Everything Works Out

Even though I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, I was hesitant to pull it out. A former colleague of mine had once been robbed by a taxista, and I wasn’t eager to have my driver know I’d brought my iPhone with me. “Where are you, man?” It was Andres, reminding me it was 7:50, and our overnight bus left at 8. “Eh, do you think you could try to get to the terminal by 8?” I asked the driver, knowing chances were low. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” my driver responds as he pulls onto the shoulder and speeds past traffic. But even with Colombian Jason Statham as my driver, I hopped out of the cab five minutes after 8. I called Andres as we frantically tried to find each other in the Friday evening crowds also bussing out of the city. Together we scrambled to the exit, printed our tickets, and burst out the door. It was 8:20, and our bus hadn’t left yet. Simply glad to have not missed our bus, I didn’t bother putting my bag in the bodega down below. I shoved the cookies and juice I’d bought under the seat with my backpack and promptly fell asleep. In travelling Colombia and the rest of South America, I’ve found that things just tend to work out. Heavy traffic? Late for the bus? No problem, the travel gods will pity you and not let the bus leave. Everything works out.

            Twelve hours in and out of sleep later, and Andres taps me on the shoulder to let me know we’d arrived. I reach under me for my backpack and pull out a dripping green bag that smells like apples. Turns out, I had smashed my backpack under me with the force of a thousand apple juicers and ended up carrying it out in front of me like a parent with their infant’s diaper. Everything works out.

Buga behind us, neslted in the Cauca Valley.

I had met Andres in the gym, since more socializing happens in the gym than actual gym-ing. Steve and I started going regularly a few months back. And since Steve tends to speak as if he’s trying to be heard over a wind tunnel – probably from having to yell down so short Colombians can hear him – we usually get some stares and Whereareyoufroms here in an area of the city that’s void of foreigners. We’ve also gotten some job offers in young people willing to pay for private tutoring to improve their English. Due to the fact that there are no foreigners and little wealth in this area, we were surprised when this morenito dude started talking to us in English. I’ve always enjoyed how a barrio within a Latin American city can often feel like its own town with the same faces seen each day. So it was more of a coincidence than a surprise when we found out that Andres is a cousin of one of the math teachers at San Benito, Lina. A look of doubt must have crossed my face because Andres quickly elaborated that his side of the family was from Colombia’s west coast, a city near Cali called Buga. I blurted out that Cali was one of my remaining travel destinations here in Colombia. Admitting that he had been wanting to return home for some time, he immediately invited me to his house over the next long weekend. Everything was beginning to work out.

 

Bogota to Buga, 8 hours unless you're on a bus.

Buga. Say booger with a Jamaican accent and you’ve got it. Say it three times and try to mock scare a baby (abugabugabugabu!). All crockery aside, Buga is one of the most pleasant towns in Colombia that I’ve visited. The climate is an agreeable hot, with constant breezes blowing through the Cauca valley where the pueblo sits. A quick ten-minute scooter ride around with Andres proved that there seemed to be no sketchy areas of town, and every corner is accessible within a ten to twenty minute walk.

Poolside with Andres, Mariana, Daniel, and Antonio.

We were met at the door by Andres’ parents, Gloria and Antonio, his little brother Daniel, and cousin Mariana. At their heels yapped three white toy poodles, one for each child of the house (Andres’ sister, Andrea, lives with him in Bogota, but had to work over the weekend). As is customary, the Colombians pulled out all the stops for their guest and made me feel as if I was as a part of the family as Andres. My backpack was quickly thrown into the washing machine along with half its contents, breakfast was served, and cold beers were retrieved (when asked, I may or may not have translated and explained the phrase it’s five o’clock somewhere). But if you’ve ever had the pleasure, nay, honor, of riding an overnight bus in Colombia, you know you never actually got any decent sleep. So after some food and socializing, long naps were in order and taken advantage of. Everything was working out. 

What followed was a pleasant family weekend filled with eating, dancing, drinking, pool playing and swimming, hiking, and general Colombianing. For such a short visit, I managed to learn quite a few things.

Colombian hospitability is second to none

Bus terminal with Mariana and Gloria.

If you’ve been keeping up with these less than half-assed posts, this probably doesn’t come as much of a shock. Time after time, Colombians and their families have gone all out to make me feel at home, an emotion that has been all too easy to experience with people as generous, thoughtful, open, and hilarious as most Colombians are. Here in Buga, the Castillo’s took that calling card to a whole new level. While it was a homecoming weekend for Andres, it became a marathon of “JJ, have you tried this?” 

Chinos with cholados

Each region of Colombia has its own foods and drinks, so as we ambled through town, I was quickly filled with cholados (large cups of sliced fruits sticking out Iron Throne-style from a sweet, slushy, cornucopia of sugar), Luladas (a slushy with bits of lulo, a goopy green citrus fruit) and chontaduro (a sweet potato textured, dry squash flavored fruit). Even the taxi drivers were in on the hospitality gig, often chatty with recommendations. Hell, I’ll even count the remark an older, toothless lady called out to Andres, his brother, and I as we crossed the street: “Uyy, que muchachos tan rrrricos!”

Popular tourism isn’t everything

Giant white Jesus.

Thinking we were going to spend more time in nearby Cali, salsa capital of the world and vibrant west coast city, my tourism research unfortunately didn’t uncover much more other than your usual city attractions such as main plaza, museum, zoo, and botanical garden. What I did find was a rather impressive mirador looking over the city with a huge Christ the Redeemer statue, the Rio de Janeiro’s statue’s little Jesus brother. But when I expressed interest in going, the family wasn’t sure what it was, what it was called, or where to go. And even when we did make to Cali, only taxi drivers and some police officers knew how to get there. After taking an Uber up, we took some pictures and ate some ice cream before promptly returning to the bus station back to Buga. It turns out Cali is known for salsa dancing and that’s about it. When questioned about what there is to do in Cali, almost everyone replied with a simple, “rumba,” or party with dancing. But after hiking with Andres’ family and doing what they would do, I was reminded that it’s always better to find out what the locals do rather than what a travel guide book or blog would recommend.

Distance often ruins a good relationship

Again, really no surprise here. So, if you’re into brevity, feel free to skip this paragraph, this blog, all the way to the red X button on your Internet browser. Our first full day in town, Andres and I decided to meet up with an old friend of his for some drinks. When I asked how Andres and Natalia had met, I was given a rather hesitant and abashed “Well, we used to date. For eight years.” And just like that, yours truly was set on a different axis, the official third wheel. The night from then on was spent observing how although Andres moving to Bogota seemed to have closed the door on them both, these two clearly still liked each other. But pity me not! For instead of feeling bored or left out, I felt like I had front row seats to a real life Romcom movie (though just like a romcom movie, enjoying it might have only been brought to you by alcohol).

It made me wonder if I had any relationships ended by distance. As I filed through the Ted Mosby list, I realized the answer was all of them. The reasons were varied: study abroad, graduate school, coming to Colombia, pursuing an acting career, living in a city farther away. Whatever the reason for their ending, I found that distance or its approach was the root cause. Now, obviously, you can make the case that perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be and distance simply forced me to step back and recognize that. But such chicken and egg arguments really just make me wish I were more into brevity. Right person wrong time? I guess that’s not really for me to decide. If it’s meant to be, with some hard work everything will work out. I hope it eventually does for Andres and Natalia, too.     

Just waltzing through some pastures.

Everything doesn’t always work out

But JJ, you’re contradicting a life motto of yours! Well, everyone’s a little hypocritical at some point. I should make it clear that in most cases I do in fact believe that things work out, but it’s not a new or old age obsession with the universe or your chakra or some Goldblum-esque life finds a way passivism. Life, your relationships, and your goals all require colossal amounts of hard work. And I think most who feel they’ve experienced any degree of success with either can agree. But I also believe that patience, flexibility, and acceptance are underrated. If I miss a bus, I’ll take the next one. If I get to a town without a hostel reservation, I’ll ask around until I find a place. If I don’t get this job, that’s fine, I’ll kick ass at one I do get later.

But what I do need to recognize is how privileged I am to be able to think that way. What if I can’t get the next bus because I don’t have enough money? What if no one helped me find a place to stay for a night because I wasn’t white and obviously foreign? What if I needed a job now to pay bills for me and my family but couldn’t get any decent one soon enough simply because of any number of discriminatory factors not included in the white, Christian, heterosexual, able-bodied male expectation? The point is, while everyone can work hard, not everyone has the same spectrum of opportunities.

 My friend Andres learned English essentially on his own, with the desire to study it abroad, preferably through music. But to study abroad, a Colombian usually needs at least one of two things: 1) loads of money or 2) connections abroad, whether that’s extended family or a family friend. Unfortunately, Andres had, through no fault of his own, come up short on both accounts. Aware of this, he began working as a bank teller. Through hard work in both banking and English, he has now become the primary employee to work with foreign clients at his branch of Citibank.

But on our long bus ride back to Bogota, he expressed how exhausted he was, always working, in a big city that can often feel unkind, far away from family and friends, feeling like he was nowhere closer to his dreams than he was ten years ago as a senior in high school. As I sensed defeat and resignation in my friend’s heart, I couldn’t help but feel guilt in my own. Here I am, having travelled to a dozen countries, studied abroad, and currently living my dream. Meanwhile, a friend describes similar aspirations and I feel helpless. It’s a similar feeling to what I can sometimes experience teaching at San Benito, working with kids who are obviously incredibly intelligent and creative, but knowing that many will struggle to simply get out of their corner of the neighborhood.

In the case of Andres, I know how determined he is and I know how smart he is. In me, I hope he knows he now has a connection abroad. And I hope that I can find a way to help things work out for him just as he, his family, the monks, teachers, students, and countless other Colombians have for me.

 J.

Buga lookout tower.

Spanish word of the day: Phrase time again, and a twofer to boot! I was playing pool with Andres and his little brother, Daniel, at the bar one night. Daniel hadn’t been playing too well, but had just sunk two shots in a row, to which he said Se acabó el pasto which literally means the grass is finished or dead. Apparently that means something like “getting warmed up”. I guess it makes sense; grass would indeed die if it got too hot out. Another saying I found hilarious was when we were waiting for our bus back to Bogota, Andres got a call from his mom. No, we’re still waiting, sitting here planchando nalga. Planchar is the verb for ironing, like a dress shirt, while nalga is buttocks, or colloquially, buttcheek. Indeed, when waiting in uncomfortable, flat chairs, I guess you are ironing your butt.

Song in my head: We sprang for a nice bus back to Bogota. Taking advantage of my personal movie screen on the seatback in front of me, I managed to watch two films before falling asleep. One of them was Boyhood, the film that followed the main cast of actors for 12 years. An incredibly poignant and realistic view into American life, the film also features the song, Hero, by the band Family of the Year. Check out both movie and song.

Not Why I'm Leaving, Why I Stayed

 

Just a few more bends in the road now. Nate left a couple weeks ago. Steve left this morning to visit home before returning and finishing up the year here in November. It feels a little bit like the breaking of the fellowship in the Lord of the Rings, the team parting ways. I will miss the company of those two. I always ended up in the middle of our pictures, between the two-meter pillars; Nate, the more reserved viajero I could always count on to have valid opinions about anything from politics to music to religion, Steve, the happy go lucky athlete who wasn’t afraid to get into any situation. We worked well as a trio since we shared enough in common to be able to travel and live together, but different enough that, if necessary, time in twos could be just as valuable, such as my weekend trip to San Gil with Nate where we bungee jumped, or all the time spent in the gym or on the basketball court with Steve.

           

On our recent trip to the Tatacoa Desert.

Nearing Nate’s departure he expressed a desire to return to Villa de Leyva, a beautiful colonial town a couple hours north of Bogota. A popular tourist destination for any Colombian, not just Bogotanos, Nate and Steve had each been there two or three times before (five for me). But the chance to return without monks or students – to relax and reflect on our time – proved to be invaluable. Considering how our adventures normally play out, this trip was relatively tame. We mostly just ate at nice restaurants, walked around, and had our customary beers on the church’s front steps overlooking the main square.

            As we pointed out that this was foreseeably our last time here, I realized that I was now counting my lasts instead of my firsts. Arriving in a new country, everything is new and exciting, places waiting to be explored, people to be met. Bask in the good and learn from the bad. Do things right, and even when you’ve managed to weave yourself into the community, the original excitement never really wears off. But acknowledging inevitable departure, you unconsciously savor every moment, knowing that it might be the last time riding this sweaty eight-hour bus, drinking a beer with that coworker, or dancing until sunrise with those friends. I recognized that it was time to tell my students, because one of us leaving made it real that I soon would be, too.

The reaction in each class was what you’d expect. General cries of “Noo maestro!” and sniffles from some coupled nicely with the silent indifference of those who had received either a bad grade or a good chewing out somewhere throughout our time together. The last two weeks of the semester involved going away parties in most of my classes, notes and candy from countless students come out of the woodwork to show appreciation, and arriving late to classes as I waded through mobs of elbow-height youngsters. I’ll get into my appreciation for them and school later, but what was a struggle for me was when Colombians would ask, “Por qué te vas?”

Why am I leaving? I didn’t like the question. A pro athlete leaves one team for another to win or get paid more. An animal leaves one area for another it believes to have more food or better chances of survival. For most, me leaving meant that I saw something better somewhere else. And just like Nicolas from 6B was hurt when Natalia left him for Juan in 6C, most kids were naturally a little put out that I seemed to be calling it quits. So I changed the question, which prompted a story: “Why did I stay?” I told them about the BVC, how the assignment is typically one year, how I decided to stay another semester, and then another, how I loved exploring this country, meeting new people, living in this city and teaching at this school with these kids.

That seemed to satisfy most kids. But unless you’ve never met a child or were born Benjamin Button-style, chances are you know that children are never satisfied with just one answer. To be fair, I felt I needed to rationalize to myself the prospect of leaving. After all, life’s good here. I have virtually no responsibilities at home as I don’t do my own laundry, cook my own meals or wash my own dishes. In return for going to prayer once a day and keeping the odors from my room at least contained therein, I get free room and board. Since we live in a different building than the monks, there is also really no curfew. Never will a gig be as good, folks. On top of that, we’re a novelty in a school within a community not wealthy enough to attract foreigners to live or work within. So why the hell would I leave such a good situation??

With my homeroom group, 8A. They wore my new national jersey.

For starters, I was not lying to my students when I told them I originally stayed because I was asked by the administration of that time (Principal Father Nick and Vice Viviana) to teach a full year. The school got a native speaker for an English teacher on the cheap and I got more time in Colombia. Win-win. When the end of last school year drew near, I was asked about my future with the school. Since I was hesitant, the school assumed I would move on. They scheduled interviews with and put me on the interviewing committee for my own replacement. I eventually decided to stay another semester and call it good. Two years just sounded better than one and a half, I wasn’t done exploring this country, I wanted to put what I had learned in the classroom to use in a fresh start, winter is coming, Trump is president. You know, normal, wanting to stay out of the U.S. reasoning. All of these little reasons I have since labeled empty rationalizations. I just wasn’t ready to return home yet.

The dominoes had already started to lean, however. I was asked to be in my friends Nick and Maria’s wedding in October later that year, sort of solidifying that I would be done at Tibatí after this semester.

Soon into our school year, shit hit the fan at school in a flurry of administrative change that sent Fr. Nick to a different monastery. In return we got a loathsome new director who has made changes to the academic calendar and school proceedings almost weekly and has been generally disrespectful and patronizing to staff and students. More information on that can be found in earlier posts, but suffice it to say that all the changes have made every teacher who had spent time working under Father Nicolas contemplate leaving, creating an overall stressful environment at times.

            Despite all this, the relationship between the teachers was still better than any other large work environment I’ve been a part or heard of in the states. But as the semester wore on, some of the relationships got too good. The teachers started to couple up. Before, a sizeable crowd of around ten would go out to drink and dance almost every Friday. That number began to decrease as couples would break off and organize their own plans. Soon it was either a slim crowd or one where there were more private conversations than big group ribbing, part of what makes Colombian parties so much fun. While I was happy that coworkers and friends were finding love, I did sometimes long for the nights where everybody drank everything and danced with everybody else.

The three stooges, Esteban, Gerson, Luis Gonzalo.

Even in the monastery a new chapter was beginning. I wasn’t spending as much time with the monks; at first I didn’t want to impede on the new volunteers’ chance to get to know the community. Then, I got caught up in work and all my other responsibilities at the school that I never really got back into the mix. Movie night on Friday had been replaced with teachers, and most weeknights I was too exhausted from Preicfes, staff meetings, or basketball practices to want to participate in the monks’ social hour after dinner. Personnel had changed. Father Nicolas, a crucial component to what I felt made the monastery tick, had left. Father Philip had decided to step down as prior, and taking his place would be Father Manuel. A great guy all around, to be sure, but I wasn’t nearly as close with him as with the former two. Overall, while the mutual appreciation has not waned for either party (to be elaborated in a future post), two years in a monastery is a long time for someone who doesn’t see themself wearing black afterwards. To totally misquote my father, who also spent time in a monastery before ultimately deciding to start a family, “You either habit up or get the @#$% out.”

So to be sure, current events have made it easier to leave now. But again, all of these little reasons I have since labeled empty rationalizations. I am simply ready for the next experience because I feel I’ve done what I came to do.

 I wanted to travel and I’ve done plenty of it. I’ve managed to get to four countries outside of Colombia (about to add two more, stay tuned!) and Colombians joke that I’ve seen more of the city and country than they have.

I wanted to speak Spanish. Language is culture, and culture is embedded in language. I was fortunate enough to have the background in Spanish that I did, because my time here would not be half as rewarding or fun if I didn’t understand what was going on. Lessons learned from reading books, listening to music or radio news, or talking with other gringos in Spanish are things that not only made me an example in my classroom (if I can learn another language, you can, too!) it also let me share more with people I met and spent time with. If, according to Christopher McCandless, happiness is real when shared, then I’m glad I was able to share more with a joke or untranslatable innuendo.

Showing off that shooting form for coach.

I wanted to make something of myself other than the weight my name carried. My family’s been around Collegeville a long time. Walk around St. John’s or St. Joe and you might find someone who knows my parents. “I love your mom!” or “I just met your dad, super cool guy!” are what college friends would often say. Let’s be clear, I don’t want to sound salty here. I love the fact that my grandparents, parents and older siblings leave positive memorable impressions on people. It’s a testament to how we were raised and how we treat others and work hard. And if we’re being honest, it’s also helped when trying to get into a class or land a job, the latter of which I’m sure hasn’t ceased to produce fruits. But if anything besides travelling or speaking Spanish has given me more confidence it is knowing that I can make something of myself out of nothing. The monks had never met my family, and the school hadn’t the foggiest about my work history. But over time, through much feedback from coworkers and students, I was able to recognize my very own impact. Sure I was the gringo. But I was also the teacher that would meet deadlines and get grades and feedback to students as quick as possible, the volunteer that would help a struggling student during their office hours, the coach that would push a team on the court but have a heart to heart with someone who was struggling off of it. For most of my life, I’ve thought of myself as just above average. Maybe more people in the world need that perspective to keep them motivated. But getting out of the Roske bubble in Collegeville helped me learn that maybe I wasn’t as much coasting on my family’s reputation has much as adding to it myself.

Getting attacked in my last class with 6A.

I wanted to scratch the teaching itch and either embrace it or ignore it. I remember in high school when my sister, Michaela, would bring home Spanish quizzes to correct or crafts to cut out, and thinking, man, do I not want to do this. Being the youngest child and almost youngest sibling, I had had next to no experience with kids. Teaching was not even on my radar. Even after volunteering at an elementary school in Viña del Mar, Chile while studying abroad, I wasn’t convinced. Then, during my last year at SJU I was a Spanish Teaching Assistant for Roy Ketchum and also a volunteer helping educate kids groups through the Arboretum. Shit, I thought at the time, am I really going down this path? Better dive into it headfirst. Let’s go to Colombia and teach. Sink or swim. If I fell in love with teaching, does that mean I sank or swam? A good friend from college, Ari, whom I appreciate, among other reasons, for keeping my feet on the ground, would claim that it’s just because I like to hear myself talk and that working with twelve year olds makes me feel smart. Truth be told, it’s much more the latter. Either way, working with students has been a blast and a half. It is indeed a lot of work. And maybe being single has helped me give more time and attention to my students and the material. But working with kids, being able to see and listen to their improvement over time periods both long and short, as well as have them recognize it in themselves, has been an epiphany I will always thank Fr. Nicolas, this school, and this country for.

Why am I leaving? I ultimately tried to explain to 6^th graders that life is full of experiences, and that no single one is more or less important than any other as long as you learn from them all. I am also constantly trying to explain that to myself. It wouldn’t be the first thing in our classroom that confuses both teacher and student. You could claim I’m only as smart as the students I teach. But I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m in front of a room of geniuses every day. The experience knowing that is something I don’t want to give up soon. I feel the time to begin a new experience has arrived. But I’m not done with you quite yet, Colombia. A few more bends in the road.

Spanish word of the day: guayabo is hangover and enguayabado means to be hung over. I recently went to my good friend Eliana’s house outside of Bogota for a barbecue and dancing that lasted until 5am. I’ll let you do the math on how my day after that went.

Song in my head lately: For those interested in some Spanish music, a close runner up has been Procura, a song I heard a couple Friday nights ago. It’s part of the plethora of music I will be sure to return to again and again. But if we’re going with what I’ve been listening to most, it’s still gotta be Dispatch’s new album. Pick a song, chances are it’s really good. This week’s leader has been Begin Again. Fitting.

Lost in Leticia

“Señoras y señores, quien quiere meterse en el agua, aquí seria el lugar de hacerlo.” I hesitantly translated for Ben, then asked our guide if he was serious. Jump in the water? Here? Two hours up the Amazon from our hostel in Leticia, what were the chances of being attacked by some Hollywood-sized leviathan and really being up shit creek? Our helpful guide informed us that while the waters were probably rife with piranhas and pirarucu – 5-9 foot Jurassic fish with teeth as long as baby fingers and a jaw big enough to fit around a leg or teenager’s head – the things to really worry about like crocodiles and snakes would be hanging out closer to the edge of the water. Ben and I exchanged skeptical glances, but began untying our shoes as we saw another man in the boat take off his life jacket. Ben flailed in first, and I had this image of some gargantuan reptile snapping him away midair and leaving me to pay the hostel fee solo. I scampered up on top of the roof of our twenty-passenger waterbus and leapt from there. If a giant reptile were to be my fate, I thought, I might as well go out with style. We treaded around for a couple of minutes in the brown, murky waters, anticipating at any moment a heavy tug on an ankle or aggressive nibble on another appendage, before deciding that any prolonged swimming would only peak the curiosity of other predators. We slipped in the side of the boat where our seats were, my imagination again inventing a scene where prehistoric teeth, eager to snatch something not aquatic, grabbed me as I was about to pull myself out of the water. We effectively sprayed the girls sitting behind us as we flopped aboard, and I turned back to them and asked, “Bueno, quien sigue??” 

                                           *                                       *                                        *                                    *

Here at Colombia’s most southern tip in the small city of Leticia where fishing is the second most important industry to only tourism, you’ll find the borders of Peru, Brazil and Colombia all within a net’s cast of each other along the Amazon river. Since we were visiting in “winter” the water was between 5-8 feet higher, and those living in raised houses down near the banks could take a bath by simply slipping out their kitchen window. The advantages to high water include being able to boat everywhere, including trails normally traversed on foot, and fewer mosquitos since most water at this time of the year is moving.

With all we managed to fit in in just a handful of days, exactly when we did what all blended into this one memory for me that will always be simply catalogued in my mind as The Amazon, with flashes of some of our most jawdropping scenes or fear conquering moments.

On an excursion with many stops along the river, we stopped at a local community that had loads of animals waltzing around the deck, including monkeys, turtles, parrots, sloths and baby gators. They also had a “small” 8 foot anaconda that you could touristically have slung over you while the owner held the thing’s mouth shut to avoid biting your face off just long enough to snag a picture for your Instagram (if older than millennial, read: scrapbook). It’s important to note here that the owner is holding the snake’s mouth, and you can only have it draped over you long enough for a few photos as the thing starts to figure out where best to squeeze. Such levels of caution with an anaconda are important in and of themselves, but mostly because of what we did the next day.

On a different boat trip we found ourselves at an animal rehabilitation center, or large hut in the middle of the Amazon where animals roam freely. Thankfully, two of the center’s guests can’t roam too freely. Instead, Princesa and her anaconda twin are housed in a fenced complex, which soon proved to be pointless when the owners carry her twelve-foot frame out and plopped her down on the ground in front of us. Now, I’ve watched my Discovery channel, so I know anacondas aren’t venomous. But I’ve also watched my Discovery channel, so I also know that putting myself within striking distance of twelve feet of pure constricting muscle and a jaw that can envelope my head much like that one guy at every office that always brings a sub for lunch was about as good of an idea as, well, probably whatever I did the day before.

The owner kept reassuring us by telling us how Princesa was actually injured behind her head and can’t swallow large morsels anymore and is now much slower. (If you haven’t noticed, Colombian tour guides are very adept at making one feel safe). What probably gave us any reason to trust what he said was when one of the monkeys at the shelter hopped over and began to pat Princesa about five feet down her body like old friends would pat each other on the back. Obviously, the gringos were the first to don the reptilian mantel. And instead of holding on to the snake’s mouth, this owner helps her on your shoulders and then backs away as if to remove himself from all culpability of what might happen next. And as I’m struggling to keep this heavy lady up, her head is intently investigating southern regions of her new friend. Needless to say, as soon as Ben and I had taken our turns hanging out with Princesa, it was another item added to the list of things that could have turned out a lot worse.

We got all sorts of animal residue on our shoulders this week, as we also went to a place called Monkey Island (Isla de los micos). It’s about exactly as it sounds. It’s an island on the Amazon river covered leaf to trunk in little monkeys that rush out from the foliage and jump from shoulder to shoulder in the hopes of a bite of banana. I will admit that there wasn’t much educational value to this bit of our day’s journey. I will also admit that it might have been the bit that made me the giddiest. Secretly an aspiring monkey myself, the feeling of little hands and feet crawling all over eating whatever they could get their hands on really spoke to my core. I couldn’t help walking near other tourists in the hopes that their cargo would jump ship and hop on the Jayflower. My hopes were often fulfilled. The Colombian national jersey that I wore every day now had shoulders covered in anaconda grease and monkey poop, and we were about to add bird poop.

 One of the main attractions within the town of Leticia is called Parque de los Loros, or Parrot Park. Aptly named, this park is the daily destination for hundreds of small green parrots that flock to the branches of the small park’s trees every evening before sundown. The sight and sound of all these birds screeching away in the treetops is an attraction in itself, but how they descend upon the boughs is the reason people pay a 3,000-peso fee to climb the church’s bell tower and watch the spectacle. Nearing sundown, the birds swarm in circles high above the park before swooping down in droves and careening through the park before finding an open branch space to park for the evening. Soon enough the park becomes audible from several blocks away, and as we walked through the parrot poop minefield I fully understood why all the food vendors in the park were equipped with a large umbrella for their respective stand.

As has become tradition in my travels throughout Colombia, some of my favorite experiences have been those involving the country’s people. Ben and I decided to splurge a little on the chance to sleep in a cabin in the jungle for our last night. At the Tanimboca reserve about seven miles out of Leticia, we had a family sized cabin nearly twenty feet up in the trees equipped with a shower and bathroom, commodities you’d be lucky to have to yourselves in the main town. Included in our sixty-dollar fee was a night hike through the jungle, meals, kayaking down a small river, and zip lining through the jungle canopy. Accompanying us on our adventures was a young guy probably in his low to mid twenties who I could tell was less than enthusiastic about leading two gringos through this conglomeration of activities for the umpteenth time. He and I were probably able to communicate better than he could with most of his pale visitors, however, and he soon realized he didn’t have to be this quiet, polite, going-through-the-motions guide. This realization might have come after I made a quip about him and his zip lining guide buddy out here alone in the jungle, and soon enough the ribbing was going both ways. Although his very indigenous name escapes me, I will do my best to remember the good conversations we had about ethics in ecotourism and various plants and animals of the area, and his jovial singing as we climbed and swung through the jungle. 

Far and away the most significant experience was simply being to share it with my brother. (That’s also the gushiest thing I’ve probably typed in my life. So enjoy it, Ben). The snakes, monkeys, pink dolphins, giant fish and poisonous frogs were worth the trip, but more valuable might have been the day we commandeered a somewhat leaky dugout canoe for an afternoon paddle.

 

Our small troop of travelers that day had already visited a market in Brazil and we were now docked at a two or three stilt-house community on the Peru side that the guide knew. We were ahead of schedule, and had some time to kill before lunch. I had just managed to break some children’s rope swing, and Ben had been swathed in a fairytale’s worth of butterflies as he sat on the dock. We figured we had enough time to steal out to the water in the barely sturdy canoe before lunch. We buzzed out under the house out to a lake just off the main river. And if it weren’t for the humidity and knowing that there were probably large reptiles below us and other snake-shaped ones in the trees above us, you would have thought we were in the Boundary Waters.

Moments like these were when I realized how lucky I was to have this bum as my brother. He used some valuable vacation time to come visit this little shit for almost two weeks. Not only did we not disagree on anything, I realized how similar we actually were, despite not having spent significant time just the two of us together in years. I didn’t even get too impatient with how slow of an eater he is. Damn, all those laps around the house as kids might have worked after all.

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Spanish word of the day: Embarrar is a verb that literally means to muddy something up. In Colombia, it’s used as a way of saying you messed something up. So “I think I messed up” would be something like Uy no, creo que la embarré!

Song in my head lately: Dispatch, an old favorite band of mine whose entire discography can be found on my lawn mowing playlists, released an album last week. One of the feature tracks, Only the Wild Ones, pretty much encapsulates how I’ve felt these last two years as I travel and meet different people with all their stories.   

Brother in Bogota

My relationship with my brother growing up wasn’t unlike most other brotherhoods. Although almost four years younger I could hold my own in our childhood scuffles because I was always a bit bigger (fatter). Our mutual competitiveness led to many a scrap, helped in part by my perceived luck in all competitions and Ben’s established propensity as a sore loser. So whether it was a hockey puck, ping pong paddle, frisbee or basketball, I could usually always count on some projectile hurtling towards me on a daily basis. A chase would ensue, eventually some poorly aimed punches thrown, and before you could say “Car Talk” Mom would have us both outside running laps around the house, the usual punishment. These laps were no joke, folks, as the track around our house was an obstacle course. If it was summer, meaning you never wore shoes, your trek was covered in pine needles, gravel driveways, and crab apples with buzzing with bees. And if it was winter, you were trudging through snowdrifts uphill all five quarters of the way!

 In fulfilling our quota of laps we were both determined to thwart the disciplinary heads (read: parents). Sometimes one brother would knock on the window to let parents know we completed another lap while the other would actually run around the house. Once they would see one of us pass the living room windows, we’d switch duties. Other times we would get halfway done and grab a basketball from the garage and be found at sundown playing “horse” (sometimes resulting in another scuffle earning additional laps to be completed in the dark). On one particular occasion, teamed up against the powers that be (again, read: parents) we had an escape planned to go camping in the woods where our father would often cut wood for the stove. We had all the gear packed up in our little red wagon and were ready to rid ourselves of such parental oppression, and all our problems were going to be solved by camping out at a well-known location in the woods for an undetermined number of hours. Needless to say, we were spotted before even leaving the yard and the prospects of grill cheese quelled any notions of rebellion. Damn we were easily won over!

Not sure if the city is ready for both of us.

The point is, from that point on and throughout our adolescence, the dynamic duo was forged. Our mutual love for all things sports led to many an evening playing basketball in the driveway or passing a soccer ball or disc back and forth on the hill behind the house. In those moments I learned a lot from my brother about school, friendships, ladies, generally how to not let life kick you in the rear too badly (jury’s still out on my success with the latter). So when I found out that Ben was finally able to visit me in Bogota, I was excited for the opportunity to show him how I’ve managed without his noogies and wedgies.     

The gringo crew at Guatavita Lake.

In his visit, Ben got a pretty decent snap shot of my life in Colombia. In our five days in the capitol, we managed to fit in visits to most of the important landmarks surrounding the area. Our first full day involved a trip to Guatavita, a town just over an hour to the north, which boasts proximity to the Laguna de Guatavita.

El Dorado representation at Bogota's Gold Museum.

Supposedly, back in the day, the Muisca tribes would gather at the rim of this crater looking lake while the chieftan, covered in gold dust, was paddled out to the center. He would then dive in to wash the gold off and the other tribes would throw other valuable offerings to the bottom of the lake. Then, as is the tradition of the fate of Latin America, the Spanish showed up. Following their wallets to the stories of El Dorado (The Golden One), Spaniards spent years diving in the lake, searching for gold. Fast-forward four hundred years to some gringos hiking around taking pictures and you have a pretty good image of our first day.

Before and after hiking up Monserrate.

We spent the next two days with my friend Alex, his wife Fernanda, and Alex’s cousins from Brazil who are travelling South America. We walked up to Monserrate, a rite of passage for any Colombian, a ritual that has been impossible for me up until now since the walking path had been closed for two years due to wild fires. After finding out how out of shape we really are, we got a repeat reminder later that evening when we played soccer with Alex and his cronies. But I managed to poke in six of our team’s winning thirteen goals, and Ben put in two for his side, the old fart proving he can still hold his own on the pitch.

The day after, we bussed north to Zipaquira, home to an underground cathedral carved out of an old salt mine. There are no real good pictures of this beautiful, massive, Moria-esque labyrinth of salt. We even managed to not get lost in the hundreds of nooks and crannies of the colossal caverns. If you go, bring your popcorn or fries. In many areas the salt chips right off the walls, making me feel both hungry and safe walking through pillars of the flaky stuff.
 

Not my picture, but this is just one room of the Salt Cathedral.

Checking out the local fruits. Don't remember half the names.

            The next two days’ plans to go camping just outside Bogota were foiled when torrential rains hit the city right at our time of departure. Instead, we attempted some art in the monastery’s art studio, brothers Gerson and Luis Gonzalo always generous with their time and art supplies. Later, we grabbed pizza at one of the few decent pizza places northern Bogota has to offer (Pizza Metro in the Santa Fe mall), followed by a few beers in the ever-buzzing Bogota Beer Company bodega just behind the northern bus station.

Biking in Bogota.

           




We finished off our Bogota tour with another tour, this one of the bike variety. 5 hours atop a rickety bicycle through downtown Bogota was something I probably should have done over a year ago. It might be the most inclusive bike tour around. You visit a small coffee operation, go to a market and learn about the zillions of fruits only found in Colombia, play tejo, and learn about some of the political graffiti that covers downtown’s streets. You also visit [one of] Bogota’s red light districts, where we were advised to keep camera’s stowed since the dudes that administer the girls on the corners “don’t like their girls photographed.” So after biking past prostitutes we thought we were due for some Jesus, and managed to get back to the monastery in time for Holy Thursday mass.

But our laps around Colombia weren’t up yet. Ben and I had gotten our yellow fever vaccinations the day he arrived. Throw in a half-packed backpack or two and we were on our way to the Amazon.  

Spanish word of the day: To express incredulity, we’d probably say something like “Really?” or “Seriously?” Likewise in their respective responses, giving us something like, “He ate all the cookies? Seriously?!” “Seriously, dude. What a fatty.” In Spanish ‘really’ and ‘seriously’ would be de verdad or en serio. In Colombia, those are also common. But only in Colombia is there the phrase a lo bien which essentially means the same thing. Therefore our aforementioned cookie tragedy would be something like “Comió todas la galletas? A lo bien?!” “A lo bien, parce, que tragón.” Imagino que así hablaban de mi la familia cuando era gordito jeje ^-^

Song in my head lately: Always the sucker for Disney, Pixar, or otherwise animated movies, I think the relatively recent movie Moana is one of the better films to be released in a long time. All of the songs are phenomenal, but the short but sweet How Far I’ll Go blows 'em all away.

Zonas! Trouble at Tibati

Angie peacin' out on a Friday.

 In my relatively short stint in the working world, I’ve witnessed a few preteen moments I didn’t think I would experience until fatherhood. From a kid wetting his pants during class to girls heartbroken by this month’s boyfriend, I’ve had to handle quite a few situations on the fly, and with varying degrees of success. When I was helping at a school in Viña del Mar during my semester abroad in Chile, there was a girl with her hands down the skirt of her school uniform, evidently deciding that English was a good class to begin exploring her body. With no actual teacher nearby, I remember telling everyone to stand up and stretch since it had been a long day of classes. I then remember thinking “those little buggers listened, problem averted, I am a pro.”   

I’ve also seen some beautiful moments from those same students. I remember one day just this year that a boy from my former homeroom was waiting outside my current homeroom with a nervous look on his face. I had just opened the door to let everyone out after we sang happy birthday to the youngest girl of the grade. I asked him what was up, and he said he was waiting for the birthday girl to exit. I saw a letter folded in his sweating hands as he nervously tried to look past me. Naturally, I let the birthday girl leave last so that our shy Romeo wouldn’t have an audience.  

            The point is that I’ve been involved in my fair share of ups and downs so far. So when a sixth grade girl came up to me during class recently and asked me to take away all sharp objects from the girl next to her, my confusion turned to unnoticed panic when her reply was that the girl, we’ll call her girl A, was cutting herself. Now I know very little about cutting and was never around it growing up (that I know of), though I understand it to be a form of self-mutilation usually due to depression or other emotional instability in teenagers. Since I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed, I let the other girls sitting around girl A take control. We had been taking turns reading in English, so I had girl A get up and read in front of the class. While she was focused on differentiating soft T’s versus sharp T’s, her friends were passing me all the sharp objects from girl A’s desk. After finishing her reading she returned to find an empty desk, but didn’t voice any complaints. After selecting the next reader, I turned to see on of her friends holding her hand across the aisle of lined desks. My slow, male mind thought, that’s nice. But after about ten minutes, girl A’s friend still had her hand clasped. And by the time class ended, I realized that her friend had held her hand the whole class so that she wouldn’t be able to cause any more damage to herself. Not only had her friend removed all ways of harming herself, but she managed to both prevent her friend from using any other object AND let her know that she was loved. All by simply holding her hand. I don’t know that I had ever seen such a powerfully beautiful moment up until that point in my teaching career. 

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It’s been an admittedly emotional couple of weeks down here at the Tibati school. Wilmer, the teacher I first helped when I showed up in Colombia, got engaged to a girl from Michigan. They met at a Bible camp in Missouri almost a decade ago and kept in contact, especially when her family moved to Colombia. He proposed to her at a restaurant overlooking the city skyline. What a romantic. Another joyous discovery event was discovering my good friend Alex is going to be a father this fall! When he told me, it was probably the happiest I’d been since my brother’s wedding. 

Alex, with his wife, Fernanda, and soon to be child.

But I had to reign in the outburst, since at that time he hadn’t yet told any of the other teachers. Later in the week, he showed us all a picture of him and his wife wearing a shirt with “1+1 = 3”, the numbers represented by stick figures. The only downside is the little tike’ll come into the world when uncle JJ is no longer around. But still, I’m very excited for my friend to start of a family of his own.

            Celebrations of any sort have unfortunately been tempered by the school going through some changes. For some reason, they decided to change homeroom directors midway through the trimester. I was not excited about the change, to say the least. I had known the kids in my current homeroom of 7A since they first walked through the school’s gates at the beginning of last year. I had even moved some over from the other seventh grade before the year began because I knew they fit with how I ran a homeroom (it should probably be noted that moving kids around to different homerooms is normal at our school, to keep a similar number of boys and girls, and to keep the trouble makers separated). So, even though I would still be their English teacher, it was hard to see some students visibly distraught that I was moving across the courtyard. I imagine there were some that were happy to see me go, too. But while the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, I was given a warm welcome and applause upon entering my new homeroom of 8A. Last year, as seventh graders, these kids were the bane of any teachers’ attempts to educate. But during prayer, when we were giving thanks for something, one of the basketball players, Juan Pablo, said he was thankful to have me as a homeroom director. First of all, what a suck up. Second, it totally worked. Sometimes, a benefit of teaching is simply having a student validate that you’re not a total asshole. Life is about small victories, and I sure know how to enjoy them.

           

8A

But some changes have yet to prove as fruitful. A fortnight ago, the prior of Assumption Abbey in North Dakota, the abbey that founded Tibati here in Bogota, came for a visitation, accompanied by a monk from a different Abbey in Belmont, North Carolina, who could translate for him. Brother Michael and Father Elias, respectively, came as part of a regular monastic check up, making sure our prayer books were well worn and our farts smelled like incense. In general they just needed to make sure the monastery was functioning in the way it was intended and that we had our ducks in a row. This involved them chatting with each member of the monastery individually, examining the processes the monastery goes through to initiate a new member, visiting the schools they’ve founded and evaluating them as well, etc. Simultaneously, apparently, Colegio San Benito was also under review from Colombia’s department of education. I’m not sure if the timing was coincidence or planned, but we teachers were soon informed that our principal, Father Nicolas, was under review as well, for his role as principal. This, however, according to teachers who have been here quite a while, is not normal. And when the school accountant became involved in the private discussions that were had, we assumed it had to have something to do with the school’s finances.

            Days went by. Nick was still nowhere to be seen around school. Teachers began to ask us volunteers about him since we ate and prayed with him back at the monastery. But he hadn’t confided anything in us. One night, as we filed into the dining room after prayer, I made a beeline for the chair next to him. Even if he wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about what was going on, I at least wanted him to know that I was on his side. Along with most everybody else at the school, I was a little lost as to where the school was headed. Because there were also to be elections for a new prior down here in Bogota, I thought that he was in the running, and that being elected would mean he wouldn’t have time to work at San Benito anymore. I was confused, but for some reason I thought that conspicuously sitting by him would at least let him know I supported him, whatever was happening. Sure enough, his eyes lit up in a smile and he slammed a big left mitt across my shoulder. Father Nick’s approval. We ate dinner, told jokes, laughed. He seemed as jolly as ever. After dinner, I ran into him on my way out of the laundry room with my clothes freshly ironed. He had a Falabela shopping bag in his hand, smiled and asked if I was going to be doing anymore traveling soon.

At lunch the next day, I sat with Alex away from the rest of the teachers and told him Nick seemed fine. Alex, on the other hand, with tears welling in his eyes, said, “No, J, he left the monastery this morning. He stayed at my house last night before catching a bus back to Medellin.” I couldn’t remember a time I was left so dumbfounded.

It didn’t take long for word to spread around the school. The next day monks came to chat, first with teachers, then with students in assembly. In both instances, we were told “sometimes in monastic reviews, monks get moved around in their positions so as not to become static in their service, and that was why Father Nicolas has been removed from his post, and father Manuel will be the interim director of the school. Nicolas is still a monk and still a member of our community. But often when leadership is changed the old leader will leave for a time so that the new leader can establish his way of leadership.” Blah, blah, blah was all I could think as I stood on stage reluctantly translating this for our students, my words undoubtedly as hollow as my thoughts at that point. We were still missing the why! We get it, monastic processes, service, removed, blah blah. But why was he removed? And did this have to do with the ministry of education’s inspections as well?

In my determination to know more, I asked Father Philip, the current prior, to chat after dinner. As we began our laps around the courtyard, I was hopeful for information. Philip is a fellow Midwesterner, and would tell it like it is. I was not disappointed. I soon found out that there are those at school who feel Nicolas wasn’t doing his job properly. Since they were under review anyway, things were examined closer. Colegio San Benito is not a wealthy school. And apparently, it was felt that Nicolas was spending too much of funding on the aesthetics of the school; that he was too worried about how it looked. It was also felt that he had been delegating too many tasks and information to people who shouldn’t be handling such information. That still wasn’t incredibly specific, but it helped explain things a little bit.

In all this administrative mess, I can’t help but think of how the students must feel. I remember when I was in high school and there was a similar shuffle. There was a new administration and some good teachers, mainly Johnson and Dwyer for me, were removed. What it did was leave me a little disillusioned and simply ready to leave the mess and graduate. Over the years that followed there seemed to be a domino affect of other teachers leaving the school or retiring coincidentally soon after regime changes. Down here in Bogota, similar events have occurred. On Friday, the music teacher, Daniel, said he would be leaving by the end of April. He cited being exhausted, and that he’s thought about leaving for a while now. This came as pretty devastating news to everyone. He’s one of the most well liked teachers, by both students and his colleagues. And while I’m sure he has indeed thought about leaving for a while, it’s the mess at the school that I’m certain has pushed his decision to leaving in the middle of the year.

My main concern is the environment of the school. It’s not good for the teachers to be worrying about the next domino to fall, and I definitely don’t want the students to feel disconnected from their school, a place that should be like a second home. Father Nicolas was like a real father to many, including my friend Alex. I mentioned that news about his being a father soon being one of my happier moments here. But seeing him tear up about not knowing if Nick was going to be around for his child’s birth has to be the saddest.

So, I don’t know what the future holds. On one hand, you could say it doesn’t much matter since I’m out of here in three months. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care a hell of a lot about the community, friends, and students that have been my life for almost two full years now. We don't know how long Nick will be gone for. I may never see the man who vouched for me to go from volunteer to full teacher over a year ago. 

There is one thing I do know. I remember a conversation I had in a Guatemalan airport with Collin Motschke, a fellow johnnie who happened to be passing through at the same time. He asked what the most difficult part is about living and working in Colombia. I remember thinking for a long time before finally saying that I don’t think there is one. Most any difficulty I’ve experienced can be solved if I change my approach, either the way I see the situation, or change what I’m doing about it. In this case, I could complain to administration, or be angry about how things have gone down. Or I could show the kids that we don’t need to give two craps about administration and can kick some ass in English class anyways.

J

Spanish word of the day: Maybe the most important word in Colombian slang, pola means beer. It has no literal Spanish definition. But way back there used to be a beer named after a lady called Policarpa who apparently helped Colombia gain its independence from Spain. The beer, Pola, is no longer made, but the name has stuck. So whenever someone asks if you want a pola, say si.

Song in my head lately: I often leave YouTube to feed me its suggestions. Sometimes, I find gold. Jose Gonzalez’ Staying Alive is one such find.