"Hablas Ingles?"

A view of the majority of the 600mi² city of Bogota, Colombia

Our first few days in Colombia have not been without adventure. If I haven't mentioned it before, Brother Paul Richards - the creator, curator and of the BVC - was in Bogota the day before we arrived. Considering that he had mentioned during our two week retreat in May that he would only show up to our sites if something was seriously wrong, we were understandably taken aback when we heard he would be there. But he assured us that his stay was solely to maintain strong ties to the monastery in Bogota; to keep a face to the name, so to speak. That, and he "got a cheap flight!"

Our hesitation rapidly turned into anticipated mirth as we pictured our director trying to find his way through a Spanish speaking country, which may sound mean unless you know him. When you first meet him, Brother Paul can easily come off as straight-faced and strict. This is only because his humor is so dry and sarcastic that he's probably making fun of you if he's scolding you (essentially, he and I are on the same page here). He will dish out grief to anyone any chance he gets, but he is also able to take a fair amount of it himself ("Everywhere I go, in any country, everybody just makes fun of me!!") He also hates being in pictures - something I can empathize with, though he will take it a step further and give the camera the middle finger if he is feeling so perturbed. He also abhors the thought of being mentioned in a public forum such as a blog or other social media, so this whole paragraph is enjoyable to write for myself and those who know him well. Overall though, he is generous with his time, makes sure we volunteers are comfortable in our sites and offers valuable suggestions at every step. In particular, he made a point of telling us to get to know the cooks, guards, janitors, and maintenance workers - "you never know when you need some help." He also thought it would be a good idea to get acquainted with public transportation early on in our venture, which brings us to today's events. 

Devon and I were eager to observe this man very much out of his habitat here in Colombia. However, much to our surprise - and admitted disappointment - his Spanish was very much passable. Sure, he might only know how to speak in the present tense and knew very little vocabulary, but what he lacked in jargon he made up for in willingness to try. Or, as he put it, "Who cares?? I'll never see any of these people again!"

It was the first of July, and our destination for the day was Monserrate, one of the mountains overlooking the city of Bogota. Since it is around 20 kilometers south through the city center, this was to be a hands-on lesson in the TransMilenio, the public bussing system of Bogota. And what a lesson it was.

First off, we had to take a local bus to simply get to the center highway where the TransMilenio  runs through. Naturally, it stopped past where we needed it to, and therefore had to navigate back to the desired platform. Now, the TransMilenio is an incredibly unintuitive web of bus lanes that stretches mainly from the north to the south of the city, but also has routes extending into the suburbs, or barrios. The busses on the north-south main line - where we were travelling - would be relatively easy to figure out if it weren't for the fact that not every bus stops at every platform. Some are more direct while others make multiple stops. This means that you could easily take longer than necessary to get to your destination or completely miss it and have to backtrack, though one will undoubtedly encounter both joys, given enough time. 

Br. Paul striking a pose like few others can

At the ticketing station, Paul first asks if the ladies speak English. They give him a look that perfectly blended slightly offended with pitiful laughter, as if to say, "Dude, you kiddin??" After a very one sided conversation in which little progress was made, a teenager emerged from the growing line behind us to offer some help. He explained in broken English which stops to make. With his help, we were able to discern two stops, "Ruta Facing" and "Tercer Milenio." We weren't sure the order nor the direction thereafter, but figured we would simply get off if we saw either name on a platform we stopped at.

As the TransMilenio travels further south into the heart of the city, the busses quickly fill with commuters, shoppers, and solicitors of all varieties including - but definitely not limited to - those asking for money for music, speeches, injuries, or dulces (candy). Standing on the bus, we were soon pushed up against the walls by other passengers.

After we had been riding for about half an hour without seeing any recognizable platform name, Br. Paul began what I call the "Hablas ingles?" game. This is when someone who knows very little Spanish - usually a gringo tourist - asks anyone in the vicinity, "Hablas ingles?" (Do you speak English?) If they shake their head, avoid eye contact, giggle, or outrightly respond, "No hablo ingles" (I don't speak English), move on to the next person.

After successfully alienating half of Bogota, Br. Paul was able to find a man who said he could help us, even if his English wasn't much better than Paul's Spanish. We got off at the next platform with him, only to find out from security posted on every platform that we had indeed gotten off too early. Frustrated with the whole affair, we simply decided to walk the remaining 20+ blocks to the base of Monserrate. After riding the cable car up to the top of the mountain, Br. Paul seemed to have had enough, so he pulled out his book and said, "See you in an hour." After Devon and I explored the church and the city views, we all met up with Paul and rode back down.

He claims he's been to the top before.

The Funicular (Cable Car). 

               


The return trip was not without its navigational mishaps. But, all in all, while it took nearly 4 hours to get to Monserrate, we spent no more than two hours getting back to the monastery. None of us were too overwhelmed, this was to be a learning experience after all.

The cherry on top of the day came when we were almost at our stop. Devon and I had been separated from Br. Paul by a few people on the TransMilenio after he had found a seat and we were pushed further backwards. Devon and I were prematurely reminiscing about the days laughs when Devon yelled to our monk to get his attention. Br. Paul looked up and made nearly every Colombian on the TransMilenio crack a smile when he responded with, "No hablo ingles!"

Thank you Brother Paul, for the laughs and the lessons.

JJ


Song in my head lately: No Envy, No Fear by Joshua Radin. It speaks for itself.

Spanish word of the day: Refajo is a Colombian drink made from mixing beer and a Colombian soda aptly named "Colombiana," though other soft drinks work as well. Much like a Chilean Fanshop (which mixes beer with Fanta), be careful to not use this word in this context outside of Colombia because refajo also commonly means "slip," referring to feminine undergarments. Ordering that at a restaurant elsewhere could get interesting.

Church at the top of Monserrate.

I'm lichen this cross.