Tiny little update

Hello people!

It's been a while- a fun, hectic while. We've moved to Barranquilla, I haven't been sick and there is room for me to do yoga with more than one friend OR my new Samba Reggae workout video. Last night a cockroach stood sentry on a closet door, waving his antenai over my badly lit room. I had to try to kill it three times before Elena attacked it with the Raid, and still it's little legs were waving in the air.

Sonja and Josh were here to visit and I had a really great time with them. It's so nice for me that people I love get to see these little segments of my life. Josh and I went to a little mountain town in the Sierra Nevadas called Minca. Our hostel was up a slippery mud path, but the view was worth dirty shoes.

And, I've started writing posts for a website called La Vida Idealista: http://lavidaidealist.org/ That is why I haven't been around here for a while!

Sometimes, when I´m sitting on the Cooter, amazing thoughts and observations pop through my head!

I write them down in my little book.

¨The things people do in front of their houses:

• sweep
• paint each others nails
• chat
• watch other people
• talk through the gate
  
• chase each other with big sticks

Opportunistic dalmation at the sidewalk meat stand.

Pico in the making! C27B Kr 21B

Red eyes, blue eye shandow.
Wrong-way foot walks, but flaps about when the other leg drags it forward.
Yellow flower tree, no leaves.
Why do football jearseys all say UNICEF?
The Happy Birthday of B´quilla!
Old woman, red dress, toothpaste green house- She is holding onto her beauty.

Write email to Neuza about the thing I read.
Write to Sonja about nasal voices.

Mr. Titty.

The Cooter is fast. The Cooter is slow.

Meat, bakery, fumes.
Music with tac tac of clave.

She was missing out on things, in her solitude, and she knew it. Three years of solitary wandering, and she felt the missing in her life. And here she was living in Soledad, somewhere she didn´t want to stay, thus ensuring at least another year of detachment.

Ah, the green of Calle 57.

A group of 6 men apeaking sign language animatedly in front of tghe 72 market.

Traveling misinformed: interesting or dumb?

2 rocking chairs are still rocking, and the credits of a movie running on a TV. Seen through the front door in Soledad.

A line of blind people walking with hands on each others shoulders, sticks in the other hands...towards the nearby library?

Are poor people more interesting to look at through the window than rich? Why?

Mom!

The man who just sat down behind me smells like laurel leaves. He sings the Colombian salsa songs playing on the radio. The man sitting before was very very dark skinned and sang the champeta.

5 or 6 mangos thrown or dropped in the notch of a dark wet tree- so green they look blue.

They listen to the weirdset music here: ¨there´s a brown girl in the ring, la, lala, lala!¨ How do they chose it? I am constantly surprised. Last night from the football field bar, I heard what sounded like Israeli music.

Mom, Ti Chi, B´quilla, new feeling about here.

A clown got on the bus-a crazy champeta arcy darting bus. And the police came on to check cedulas but they didn´t check mine.

I always want to write about the ridiculous-inconvenient-strange things that come my way throughout the day. When life becomes ordinary (when ¨the ridiculous¨becomes ordinary), I write less. But life hasn´t become any less ridiculous. Really, I have just started enjoying the ridicuous things less, or am becoming them myself.¨

Facinating stuff.

Adios a Seis Meses de Soledad

I'll miss them!

A while ago I asked myself if I'd be able to sustain my traveler's fascination with a place over a longer period of time. My six months on the coast of Colombia has been the test, and I believe that "fascination" has won, although that is not clear from this blog, which I am ignoring inadvertently. I will tell you that, in the past two months, I have experienced long moments of frustration (mostly directed towards myself or my body), but I am feeling very happy and optimistic right now, as I sit on a matress in my new room overlooking a rustling mango tree and the mango-filled lot below.

Yes, we moved from Soledad. It feels a bit like a defeat, but it's a defeat I'll admit to: the pollution, the noise, the rocks being thrown into my room, my body's exhausted defense system are things that I, for one, had grown used to but am happy to be away from. We could have stayed there another 6 months. It would have been fine. But I'm glad we're not. The one thing I'll miss is the bar playing all of my now-favorite tunes. Where will I hear champeta and terapia music now? I guess now we might actually have to go to the bar, instead of passively enjoying it from afar. Or maybe we just need to get a radio.

On our last night sleeping in Soledad, we had to take a $15,000 peso taxi-ride through El Centro from La Troja (yup, still going there). It was 4:30 a.m., and El Centro was waking up from it's seedy night: the Saturday-morning market was materializing as wheel-barrows full of bloody, behooved meat and cilantro were rolled through difficult pot-holes in the dark. I don't think we'll ever have a reason to drive through Centro at 4:30 am again, so I guess I'll say "good-bye" to that image.

The next day I went to Centro to buy glass for my window. It's funny how things are organized here: there is a block of only toilet bowl shops, then a block of wooden furniture, on of porcelain tiles, and one for glass. How does a person chose which negocio to frequent? I just asked a guy selling candy on the sidewalk, and he of course told me I should go to the shop that we stood in front of. They were quite competent and economical, but I had to negotiate my own taxi fare home, because the glass-man couldn't get me a good price. The move itself was a sort of strange experience, in its simplicity. We haven't accumulated much, but we did need help disassembling our beds and that's how we announced our move to the neighbors: tactless and rude, I know. We haven't become close to, and sort of even tried to avoid a few of the neighbors (the one's who we ended up asking for help). Pero, aja. ¿Que puedes hacer? Then we called the taxi company and asked instead for a camioneta with some strong men. I rode in the open-bed truck with our stuff the 60 blocks to our new apartment, as the mattresses bent and threatened to knock motorciclistas off of their bikes. Exhilarating.

Moving Company

And now we are simply here, somewhere different. We walked to a supermarket yesterday, and just bought the few things we needed for breakfast. I never thought about what a luxury that is, but it really is wonderful to shop for food casually, without a meter-long list and enlisting the help of all of the young men to help us carry sloshy bag of water and spiny pineapples. We did buy 4-dozen eggs, though. There's no point in unlearning everything we've found out about life in Soledad. And tomorrow, back to school, where my adorable class of 25 boys will be sitting in the hallway waiting for me at 7:00 am.

The fate of English homework

More about them later :)

Welcome to Cooterville!

A week with my mother in Colombia: what a treat! We stuck to the coast, because I don’t know much about the rest of the country and I wanted to appear in control. Besides the 5-star hotels, jungle retreats and UNESCO world heritage sites that I dazzled my beloved mum with, I was most excited to introduce her to the Cooter.

Have I really omitted the Cooter from this blog all these months? That’s crazy, because the it's one of the defining features of my life here. Really, it’s just a bus. A little red bus that says “Cootransco” on its windshield. That’s why we named it the “Red Cooter”, which we affectionately shortened to “the Cooter” once we got to know the bus better. And I love riding this bus! I’m familiar enough now with the Cooter’s route that I can look out of the window and accurately calculate the time remaining in my trip by the graffiti, the level of road paved-ness or the ratio of bicitaxis to cars. In my neighborhood, the roads are less often paved and there are lots of bicitaxis and motocarros. These tell-tail traits are replaced by things like trees and street signs as the Cooter makes it’s way up North.

Sometimes the Cooter's in bad shape

On the Cooter ride my mother and I took last week we started in the North and headed downtown, since I was unable to imagine my mother sleeping here in Soledad, what with all of the Vallanato and the fact the boys outside keep on breaking my window with rocks. Instead, we slept at El Prado, a grand old hotel with black and white tiled floors and a huge courtyard shaded by palm trees around a pristine blue swimming pool with a deep end. In the morning, we waited on the corner of Calle 72 and Kra. 56 with the enormous suitcase I had forced my mother to bring (stuffed with luxurious cosmetics from the USA). Thank goodness it was Sunday morning (weekdays are bad: today I was hanging out of the door on my Cooter ride). The bus was practically empty, and all we had to do after clumsily hoisting the bag over the tiny little turnstile that five-year-olds can hardly fit through was relax for the hour-long, zig-zaggy ride that connects the North with my humble barrio at Costa Hermosa and Calle 18.

So, I’m really happy my mother got to see this part of my life, along with the other sights and sounds of mi vida costeña.

Almost as soon as my mom flew away from Cartagena, the rainy season started. Well, I suppose it might have begun here and there, but I didn’t notice until mom left. Actually, I did notice on a little side trip Marcela and I took to Mompox. Oh, there’s plenty to say about that little excursion, but here’s the shortish version: Mompox is a city on an island in the middle of two rivers: the Magdalena and the Cuaca. I don’t know the specific details of this little city’s fascinating history, but if the jeweler I bought some filigree earrings from was correct (and if I understood him), Mompox was founded as an important trade point by some Cartagenigans who wanted to get away from the heavy hand of the Spanish crown.

It’s possible that Mompox claims to be the first city in Colombia to declare independence from Spain...I might have misunderstood that part. Supposedly, Bolivar owes Mompox his glory. Anyway, way back when before the Spanish established themselves there, the Indians used an impressive system of canals to prevent flooding in the area. Since then, mining in the interior and the deterioration of this system have led to the inevitable: the areas around Mompox have been flooding, and last rainy season the waters actually started to threaten the UNESCO city itself. Now the new season is beginning and the area is still flooded from the last rains...uh-oh.

Marcela and I didn’t know any of this, and our ignorance was corrected on the day we left to go home: we learned that two of the two bridges out of town were out. One “bridge” had been out for a while and was actually just a lot of dirt piled in the river. Our bus had traversed it on the way in, and other than the tractor submerged in the surging river, everything seemed ok. But on the day we were leaving a truck had gotten stuck in the mud that should have been sinking into the water anyway, so we had to walk across. (Taxi #1 to Taxi #2). The other bridge is a real suspension bridge and part of it had just caved in, making it passable only by foot. (Taxi #2 to Taxi #3). We finally arrived at the dock where we caught a skinny little taxi boat to Magangué, and finally stepped onto our bus to Barranquilla.

Oh, but it wasn’t that easy: one hour from Barranquilla, the bus stopped. And stayed stopped. We were in good company: every car on the road had stopped, and just seemed to be sitting there. Why were we stopped? No one told us until we asked, and we had to ask quite a few people until we got the right answer. First we heard that the people in the community up ahead were stopping cars and demanding money. Then that they were protesting. And demanding money. Well, it turns out they were protesting- protesting the fact that they are still waiting for solutions from the government from last season’s floods as they watch next season’s clouds approach. And they weren’t asking for money, from us anyway. So, with the help of the serendipitous appearance of a friend’s father, we hopped on some motorcycle taxis, rode to the other side of the burning road blocks to the waiting rainbow-colored colectivos, and finally made it to Soledad.

And Soledad is not immune to flooding. It turns out Barranquilla has it’s arroyos: some streets are famous for being part-time rivers. For example, here’s what happened after a short but strong rain a few days ago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4eDYNt9Nyw. Meanwhile, I was down in Soledad bracing our own little arroyo in Costa Hermosa. Once again, I find myself wading through knee-deep sewer water...I guess it’s time to start enjoying it!

Semana Santa

Re-adjusting to the smells, the sights and most of all the SOUNDS of being back in civilization, I think I'll try to jot down a little scetch of this past week before inertia and vallenato take over.

I just spent 4 nights and 5 days at Parque Tayrona. This little park, one of the highlights of the coast, is only a few hours east of Barranquilla, and you can catch a bus right by my house on the heaving, smoky, bus infested Simone Bolivar. It's practically door to door service. And such an incredible difference. Just two nights before we left Barranquilla, I was stuck on Simone Bolivar in the furthest corner of a Sobusa, the exhaust pipe expeling its deisel smoke back into the bus as the driver tried to inch around full-stop traffic by putting on the 4x4 (yeah right) and scaling mounds of road construction sand and gravel. It was slow scaling, and as my knees banged against the metal seat ahead of me, I watched a group of kids appear from behind another mound to take advantage of the sitting ducks in traffic, relieving some some guy in his car of his valuables.

So imagine, from this street, being dropped two hours later at the bottom of a trail leading straight into the jungle. I should be honest: it is a trail straight into the jungle, but this week was Semana Santa, one of Colombia's longest national holidays, and whoever can afford it heads to the coast. Tayrona wasn't exactly deserted, but we had the hour-long hike in pretty much to ourselves. The park has various campgrounds, and my friends and I stayed in a hut where 50 white hammoks swung side by side, each encased within its own mosquio net. It's a very romantic looking accomodation, and I've been told that hammoks are even designed to be used for...romance...but for me they are just a little uncomfortable. And cold. I survived, though, and so did my 49 roomates. The only noises I heard in the dead of night were from the people singing in the campground and the little boy next to me who woke up scared by a bug.

Surrounding us, tents and more tents. Full of families and couples and groups of couples. And these were Colombian campers, meaning that most tents, big and small, were stuffed with one or more inflatable mattress, the exact same mattress that we just bought at Éxito for all of you wonderful friends who will come to visit!

Outside of this beachside campground, past the juice bar and down a hill of green dune vines, even more marvellous scenery: first the trecherous Arreciefes beach, where 200 people have drowned and where we saw an alligator, bracing the waves with his mouth wide open. Then, through a pass full of fresh orange juice sellers and the most delicious arepas con pollo, another tiny golden beach, a bay with torquise water and course sand and peaceful lapping waves. Beyond that is La Picina, a bigger and equally tranquil place to swim and snorkle. And on and on. The beaches continue to get longer and more deserted the further you walk, as you might imagine. Supposedly, there's even a nude beach más alla.

As my friends were accosted by this one guy Jorge who is incredibly slick and fickle, I met more unsuitable men: well, there was the Tayrona cafetero, who showed up outside of my hammok every morning at 6:00 with a little radio playing...guess what...vallanato!....and whispering sweet words about organic coffee in my ear. He must have been charmed by my rolling out of my hamock with sleep in my eyes to ask for a cup, because by the fourth day he wanted to visit me in Barranquilla. After all, his son is 20 years old, all grown up, and he lost his mujer, so why not have a fling? I prefered the little guy I met in the shower line one day (4 showers for everyone to share), seven-year-old Alejandro. He was mesmerized by Elena and my conversation in English, and he had that adorable attitude that some kids get: whenever he thought of a question to ask me, he'd get really close, put his hands on his hips and one foot to the side and ask me very seriously. "What's you're name? Do you swim in the ocean or the swimming pool?" (the "swimming pool" being the bay). "You are very tall!" (and now he started jumping) "I can't even reach your head! Where's your mother? Where is your tent? You don't have a tent? Why not? Well, I know a store where you can buy one, just go to my house, take a little right, and there it is. You know, German is the easiest language to learn. I have a friend at school who speaks German, and his parents can't even speak Spanish, because Spanish is very difficult!" The whole line of women was listening to our very serious conversation, nodding and giggling. And I continued to bump into Alejandro throughout the weekend, once right outide of my hammock as I sipped my coffee. He ordered a few cocoa teas for his parents, then a hot chocolate for himself, and sat down on the ledge next to me. "How did you sleep, Eliza? Goodness, we seem to run into each other often!" What a cutie-pie!

Every day was at the beach, every night sitting around on the ground somewhere, laughing and joking with some new friends. Jorge was pesado for the others, but for me just ridiculous. They called him "Jorge de la selva", because he ate everything off of the trees: mangos and coconuts (one of which left him lying on a dirty mattress with an IV stuck in his arm in the little park clinic one morning). I brought carrots with me to eat, and one day shared them with the group for lunch. He didn't know where they came from, and we told him that they were beach carrots. There was a little weed sticking out of the sand where the waves reached, and when we told him it was the carrot stalk, he started digging, and practically dug to China before we couldn't hold in the laughter any more. Funny!

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!