Junior es tu papá! Yoooo soy de Junior...!

I don't know if Junior, Barranquilla's football team, just won a game or what, but the bar is playing non-stop Junior fan songs at top volume, again and again. I'm missing the vallanato. Despite my current exasperation, I do want to be a Junior fan, but I haven't had time yet to really dedicate myself to the task. At I know all of the songs now!

Here's what else I know about the team: their colors are red and white, and maybe blue, too. My students always wear Junior gear, and sometimes one of my Friday guys, Freddy, comes in wearing a red and white top hat with Pippy Longstocking-red braids sticking out the bottom. Junior is such an institution that I'm often told by the other teachers that I have to end class early so the students can go watch the game at the fruit stand across the street.

Junior's mascot is a shark. Willy the shark. Like Willy the whale, but a shark.

They also have some unofficial mascots, owls who live in the stadium, and they bring good luck. However, a few months ago one of the owls flew onto the field during the game, and a player for the Panamanian team Junior was playing against kicked the owl and killed it. That was a pretty big deal! Poor little owl.

I don't know anything else about Junior, but I did read the other day about this football fan in another city who was brought in his coffin to a game a week after his death. Big fans here!

Parque de Músicos

Last night, in the taxi at 2:00 am, I saw something romantic in Barranquilla, something right out of a García Márquez digression. In fact, I noticed the “phenomenom” hours beforehand, but I didn’t recognize it as romantic until 2:00 am, when I asked the driver what was going on.

My roommate Elena and I were hoofing it to (where else) La Troja, where we were impatiently being waited for by some friends. Our lateness was on account of having stopped by a little wooden bar crammed in-between some cement on Calle 72. Just the fact that the bar is constructed from wood makes it notable, but this establishment is irresistable because it is painted yellow, blue and red. Flag colors, Caribbean colors. We ended up being courted there by a trio of gentlemen: a refined paisa from Medellín here on business, the old German speaking sailor-type who owns the bar, and a mess of a Barrinqillero whose eyes pointed different ways and who was uninteligable in any language.

When we finally removed ourselves from the company of these characters, we had to walk several blocks through prostitutes to reach La Troja. The prostitutes thinned out as the street lighting became more reliable, and they were replaced on Carrera 46 with old and young men wearing white and sombreros, sitting in plastic chairs lined up along the curb, as though they were waiting for a parade. Dozens, maybe hundreds of men, watching the street. Some of them were playing instruments, most were just watching, and they applauded our passing. Were we the parade they were waiting for?

No. Because four hours later, most of them were still there. I asked the driver why, and learned that here, in the Parque de Músicos, musicians come and wait for work on weekend nights. At the end of the night, it’s a cement plaza surrounded by prostitutes and full of musicians. Que romantico!

I am too musical for my own good

Phone booth, Barranquilla style

It’s so hard to write about interesting things like carnival! I’d rather describe for you the music that comes through my window all hours of the day, which is so exciting for me that I sometimes can’t sleep at night, even with my little green ear-plugs in. What happens is that the ear plugs block out the singer’s voice, and the horns, and the accordion, and the various percussion, and even the boys exclaiming over their mid-night football game outside my window. But they just don’t do the trick for the bass line. And a Vallenato bass line can really drive you crazy. As a complete package, the music is slow and romantic. But if you take all away but the bass, ooof...it’s a dotted quarter note and then 5 sixteenth notes, exploring a fifth. And then it jumps down or up, around the circle, and it drives me mad trying to figure out where it will go next (which, as you can see, is actually pretty predictable). I get used to it and start to fall asleep, and then suddenly may heart starts racing when the song changes. It’s very strange.

The music is coming from somewhere over there.

I am sleeping enough, though. Don’t worry.

Foam attack. Has it happened to me? Yes.

Carnival was really fun, I got caught up in it and it was everything I hoped it would be. Now it’s over, though, and I can’t rummage up that enthusiasm, so I don’t think that there’s any point in writing about carnival right now if I can’t remember how it felt. A little moment that I can bring myself to remember for you is one of the last nights, when we went to an event called Carnavalada to see a wonderful singer called Totó la Momposina. She is really worth hearing...it’s “River Music”, folkloric music from the coast and around the Magdalena River. After we listened to her, we headed down the block to where the Super Banda de Colomboy were playing up on a raised stage in the middle of the street. And I was delighted to see that instead of just standing in the street dancing, the crowd was marching around the stage! Around and around, like the Gazebo on fireworks night in OB. But with a lot more style, I must admit. Marimonda masks and the black and tan costeño hats. I didn’t know it, but if there’s one thing I like to do to accompany a night of music and Aguardiente, it’s dance/walk around and around a marching band. There was foam, there were new friends, and every once in a while the crowd would roar and we’d all switch directions.

Cake Walk!

Another musical discovery for me, perhaps not for you, my hip cool friends, was Bomba Estereo. The singer is from Santa Marta, the dude is from Bogotá, and they mix local music, Champeta and Cumbia, with electronic. They sounded reaaaly good at a free concert one night, for which we stood in a line in front of some underground hip-hop Barranquilleros and in back of a group of people from Detroit. Suddenly (I might have had something to do with it), we were all rapping “It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine...!” I know all of the words (thanks to dorm-room dance parties with Merealere), and so did one of the Barranquilleros, who was slowly learning English through a careful study of Biggie lyrics. I like things like that. Phonetic rapping, there’s nothing like it. It reminds me of a group of boys in Cuba who knew the...sounds...of every Eminem song. Not the words, though, just the ways that vowels and consonants mix with the rhythm. After hearing them, my friend Sarah and I briefly thought about putting together a compilation of phonetic rap covers from around the world. It might not be so cool out of context, though...

Ahhh, the music just started up again. Whatever happens to me here, you can blame it on the Vallenato!

La Guacherrna, La Guacherrna, La Guacherrna Carnival!

On the way to the parade: In my student's taxi, haha.

The walls and light of this apartment are so white! I look in the tiny mirror above our hallway sink and all I can see are the wrinkles that I’m getting from smiling and laughing in the sunshine. Why are we punished for doing the best things in the life? (I know, I know. Wrinkles are beautiful.)

In general, though, I am aware that I am older than I’ve ever been before. Mostly in good ways. For example, suddenly, miraculously, without my even noticing, I seem to have dumped a big (annoying) part of my personality (being insecure about expressing who I am). And I can only attribute that to age. So, thanks age!

I’m also older in less exciting ways. For example, on Sunday morning my roomates and I found ourselves on some curb up in north Barranquilla, watching the sky casually brighten at 6...7...8 o’clock in the morning. We had spent the previous hours at a gay parade, then terrorizing and charming a man who wanted to rob us, then in the street outside of La Troja, where we met this group of “bohemian” Barranquillan university friends. I love this bar, La Troja. Every time we go there, the crowd and the mood shifts. It’s a matter of situational perspective: if you stand 4 feet to the right, you’ll meet the group of doctors. 4 feet to the left, and you’re stuck with the drunk old childhood buddies wearing map shirts. And if you stand where we stood the other night, you meet graphic designers and musicians who stepped out of the pages of an Urban Outfitter’s catalogue. In a city where every other torso is encased in neon purple spandex (and I’m talking about the men who aren't wearing map shirts), this is a refreshing change.

Dancing and chatting, we American/”Brazilian” girls finally relaxed and made some friends. The robber had us on our guard, so we introduced ourselves with all sorts of stories that fell away slowly throughout the night. All the same, I was stuck speaking “Portuguese” because everyone in the world loves Brazil! It’s a wonderful thing to share with strangers. Imagine, being madly, un-covetously in love with a person and meeting people all around the world who also madly love that person! This is how loving Brazil feels. Later into the night, I sat in a taxi with a glamourous little ballerina man, eating piña (abacaxi ;) ) and singing homages to Rio in Portugues. And I felt the wholeness of the universe...haha. Don’t take that too seriously.

Trees are just another place to hang out

But the point is, after that night turned into the next morning, I was the one to decline our new friends’ invitation to go to the beach. I wanted to sleep! I never would have done that when I was 23....

The marimonda!

Also, it’s more Carnival then ever here. We were in the Guacherrna parade and I dressed as La Negrita Puloy. Now, I know that sounds weird to all of you who are not here in Barranquilla. But La Negrita (La Gringita?) is a beloved traditional character here, and it’s totally normal for everyone to dress up as whomever they want. What is interesting to me are the origins of these characters. In Trinidad, I spent a lot of time learning about the stories behind everything, the Moko Jumbies who use their stilts to walk back to Africa, the Dame Lorraine mocking the master’s wife. And the craft that goes into it all...the Pierrot Grenade “speechifies” and the Midnight Robber “robber talks”, and jab jab climbs up poles. Everyone has their dances, their art, and it’s necessary to dedicate yourself to learning that character and then to give yourself into playing it. It’s all very, very involved. I don’t know much about the characters here, but from what I’ve gathered, the Negrita Puloy is based on a brand of Venezuelan detergent from the ‘70s. And that’s about all the story I can find. Woah! I think it’s safe to say that Carnival comparisons are interesting, but, at least in this case, I shouldn't rely on them for historical perspective. Barranquilla’s carnival is young (maybe a century younger than Trinidad’s?), and I think it evolves constantly. It also seems to be more of a willy-nilly carnival...do what you want, be-costume yourself as you wish...I am intrigued.

Moko-jumbies?

In the meantime, I will uncritically dress up in this way and dance through the streets. Please forgive me. I did not chose the costume.

And the negrita/gringita/albina puloy

Blending In

I am facing a moral dilemna: I want to put a picture of my first real love note up for everyone to see, but I think that might be the wrong thing to do. I should respect the young person’s tender feelings for me.

But, I’m pretty sure that what he doesn’t know will never hurt him, and he certainly can’t read my blog, so, for all of your pleasure, I’m going to go with/against my gut (because my gut is always undecided) and show you my love note! It’s sweet. I’m pretty sure Google translator helped, because this boy doesn’t speak English very well.

I also want to clarify that the ostrich featured in my last posting is real and hated me, and wasn’t an oil painting as Sonja thought.

On Friday, my roomates and I will cumbia and shimmy our ways through our first Carnival parade in Barranquilla. I’ve played mas in Trinidad twice before, but never have I worn such a costume as the one I picked up yesterday. I will don a short red dress with white polka-dots, flounced up with tulle, with a fitted bodice and brought together with a little white be-hearted apron. I also have to wear black fish-nets, little ruffle “sleeves” on my arms, sparkley wristies, red hoop earings and a black afro with a big polka-dot bow. We did not chose the costume or the character, it was chosen for us, but even so, I’m a little embarassed...when in Barranquilla, do as the Barranquilleros. There are 30 or so of us in the section...We’ll be spectacular!

At Enira's mas camp

Making Friends

Alex loves me but I'm not so sure about the ostrich.

A la Orden

I wonder: can I write in the delighted way that I’ve written in the past if I’m writing about the same place for a year? And if you exchange the word “write” in the last sentence with the word “live”, what is the answer to the question then? Haa. I’ve become so pesada in these last few entries! But I am sure the answer is “yes!”, I can still write and live flippantly and delightedly, assuming that that is the desirable way to do things, of course :)

Good news: I like teaching English! This is only my second week of teaching here in Soledad, but I think it’s pretty fun. I prepare a lesson, and then I go in and see what happens. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I only speak English to my students, and I pretend that I only understand English. When I look out across my classrooms of thirty 16-24 year old boys, I get a lot of blank looks, or students covering their faces with their books when I talk to them, or boys murmuring sweet nothings in Spanish to me. But, I have the enviable and rare position of being in the “right” despite my minority-language status. And they really like realizig that they understand more English than they even imagined. This is why they haven't yet overruled me with Spanish. Also because I’m ridiculous and they want to see what I do next! And, they are 16-24 year old boys. Where do they all learn the phrase, “I love you”? Do they go look in a book? I think the intensity of that particular phrase is lost in translation. There’s a big difference between “te quiero” and “te amo”, and we don't really have that lesser degree. Anyway, perhaps another reason I have attentive classrooms is that after a week, my students all love me and are devoted to me forever! Just wait till I give them a test...

Socially, things are moving kind of slow. We’re just sooooo far away and “in the dark” (sometimes literally: the other night, our power plant made a low humming sound like when the magnet thing in Lost makes time change and then all of the lights went out). But we found a bar we like: La Troja. We’ve been there both Saturday nights. It’s a crazy crazy old place, with people in costumes spilling into the streets and loud music (their entire music collection is on records, kept in a back room). The maître d’ introduces anyone of interest who wanders in, including the Mexican telenovela stars, the salsa dancing old woman and her gymnast daughter, the king and queen of the Gay Carnival and their entourage, a zealous guy who brought a cow bell, and us, the Norwegians. Ha. The second time, we were The Brazilians, but that was more to discourage an incredibly annoying old man wearing a map shirt. And then my Brazilian friend asked, "But don't the men there like Brazilian girls, too?" Hmmm...he has a good point.

La Doctora

We’ve also been invited out with the Doctor, our boss. The doctor is a hot, kind of spacey but smart, lady of around 55, who is dating a guy in the Aliarse office who’s around 25. He just bought a little pit-bull named Mr. Bruce, who hangs out under the Doctor’s desk. Last Sunday, we went to a salsa party with the Doctor and her squeeze, as well as the receptionist Melissa, and her boyfriend/husband/? and his entire family. It was a street party, and got really really crowded, but the office crew had gotten there hours ahead and reserved us a spot on the sidewalk, protected by a rope held up by a tree. We sat in our little oasis, surrounded and sometimes invaded by the growing crowd. At times, we had to make a little blockade with our chairs and brace ourselves against what was really a heaving mass of people. Eventually, the tree fell, brought down by the rope and the crush...it was pretty brutal. But we had a lot of fun, drinking and dancing with everybody else’s boyfriend and spraying each other with canned foam.

Crowded Streets

We’re signing up to join a comparca, or a carnival band. One of the head teachers, Grace, used to dance with this group, and she brought Marcela and me to a supermarket way up in northern Barranquilla to see the practice. They were just out there in the parking lot, doing some pretty elaborate dance routines. I would love to “play” marimonda, the clownish elephant guy wearing a tie. He’s supposed to be making fun of serious business men, I think. But I think we’re doomed to play sexy lady mas (trini Carnival terminology slipping in..). That's ok, probably cooler anyway if we don't wear any clothes! An elephant mask could be really hot. It's hot here.

Marimondas