Nat and I got fed-up with each other: never (at least to my knowledge)<br /> Sunrises witnessed: 4-5<br /> Pictures taken: over 400 (collectively) <br /> Times we got food poisoning: none<br /> Times I spoke Arabic: 1<br /> Pisco sours drunk: 4<br /> Traditional tribal dances watched: 2<br /> Times we tried not to think about the trip ending: many</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And there you have it. That was our trip, in a nutshell. The two things I can say for certain are that it was wonderful, and that I will be back (hopefully soon), to this wonderful continent. To the llamas, the Incas, the quinoa, and the mountains: hasta luego. </p>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-27012728332796145982008-08-08T23:10:00.003-04:002008-08-08T23:12:12.073-04:00The summit of the trip: Machu Picchu<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.anntravelcorp.com/fotos/p000001_cuzco%20anntravel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.anntravelcorp.com/fotos/p000001_cuzco%20anntravel.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Geographically it made sense for us to save the best for last. Our anticipation had been building since we’d started planning the trip, and after a relaxing day exploring museums and shops in <st1:city st="on">Cuzco</st1:city>, we were off to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Machu Picchu</st1:place></st1:city>. We took a long cab ride and a train to a town called Aguas Calientes, which is at the base of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Machu Picchu</st1:place></st1:city>. We only had one day at <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Machu Picchu</st1:city></st1:place> and were poised to wake up at an ungodly hour the next morning, so we went to bed early. <p class="MsoNormal">At 4:00 AM, it was time to get up. The bus to the mountain didn’t leave until 5:30 or 6:00, but we were told that people lined up really early to catch the buses since they only let in 200 people for the first shift every day. We arrived at the bus stop at exactly 4:21 to find that apart from six other hearty souls… no one else was there. Feeling pretty pleased with ourselves and generally hard-core and badass, we sat down to wait, ingesting some battery acid (otherwise known as coffee), and bananas with peanut butter. We almost felt as though we should have lit some incense and mashed some acai berries with woodchips or something, but on our student budget, bananas and coffee were the go-to fuel for Inca-trekking and any spiritual ancient-god communiqués that might transpire. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After some initial confusion with bus tickets, we boarded a bus and rode up the hairpin turns of the mountain to…<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Machu Picchu</st1:place></st1:city>! The whole mountain was shrouded in mist, and it was very easy to imagine an Incan religious ceremony taking place on the site hundreds of years before, or bare Incan footsteps treading between walls of stone. The main site of ruins that most people are familiar with lies at the base of another mountain called Wayna Picchu. There are ruins on top of Wayna Picchu as well, and it takes about an hour to climb up. Natalie and I scampered quickly across the main ruins to the other side, hoping to get in line for when Wayna Picchu would open at 7:00. The plan was to see the top, then explore <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Machu Picchu</st1:city></st1:place> when we came down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Going up was not easy and the altitude certainly wasn’t doing our lungs any favors, but at least we got our exercise for the day. The top of Wayna Picchu was absolutely spectacular. We took a ridiculous number of photos, but they don’t do the site justice. We sat on top of giant boulders and gazed out land dipping and sliding dramatically, like a child of the gods had pinched the earth over and over again like playdough. Soon encroaching visitors prompted us to leave the top of the mountain and make way for others, and we started the steep and slow trek down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sun was already hot by the time we were back at the ruins, and I was fading fast from all our lack of sleep starting to catch up with me. However Natalie had procured a map, and insisted we go find every officially-named part of the ruins. She traipsed around, proudly proclaiming, “This is the condor temple!” “This is a real sundial!” with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher who has just discovered her entire class can read and understand Plato. I was amused, and went along for the ride. </p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" >After our afternoon at the ruins, we got right back on a bus and thus began the long trek back through <st1:country-region st="on">Peru</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region st="on">Bolivia</st1:country-region> and upper <st1:country-region st="on">Argentina</st1:country-region> to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:place></st1:city>. It took a few days, mostly because for some odd reason one cannot go straight from <st1:country-region st="on">Peru</st1:country-region> back to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Our return trip involved many buses, trains, taxis, planes, and cars, but finally we arrived back in BA, safe and sound and quite satisfied with our whirlwind cross-country adventures.</span>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-70414060485634286612008-08-08T23:07:00.002-04:002008-08-08T23:09:53.655-04:00A land of plenty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.travelphoto.net/photos/pictures/peru/cuzco/cuzco-pictures0013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.travelphoto.net/photos/pictures/peru/cuzco/cuzco-pictures0013.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /> <p class="MsoNormal">From <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">La Paz</st1:place></st1:city> we set out on, yes, another bus journey, this time to Copacabana. This one was short enough to travel during the day instead of overnight. Natalie passed out right away, but I was too excited to sleep. I just couldn’t take my eyes off the scenery rolling past us. It was late afternoon, and the sun turned the wide fields the color of burned honey. The fields probably would have stretched on forever if they hadn’t been corralled unwillingly by towering, blue mountains whose jagged teeth clawed at the sky, anxious to reach deeper and deeper into the powder blue cap to the world. Craning my neck upwards, I wished I could be on top of the mountains at that moment. I am addicted to the sky here; I just can’t get enough of it. It almost seems oversaturated, too blue, and I can’t help thinking that if I keep reaching out to it and turning my face towards the heavens, those extra drops of saturation might be squeezed out and fall down over me, illuminating me in a blueberry halo. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We’d been riding for a few hours when we finally stopped at a lake. “Great, we’re there!” I thought. Turns out we were just taking a ferry. The bus driver drove the bus onto a very shaky looking, barge-like contraption, and the rest of us squeezed into small skiffs. We ferried across the lake, got out (completely dry and intact) on the other side, and drove for a little ways more to Copacabana. Copacabana is a cute little tourist trap on the edge of <st1:place st="on">Lake Titicaca</st1:place> (haha, yes, let’s all be culturally insensitive and laugh at the funny name). We had heard the lake was famous for fresh trout, and we were not disappointed that night. Nat, a brood of Irishmen and I dined on the first seafood I’d had in months. Nat and I could barely chew, we were so tired, and after our delicious meal we headed straight to bed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next morning after some frantic travel itinerary-revising, we caught a boat to Isla del Sol. The island was beautiful, and after our very brisk (read: frigid) 1.5 hour ferry ride to get there, we were anxious to scramble up the terraces and run around the pre-Incan ruins. The ferry back to Copacabana was late (of course), so we just had time to grab some snacks before catching our 6:00 PM bus to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Cuzco</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">PERU</st1:country-region></st1:place>! </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After changing buses twice and crossing one border, we found ourselves in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cuzco</st1:place></st1:city>. The bus was supposed to get there around 7:00 AM, but it was only 4:30 when we rolled in. For some reason, we had an inordinate amount of energy, and headed off to a highly-recommended hostel, which thankfully had just enough beds available for Nat, our two Irish friends, and me. Sleep took awhile to come, but the comfy beds eventually encouraged our adrenaline to simmer down, and we set off to the land of nod.</p>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-25404771983662858832008-07-30T17:30:00.004-04:002008-12-09T04:45:01.179-05:00High and dry<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJdV7GemklYsm8NzDGUa_ljKaANERJ9U3RHEW1TXSw-VCEi1K1JG2QwBYr7VbN5PFQDbmv9S1ZJ33xH9RSKMALtlR7ICEVGpfYPWVAjhaBtWA3EmvSYpaOIKBsmK6UjVrNTydwvi4oktr/s1600-h/16442990salardeuyuni.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228931023332764194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJdV7GemklYsm8NzDGUa_ljKaANERJ9U3RHEW1TXSw-VCEi1K1JG2QwBYr7VbN5PFQDbmv9S1ZJ33xH9RSKMALtlR7ICEVGpfYPWVAjhaBtWA3EmvSYpaOIKBsmK6UjVrNTydwvi4oktr/s200/16442990salardeuyuni.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I can hardly believe that my 6 1/2 month adventure outside the US is almost coming to a close. For a final hurrah, Natalie and I decided to take a two-week whirlwind tour of Bolivia and Peru. We´re covering a lot of ground for two weeks. I didn´t realize until we got on the road that even though Bolivia is the fifth largest country in South America, it´s still the size of Spain and France put together. I thought the nine hour busrides through the Sinai were long, but this trip so far has been dominated by 15-hour tours.<br /><br />Despite the amount of time we´ve spent on the road thus far, the places we´ve seen more than validate the cramped buses and dusty trains. Our first stop in Bolivia was Uyuni, land of salt flats. We signed up for a two-day tour which would include one night of sleeping in a `salt hotel´. I was a bit skeptical. Two whole days of looking at...salt? I thought it might get a bit old after awhile, but two days turned out to be perfect.<br /><br />We set out around noon with a lovely Irish couple and two French girls. The air was cold and thin. Bolivia´s highest peak is over 21,000 feet, but the entire country has a high altitude, which we had spent a day or two adjusting to. It didn´t take long for us to get out of the tiny town and into the land of wide open spaces, of which Bolivia is not in short supply. The open dirt and sagebrush soon gave way to a wide, white sea that stretched on for miles and was peppered with tiny black islands. The salt was so white that it reflected light like water, and the islands appeared to be floating. The sky was so blue it hurt to look at it, and the sun beat down harshly on the salt that had cracked into millions of honeycombed puzzle pieces.<br /><br />We spent the day riding over the salt, stopping to explore an island and a salt-processing factory. As dusk was approaching, our 4x4 set a course for one of the large mountains bordering the edge of the salt flat. As we got closer, we could see that the top had blown off the largest mountain, leaving bright streaming rays of rose and sun-colored stone. Yes, we were going to sleep at the foot of a volcano. Luckily we were told the volcano was very, very dormant. At the base of the volcano was a tiny village, surrounded by marsh grass, small ponds, lichen, and...what...flamingos!? At the edge of the salt desert in Bolivia, there are flamingos. I´m not sure why they are there, but they must feed on the lichen that grow on the salt and volcanic earth. We passed our pink-plumed welcoming committee and arrived at our hotel. I am using the word `hotel´quite loosely here, but the food that our tour guide made us was delicious, and the company was highly entertaining.<br /><br />The next day we explored more salt formations and made it back into town to catch our overnight bus to La Paz. The bus was definitely an adventure, but our hostel and La Paz are wonderful. We´ve spent the last two days exploring museums, the witches´market (where one can buy llama fetuses to bury beneath a house and ward off evil demons), and beautiful squares and churches. I could definitely spend a few more days here, but I´m excited about the prospects that lie ahead. Machu Pichu and more adventures await.</div>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-63935234037447437782008-07-20T22:26:00.003-04:002008-12-09T04:45:01.356-05:00There are butterflies at the edge of the world<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSXLCRH378ArSUCkre3SNSBiHeR0mThDWUZth6UpfQCgbx10KLulp44r2uWP-B_GuON69cjBUeZGtWWltwva_u1m8Kcy5UaqIfBAIebTeKFI9fQ14d_xqK-sd2Ou4PPnvgmdIiW_1CxXE/s1600-h/IMG_0937.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSXLCRH378ArSUCkre3SNSBiHeR0mThDWUZth6UpfQCgbx10KLulp44r2uWP-B_GuON69cjBUeZGtWWltwva_u1m8Kcy5UaqIfBAIebTeKFI9fQ14d_xqK-sd2Ou4PPnvgmdIiW_1CxXE/s200/IMG_0937.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225508738059419986" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Before Magellan sailed round the world, daring seamen believed the world was flat; that they might fall off the edge into a great abyss of nothingness if they ventured too far. This weekend I thought for a moment that I could be standing at the edge of the world, but I was not navigating the high seas or staring at inaccurate maps. I went to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Iguazu</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Iguazu means “big water” in Guarani, which is the language of a native tribe in northern <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The Guarani inhabited the region of Iguazu long before Eleanor Roosevelt went on a much-publicized trip to South America and allegedly took one look at the falls before declaring, “Poor Niagara.” After this weekend, I can see Mrs. Roosevelt had a point. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We spent three days in Iguazu, staying at the popular ‘Hostel-Inn.’ Our hostel was a few minutes outside of town, and the first thing that struck me while driving down the road were the strips of rusty earth smudging the edge of the highway and the verdant margins of forest spilling generously over the deep red. Our hostel was large, commercialized, damp, and as per usual with hostels, brimming with interesting people. There were a lot of Dutch, Belgian and English people staying there, with a handful of Israelis thrown in. We were there for the 4<sup>th</sup> of July weekend, and celebrated by toasting <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s royal creaming of the British with a bunch of rowdy Londoners while drinking Brazilian liquor. Probably the most unconventional 4<sup>th</sup> I’ve had so far, but still fun despite the fact that I wanted to track down some sparklers and whip up some strawberry shortcake.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Our first day there we decided to explore the town. I was perfectly happy to walk around looking at the gorgeous scenery and drinking in the thick air. Those who know me well know I have a weakness for water, trees, and anything earthy-crunchy. If it’s possible for one to OD on nature, it would happen in Iguazu. Our trek through town took us out to a lookout where visitors can see the border between <st1:country-region st="on">Paraguay</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region>, and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Top 5, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Lush, tree-embroidered slopes fell down to an oversized river that stretched out for miles before us. I could have stayed for hours just looking at it, but everyone else in the group wanted to move on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The second day was our waterfall day. We entered the park and got on a small train which took us to our first trail of the day. The park is shared by visitors, birds, coatamundis (which look like anteaters and raccoons mixed together), and thousands and thousands of butterflies. It seemed that every five minutes we stopped to admire a new display of yellow, orange, turquoise or purple. The trail to the waterfall takes trekkers through the jungle and then over a series of bridges. The river is huge and broken up by small islands. We walked on the metal bridges while murky water flowed several meters below us, hopscotching over islands on our way. Suddenly without warning, the trail stopped. We could see a huge wall of steam billowing above us and hear what sounded like a highway. We walked forward to a railing and looked down at the river simply falling off the edge of the earth. Clouds of bright yellow butterflies floated around us and refracted sunlight bore more than one giant rainbow above the water. There are definitely rainbows at <st1:place st="on">Niagara</st1:place>, but the butterflies, tropical forest and sheer size of the river set the falls apart for me.</span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Our last day there we decided to visit an aviary and a hummingbird garden, both of which were peaceful and beautiful. We almost didn’t get a bus back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:place></st1:city>, because we didn’t think we needed to book a ticket in advance. Luckily there was one bus company with seats still available, and we were able to book seats for a reasonable hour that night. We began to panic for a moment, but in retrospect I probably wouldn’t have minded had we had to spend one more day in Iguazu.</span></span>LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-47673686388864124722008-07-01T18:56:00.003-04:002008-07-01T20:20:35.674-04:00Purple Haze<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.somosccs.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/vino.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.somosccs.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/vino.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">This weekend Natalie and I went to Mendoza, otherwise known as wine country. We rode a bus for 13 hours overnight and arrived in San Rafael, the capital, around 9:00 AM. It was Saturday and San Rafael was just beginning to wake up, although it would remain in a sleepy state for most of the weekend. Nat and I spent the first day there exploring every nook and cranny, which meant wandering into chocolate shops (yes, plural), craft stores, and a cute little restaurant. Siesta still exists in this small town, so when the stores closed for about three hours in the afternoon, we wandered over to a park and sprawled out on the dry grass to look at the clouds. There is something magical about the light here. If Egypt’s sunlight is harsh, unyielding, 180 proof, then Argentina’s light is like clarified butter; soft, with all impurities removed. I could gaze at the sky for hours, which this day reminded me of an inverted river delta: not only was I upside down, but instead of a blue river on a sandy delta, concentrated milk white clouds floated over a blue shore, rippling and gathering before they quickly disintegrated. If I had been close to an earth-bound body of water, I feared both expanses might melt together, sealing me into a sandwich of great blue yonder. I wanted to hold onto the light sky, the darkening pine trees, and the golden grass, but soon it grew chilly and we had to leave for the indoors. <br /></div><br />We had heard that the circus was in town that night, so after dinner Nat and I headed over and met up with two Australians and an American we had met at the hostel. The circus here was not at all like it would be in the US. It was more like a night club combined with a circus. There was a fog machine and a DJ mixing techno music up on the stage while flashing lights turned everything purple and green. Occasionally performers would come out and do very cool, acrobatic things, but mostly it seemed like people were there for the dance club atmosphere. We were tired and decided we’d seen enough around 12:30, so we headed back.<br /><br />Sunday was our day to explore the countryside surrounding San Rafael. We hired two lively guides to take us on a mini road trip around the town. They hadn’t been to bed the night before (which made us feel incredibly lame), but they were still full of interesting information and eager to share. They took us to see rivers, canyons, a giant dam and the lake behind it, and a fruit farm. It was a beautiful and relaxing day. We cooked dinner for ourselves in the hostel that night, and then settled in to watch Batman Begins. Around 2:00 in the morning, two drunk Argentineans wandered in and tried to convince us to “share” the couch with them. They were very tired, you see, and just wanted to use our laps as pillows. Unfortunately they were not quite good looking enough for us to oblige, but we had fun talking with them for awhile and watching the rest of the movie before heading off to bed.<br /><br />Monday was vineyard day, so of course I was very excited. We road the bus a couple miles out of town to a vineyard which was famous for champagne. Unfortunately, once we finally arrived we were told that the vineyard was closed for inventory. The lovely looking tea shop next door was also closed. Well crap. We were out in the middle of the country and didn’t know when or if the bus would be by again. We considered our options: Waiting, “borrowing” a tractor and driving it back ourselves, walking all the way back, or…hitchhiking. We were in the country and there were two of us, so I walked up to the road and stuck out my thumb. Soon a lovely farmer stopped, and we climbed into the back of his truck. We wizzed down the road, wind whipping our hair into birds nests while we grinned like idiots with the thrill of victory. We made our way to two vineyards after that. I had toured a vineyard once before but hadn’t really been listening. The two tour guides we had were very nice and knowledgeable, taking us up and down flights of stairs, into dark and earthy-smelling storage rooms and around goliath vats of ageing wine. The best part of course, was tasting.<br /><br />After the last vineyard, Natalie and I slowly lugged our newly purchased bottles and ourselves back into town. We grabbed our bags and walked the few blocks to the bus station. The station looked like it had when we’d left it: people tangled up in comings and goings, an omnipresent smell of gasoline hanging in the air, giant half-occupied parking spaces striping the concrete. The only thing different this time was that Mendoza was saluting us farewell with a spectacular sunset. We boarded the bus against a background of technicolor layer cake. It looked as though Barbie Dreamhouse had fought an epic battle with a container of apricot sherbet, and the victor was yet to be determined. Pink and orange floated between layers of puffy frosting and pale blue. I ached a little as I boarded the bus, sad to be leaving such a place of peace and beauty, but happy to head back after the long weekend.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-85895919780886485592008-06-20T20:31:00.002-04:002008-06-20T21:42:53.786-04:00Dimming the lightsThe seasons are turning in Buenos Aires. The days are getting shorter and the air colder. For the past two days I have walked around through an incessant drizzle, dodging puddles and searching in vain for decent anti-frizz gel. Although it’s annoying to have my hair act as a personal barometer, most of me welcomes the rain. Cairo receives less than an inch of rainfall a year, which is a far cry from Seattle’s annual precipitation. The rain here reminds me of home. It cleanses the air, the streets, the buildings. During these past two days, it’s seemed as if the entire city is wringing itself out, purging itself of impurities. A veil of peace has settled, at least temporarily. Before the rain came this week, thousands of Argentines flocked to the Plaza de Mayo to protest Cristina’s policies and the government’s handling of the conflicto del campo. The government has raised export taxes on crops in what they claim is an attempt to keep Argentinean goods competitive in the global market, curtail inflation, and keep Argentines fed first by discouraging exportation. The conflict between the government and the countrymen has escalated as of late, but the rain has forced displeased citizens indoors. The city is quieter, and it seems appropriate to retreat, to stow myself away in a café with a large cup of tea and gaze out at the dark streets.<br /><br />The tea and the darkness give me the perfect opportunity to think back at the contrast of last week, of all the color and activity. Last weekend was a long one, as Monday was a holiday. On Saturday we went to Tigre, which is an area about an hour outside downtown Buenos Aires. Tigre is like a very countrified version of Venice, because its inhabitants all live on small islands, and the fastest way to travel between islands is by boat. After an amazing lunch of parilla, or barbecue, we wandered over hill and dale, exploring the island and watching the boats. It was late afternoon, and the shadows of the trees created tiger stripes on the muddy river. Silver-lined trees stood sentinel on the riverbank, and the crisp air and wind kept us vigilant.<br /><br />Sunday was a complete reversal from Saturday. I went to a soccer game. By soccer I of course mean ‘football’, which, as anyone outside the US will tell you, is what God intended it to be called. The game was Argentina vs. Ecuador, and was a World Cup qualifier. I was expecting my eardrums to explode. I was expecting to be accosted by fans in rapid-fire Spanish on what exactly a couple of Americans were doing there, and then to be mummy-wrapped in Argentinean flags and be force-fed dulce de leche. The experience was actually a little anticlimactic. Apparently games between two Argentinean teams are way more intense. This game was oddly calm. Ecuador scored in the first half, and then Argentina scored in the last 30 seconds of the game. Since it was a tie, the World Cup standings don’t change at all. Hm. It was just like a game back home, only the stadium probably could have held the entire population of Lichtenstein. <br /><br />Monday a bunch of us went to an estancia, which is a ranch. We just spent the day eating more delicious barbecue, wandering around, and relaxing. All in all, a very trying day. I went out on Wednesday and Thursday night this week, which here means getting home between 4:00 and 6:00 am and then going to work/class the next day, all bright-eyed and bushytailed. I have yet to develop the Argentine stamina of steel, so tonight I am sitting in my café, drinking my tea, and am quite happy to go to bed early and get some rest. Tomorrow Natalie and I are taking the ferry to Uruguay for the afternoon, and then almost definitely going out, so it’s good to take a pause in the middle. I can’t think of anything better right now than sitting here, watching the dark rain, and ordering a second pot of tea. I need to soak up some quiet time, to dim the lights for a moment before plunging into the color and action once again.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-51719293972440959082008-06-11T19:51:00.003-04:002008-06-13T11:40:38.199-04:00HonestyBuenos Aires does not have designated 'going out' nights. In this city that loves to live, there is always something to do, which is why on Monday night I found myself at a drum concert. It's called 'La Bomba' and is held every Monday in a giant, concrete warehouse that looks more like a parking garage than a concert venue. A conductor leads roughly 10 middle-aged guys who play timpani, sets, bongos, and djembes. It's crowded and hot, people and music straining against the raw, unpainted walls. Natalie, her friend Lauren and I jumped right into the tide with our fellow free spirits, dreadlocks and the occasional t-shirt flying into the air around us. I carried my purse, my jacket, but no inhibitions. For awhile I just danced in my own space, concentrating on the music for me. However, somewhere around the 1-hour mark I stopped to really look at the band and the crowd. Everyone in the band looked incredibly happy and at ease. What struck me was that they were putting their music forth with complete abandon, allowing the crowd as a whole but also individuals within the crowd to digest the music and take it as their own. It was a musical peace offering to the masses with no fine print or strings attached. It was open, and clear, and honest. We may have been stuffed into some garage-like locale, but this was to muffle the noise for the sake of the neighbors, not because the event was taboo. This revelation may not sound ground-breaking, but seen through the frame of recent emigration from the Middle East, the openness was striking. <br /><br />I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be open and closed, what is presented and withheld, and which of these actions can be qualified as 'honest'. What does it mean for a city to truly unfold itself to those who seek to understand it better? In Cairo, women are meant to be hidden. Their honor is sacred, and hijabs and nigabs are a very clear reminder of that value. However, because women's coverings so clearly demonstrate societal values, I find them somewhat idiosyncratic. By covering themselves, by hiding away so much skin, women blatantly expose something incredibly personal; their beliefs. By hiding one thing, something else is revealed. In Buenos Aires, women do not cover themselves, which of course reflects an equally strong set of values, just one that I am more accustomed to. This social exterior seems placid, without mystery. However here there are also layers beneath the surface. Buenos Aires may be relatively tranquil now, but it hides a dark underbelly of a past wrought with military coups and colonial struggles. That mothers march in the Plaza de Mayo every Thursday, or that Argentinians look strikingly European are both indications that this country cannot escape its past, or the values that helped build the society it is today; that in small ways it's attempting to address its roots and develop a comfortable synthesis of old and new. I feel like Cairo operated more in extremes. It was louder, dirtier, harsher and at times somewhat overwhelming. But in the land of sand and sun, I couldn't help but admire the energy. Cairo was presented to me, undistilled and unfiltered. So far, Buenos Aires is revealing itself more gradually to me. Buenos Aires and Cairo could not be more different, but I'm so glad I get the chance to go to both places, to compare how different cultures unravel themselves. I get to observe what it means for a city to be honest to its own past as well as those who visit. I can only hope that my time here will help me peel away more layers, unraveling the picture and making what initially seemed simple infinitely more complex.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-25012192945538899762008-06-08T21:40:00.003-04:002008-06-08T22:13:43.599-04:00Buenos dias Buenos AiresIt's been almost a week since I touched down in Argentina, and I think I'm doing a pretty admirable job of changing hemispheres/continents/weather patterns/food types/people/language/residence. I love Buenos Aires. It is so completely different from Cairo, and I think I'm developing a bad habit of saying, "Oh this is interesting. In Egypt..." Have to work on that. BA is different, but I think it's going to be a fantastic summer. A little run-down of the differences between Cairo and Buenos Aires thus far:<br /><br />Street names: Since Spanish and English use the same alphabet, there's no transliteration involved. You never find a street that's called one thing at the beginning and something else at the other, i.e. 'Abd El-Hamid' vs 'Abd Al-Hameed'. All hail consistency. <br /><br />Clothing: I went to school with very wealthy Egyptians, so they dressed pretty differently from the general populous. However here no one wears burkas, hijabs, or galabiyas. The common ensemble includes nice jackets, tight jeans, fluffy sweaters and something leather, probably including boots. The shopping is amazing...it's going to be a problem.<br /><br />Food: Argentina has a huge Italian and Spanish influence, so a lot of the food here is pizza, pasta, or steak. The meat is delicious...I've heard the pizza and pasta are as well. I live in an incredibly nice neighborhood, and am lucky enough to be surrounded by health food stores, so I've had no problem finding gluten-free substitutes. I'm still amazed that it's so easy to be gluten-intolerant here, but there you are.<br /><br />Language: I can understand it! Woo hoo! I understand about 98% of what my teacher says in class, and a lot less on the street, but I'm practicing constantly, so I know I'll get better every day. I'm interning for a non-profit here called Consciencia, and I speak completely in Spanish when I'm at work. It's hard right now and my boss speaks really quickly, but I know it will be a great way to learn. The non-profit mostly focuses on education and promoting civil responsibility to students.<br /><br />Residence: I'm living in a student residence, just like I did in Cairo, but this one is smaller. It used to be a mansion and has been renovated for student housing. It's beautiful. There is a large kitchen, a great living room, and my room is really spacious (although without windows or bookshelves). Everyone in the house is very nice. Most people will only be here for a month, so it will be interesting to be here for the rotation/turnover at the end of June. <br /><br />Religion: Islam prohibits the eating of pork. I cannot even tell you how many different forms of ham I've seen here thus far. Islam also frowns upon the consumption of alcohol. Wine and beer are such an accepted part of the culture here that our program actually provided them for us at the welcome dinner earlier this week. I know that shouldn't shock me, especially b/c the drinking age is 18, but I'm just used to living in dry dorms. Viva el vino. <br /><br />Boys: Argentinian boys are cute. Everyone here seems to be a serial dater, though. I was talking to Sophia, who's one of the program coordinators. She explained to me that it was really normal to constantly be in a relationship. She said most Argentinians would probably have about 20 boyfriends or girlfriends with 2-3 serious ones before getting married. Ah! In Egypt, 'dating' means meeting the family of the man you're going to marry, and you'd better as hell still be a virgin. If you never get married? Tough luck. <br /><br />That's the rundown for now. Plenty more updates to come.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-73857564498022861572008-06-05T19:12:00.002-04:002008-12-09T04:45:01.492-05:00A bookmark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrBvha1PE20mBd11rMji95EPt8qzwjRhrpdzEYA5PsLb_dIdjwq7DXiEEv9d2BsNZE0FFHfvi3ErE3n60sS1N0myPj3z1zgvQT03rHecRR-HUjCsk2vNdyFY_0XIEb_WFLuorOBAmONUm/s1600-h/cairo+bye.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrBvha1PE20mBd11rMji95EPt8qzwjRhrpdzEYA5PsLb_dIdjwq7DXiEEv9d2BsNZE0FFHfvi3ErE3n60sS1N0myPj3z1zgvQT03rHecRR-HUjCsk2vNdyFY_0XIEb_WFLuorOBAmONUm/s320/cairo+bye.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208540577784778274" /></a><br />Today was the end of my semester in Cairo. I can write the sentence, but it still hasn’t really sunk in yet that I’m done with Egypt and on the plane to Argentina. I’ve been thinking about the end for about four weeks now, since spring break ended. Nothing extremely blog-worthy has happened since then. I went to Khan and bought souvenirs, I finally made it to see the pyramids at Giza, and in the same day I got back in the saddle and rode, very slowly, around a second set of pyramids at Abu Sir. Twice in the last week, I took a late night ride on a felucca full of friends, laughing and drinking as we glided over the Nile. I took seven finals in one week, I attended half a dozen farewell dinners, and then I finally said goodbye. <br /><br />This could just be another day in a life. On the downside, I’m aboard a plane, eating exceptionally bad airplane food. On the plus side, there happens to be an extremely good looking Brazilian with dreadlocks slumbering next to me, and the airline I’m flying is Italian, so they offer wine as part of the complimentary beverage service. I’ve boarded a plane dozens of times before, shuttling off to various ends of the earth. But this time is significant, because it marks the end of four months living without: toilets where you can flush the paper, nonleaded gas, easily-accessible gluten-free food, stop signs in English, and set prices. It hasn’t always been easy. Cairo tested me, physically and mentally. To see and experience something so alien, so completely different from the US, has definitely made me look at the world and myself almost from a different dimension. If every new environment is like a funhouse mirror, then every time we look out at the world we see ourselves reflected back from a different angle, new parts distorted and magnified. If I didn’t come away from Cairo feeling like I saw new layers of myself and the world, well, I must have been walking around with my eyes closed. Fortunately, this is not the case. <br /><br />I’m sure the introduction of a new environment will only throw what I have learned into sharper relief. I can’t really describe exactly how Cairo has affected me. It’s always hard to explain exactly why we are friends with the people we are, or why we love our families, or why we harbor an unreasonably strong dislike for spinach. We just do. In the same vein, Cairo just has changed my perspective. I don’t know how, it just has. Somehow the hot, dry air, unmitigated sun and teeming city energy have seeped into some invisible, semi-permeable membrane of mine, and I think it will have a hard time seeping out again. Cairo made studying sociopolitical conflicts and history and diplomacy real concepts for me, and it reaffirmed what I should be doing with my life. It was nothing like what I thought it would be, and everything it should have been. With that thought, I raise my flimsy, plastic cup full of wine to the end of a semester of adventures, and the beginning of what hopefully will be an amazing summer. Cheers.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-52649175639302982382008-05-28T03:37:00.001-04:002008-06-01T05:27:23.837-04:00Lessons in Jerusalem: Preparing for ExodusToday was our last day of Jerusalem, and of Spring Break. Itinerary? To climb the Mount of Olives, see the Garden of Gethsemane, and visit the Church of Nations. According to the Book of Zecharia, the Mount of Olives is the place where Jesus will resurrect the dead. The mount was more like an oversized hill, but we had a great time wending our way up through lush olive, spruce, pine and Cyprus trees, and admiring the Dome of the Rock from afar. After the garden (where Jesus prayed after the Last Supper), we went to the Church of Nations. This church is probably my favorite in the Middle East thus far. The ceiling is supported by rose-colored Corinthian columns, the ceiling breaking into mini domes between the columns, almost like a dozen brilliant blue bubbles rose up and pushed the ceiling outward before popping. The stars windmilling out from the center of each mini-dome, the olive branches spidering from each corner, and the earthy tones of the columns give the impression one is standing in a bower of trees rather than a church.<br /><br />The last thing most of us wanted to see was the Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in the New City. No sooner had we gotten to the neighborhood than we were confronted by a large sign saying something like, “Women, we beg you with all our hearts to respect our traditions and dress modestly. Please, no short sleeves, no tight clothing, and no trousers.” Well crap. We were all wearing pants, so we abided by their wishes and quickly walked out. We made a loop back to a café and spent a pleasant afternoon reading and doing homework (hard to believe, but necessary). <br /><br />Towards the end of the afternoon I decided I still really wanted Thai food, so I sucked up my pride (which was not hard; I repeat, I still really wanted Thai food), and went across the street to get some Phad Thai. Ainsley was in the mood for something super healthy, so we went to a vegetarian restaurant for her, and I discovered they had…gluten free carrot cake!?! Incredible! I bought two small loaves for the long bus ride home the next day, and we headed back to the hostel.<br />I was excited about our plans for the last evening in Jerusalem. We had heard earlier in the day that this night was when the new Israeli army recruits would be inducted at the Western Wall. Wait. Hundreds and hundreds of young, cute Israeli men in uniform? Oh yes. This was definitely a cultural experience we would be ashamed to miss. Tim and Brian were also intrigued by the huge military event, although they were probably focusing on some different aspects… When we got there, we started out observing the ceremony from a balcony far away from the stage, but Ainsley wanted to get closer and um, experience the energy of the crowd. We shimmied our way through the masses, trying to find some Israeli soldiers who might want to take pictures with a few Americans. Ainsley was hesitant, though.<br /><br />Me: Ainsley, our mission is to take pictures with cute men in uniform. We’re at an Israeli military ceremony; it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.<br /><br />Ainsley: Hmmm...ok.<br /><br />She soon realized her roommate would be insanely jealous if she came back with proof of her escapade, so we soon found a few good men who were quite obliging and posed with us for pictures. With a few quick shots we were done, and bounded back up the stairs and to Tim and Brian, who were confused why we both seemed so giddy. We spend a quiet evening back at the hostel before our early departure back home to Cairo. Hopefully we’ll get back to Cairo relatively easily. It’s been one crazy adventure, but I’m ready to head back to home base in the morning.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917587389459956573.post-9334396081776389982008-05-28T03:36:00.000-04:002008-05-28T03:37:11.543-04:00Lessons in Jerusalem: Peace and Conflict StudiesSince we were in Jerusalem and Palestine was literally a 20 minute busride away, we decided we should make some short day trips. It’s really quite easy and common for tourists to go to Ramallah and Bethlehem, both of which we did. Bethlehem looks like a slightly cleaner, heavily-commercialized version of many other Middle East cities. The only thing we did there was go to the Nativity Church, which was built on the site where Mary gave birth. The church was beautiful, but we didn’t stay very long. After that we headed north again to Jerusalem, and then north again to Ramallah. Ramallah is considered the hip, urban center of Palestine. I don’t say that to be facetious. Travelers expecting Palestine to be a land solely of tents and sporadic infrastructure are going to be quite surprised. We went to a café called Stars and Bucks for lunch, which had a much more extensive menu than its American counterpart. After that Nur-E and Camille wanted to take a tour of Parliament. They had heard visitors could simply walk in and ask to be shown around, so we headed off in search of the building. Initially everyone we asked either seemed to be offended or didn’t know what we were talking about, but eventually we found the way. <br /><br />The Parliament building is bright and clean, and amazingly there is no security. Parliament has not been active ever since Hamas took over rule in the Gaza Strip, but the government in the West Bank maintains a sort of watchdog authority, regulating the areas they can and communicating with the press. We were shown to the office of a man whose children actually go to AUC, and who was head of the Communications Department. He was incredibly nice and took an hour or so to sit down with us and explain Parliament, as well as the politics of the Security Fence, Palestinian economic problems, the various travel restrictions he faces, etc. It was all incredibly interesting. Afterwards he pointed us in the direction of a refugee camp, which we’d wanted to go see. We walked through the area, which just looked like a lot of run-down apartment buildings. We could have just been in a nicer part, but like most of the Middle East, it was not at all what I was expecting.<br /><br />After we got back to Jerusalem, Kathleen, Ainsley and I went to the market (and bought cottage cheese!) then sauntered off to the Garden Tomb, which is one of the two places religious historians believe Jesus could have been entombed. The garden is really lovely, and it was so peaceful to wander through the quiet, leafy sanctuary in the middle of the city. When we were done with the garden tomb, Kathleen and I went shopping in the Jewish Quarter, and I FINALLY succeeded in finding a gift for my Dad, which was not an easy feat.<br /><br />For dinner we really wanted to head back to the Thai restaurant that had closed early the day before. We got there early, but as soon as we walked through the door the man behind the counter started yelling that they were closed. He was very angry, and was yelling at us to leave without any explanation. This was not ok. I had been looking forward to actual Thai food for that whole day. I was famished, tired, and this rude man was standing in the way between me and the solution to my problem. All my small travel anxieties and frustrations came boiling to the surface, and I just started screaming back at him. Brian and I had made bets before the trip on who would be the first to legitimately lose it, and I am not proud to say it was me, but I’ll own up to the fact. We discovered at the next restaurant that the reason for an early closure was that it was Holocaust Remembrance Day, and the government mandated restaurants close. We didn’t understand why our hostel would not warn us about Jewish national holidays and such, but we managed to find a burger joint and some pudding, and I felt better. Aside from mean Thai restaurant owners and sporadic early closures, I must admit Jerusalem is pretty cool.LSpelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03050867458806246664noreply@blogger.com0