Getting A Life (Sort Of)

As the fall season approaches on the homeland, I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't miss seasons. A great singer once said, "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time." Well, that can be difficult when my days are inseparable based on their weather. Don't get me wrong, I love not having to check the forecast every morning before leaving my room or needing a big enough wardrobe to prepare for Minnesota's daily climatic mood swings. But no matter how much we northerners enjoying griping about it, and how bad the Twins are doing, weather is an unconsciously effective way to distinguish your days from one another. If I were to think about what I did on Wednesday after class, I probably wouldn't be able to remember. Whereas, on Minnesota Street, one can always count on the state's multiple personalities to help you remember that was the night you went to the bar because it was pouring rain or walked in the woods in the afternoon because the sun was shining. I can't even imagine what that's like here on a longer time scale. Everyone in Stearns County remembers the summer of '12 as one of the wildest, with buildings flooding, Arboretum blowdowns, and hail larger than golf balls (that Brian and I hid from in my Dad's Camry on campus, giving the car itself a golf ball look to it). But in Colombia, if you said you were born that year when it was partly cloudy and kinda rained a lot, you'd be giving yourself a few centuries of leeway. So it is a bit sheepishly that I attempt to recount what the hell I've been up to during the last two weeks, paying very little attention to chronological correctitude.

Becoming a Legal Colombian (sort of)

What consumed me for about a week was the ever-so-convenient process of acquiring our work visas.  Last years volunteers had written us a six page guide to getting a visa in Colombia, complete with hints on how to skirt various obstacles that present the applicant with a certain bureaucratic jankiness. So after a few weeks gathering the necessary documents, we finally held our breaths as we waded through two hours of smoggy morning traffic to the Chancelor's Office in Bogota. We got our number, only to find out that the building didn't have an ATM to take out cash needed to pay for the visa. Conveniently, none of the ATMs around took my card, so I waited with our driver and a monk who accompanied us while Devon did his thing filling out paperwork. After that office, one then has to proceed to Immigration a few blocks down and get their fingerprints, pictures, and visa stamp etc. All in all, that day took nine hours, since the system 'shut down' while Devon was waiting at Immigration. A few days later, I tried my luck again, this time having taken money out at a known reliable ATM near us. In a rare stroke of luck, I was able to hit both Chancellor and Immigration in less than two hours, but ended up waiting hours for our driver who thought it was going to take as long as the first day. Finally, just last Friday, we were both able to go and pick up our actual ID card, a Colombian visa good for one year from last week. So after three days of waiting for my name to be called and filling out so many forms that my Colombian phone number and address is branded into my memory, I triumphantly walked into my afternoon class wearing my Colombian jersey, eliciting more than a few cheers and Eso!!'s.    

Becoming a Cultural Colombian (sort of)

While getting my visa did take three full days and was a stress that had been on my mind for a while, what really kept me from typing these pitiful paragraphs was that I was rarely in my room. Firstly, I've only sung karaoke twice in my life, and both times were in Bogota. The first embarrassment came when celebrating birthday parties for two monks here, and the second came when we went to a nearby karaoke bar with some other teachers who had stayed after school to play the students in soccer a couple weeks ago. I should probably use the word "yelled," since we didn't know a lot of the songs, and we were in a bar. Naturally, where at first we thought we sounded like Cher and Sinatra's love-children, we later watched the videos with plugged ears. Yes, yelled is a much better word.

*      *      *

In a conscious effort to not spend so much time in my room, I have been frequenting a different sort of local watering hole, a panaderia (basically, a bakery). Now, this requires some background: Back in Chile, my friend Ari wanted to go to a certain nearby bar often enough that the atmosphere would be Cheers-esque, that the employees would know his name, and they would shoot the breeze until the early hours of the morning. Ultimately, I think his endeavors were unsuccessful, though they might have at least recognized him towards the end. Well, his goal then and mine now are the same. This Panaderia is only about 3 blocks from the monastery, and one week I ended up going four days straight. The fruits of my effort has been that the ladies who work there not only recognize me, but know what I get (take that, Ari), which is some pastry/cookie combined with an avena drink, which is essentially an oat smoothie with whole milk. It probably doesn't grace the bottom of the food pyramid with its presence, or whatever they're using these days, but damn is it good. The downside is that the ladies there might also think I'm crazy because I go there so often. The younger one who takes my order always gives me a "why the hell is this gringo always here?" side glance that I'm never able to decipher. On the other hand, deciphering a woman's thoughts or intent has never been my strong suit, hence monastery.

*      *      *

"Wait, wait! Okay, now I'm ready..."

In a welcome twist of fate, high-school athletics has once again dribbled into my life. Since day one, I have been glad that I have had the opportunity to work with the boy's basketball team here. Running, shooting and goofing around with the same kids I have to be professional with in the classroom has been more fun than I anticipated. This weekend, we had a tournament nearby that included boy's and girl's basketball and volleyball. So, we packed a bus full of hormones and released them upon a real swanky high-school. Our first opponent was a no-show, and we won our next three games to put us in the final against the host school. Though we ended up losing in the championship, I'm still of the mind that losing can frequently be more important than winning. As long as you're not always losing, it can better motivate you to work harder and teach you how to improve. It also helps that Daniel is one hell of a good coach. Not exactly the most outspoken guy, he's the computer science teacher at our high-school. But when it comes to basketball, he's well spoken and has a firm grasp on when to motivate and when to congratulate. He also happens to be the best basketball player I've seen down here so far, which can go a long way in retaining authority as a coach in any sport. He and the other coaches, Alex (girls basketball, mathematics), Felipe (volleyball, biology), and Sergio (soccer, phy ed) are a great group of guys that are always fun to be around.

Both boy's and girl's basketball teams get in on the huddle
after two second place finishes. Both teams were upset,
but they celebrated together anyways. If that's not what
sports are all about, I don't know what is.

While I, too, mourn the lack of blogging frequency these last few weeks, I don't lament it too much considering I have made up for it Skyping friends and family. The urge to type about my current life is severely diminished when I'm explaining it to people a few nights a week. But, hopefully, I can get back on that life-contemplating track. Until next time, here's a collage of most of the people who have taken the time to chat with me. Much appreciated y'all!

Some of the Skypers so far. At least, the ones I've remembered to snatch a shot of. Not sure how Ben didn't end up here.

Spanish word of the day: burlarse means to mock or tease. Since it's reflexive, I usually use it like "Siempre me burlan" (They always give me shit) in regards to the monks teasing me whenever they get the chance, or as "Porque me burlas asi?" (Why you gotta tease me like that?) when I walk into the bakery and all the ladies start cracking jokes about the gringo bread-lover.

Song in my head lately: My friend Dan introduced me to Jackson Browne back in high-school, and this song still gets me. These Days is my favorite of his, though Take it Easy and Runnin' on Empty are good road trippin' songs, too.

J.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Ever since its invention a couple centuries ago, the light bulb has been used as the symbol of a new idea or a realization, among other less important uses. It's a metaphor that seems natural since it's reflecting the switch turning on in your brain, or the synapses firing in a way that brings a thought to your mind. Unfortunately, in my case, that bulb is more often a lone candle that gets blown out by the train leaving the station before I can possibly remember what the hell that undoubtedly mediocre idea was. So, it is with little pride and boat-loads of shame that I just recently remembered I have yet to write about the monastery in which I live.

First, I will bore you with history. In 1960, monks from Assumption Abbey in North Dakota were invited to start an all male high-school in Bogota. Yes, you read that right, an abbey in North Dakota. So, they saddled up the carriages and trotted on down to Colombia, bought a large chunk of then-unwanted land north of Bogota, and began a priory called Tibati Monastery, Tibati meaning "Joy of the Lord" in a local indigenous language. They also started a bilingual private elementary and high-school for boys, Colegio San Carlos, which quickly became one of the country's elite educational institutions. What has certainly helped is that some of Colombia's most influential figures are graduates. For example, the current Colombian president, Juan Manuel Santos, is a graduate, as well as other ministers and delegates who have since poured money into making it a phenomenal school. Over time, the city expanded and Tibati Monastery now sits at the northern edge of the city, with a hefty chunk of now valuable land under its belt.

The beautifully constructed master map proudly displayed below elegantly demonstrates the location of both monastery and school in relation to the surrounding city. The red dot, where Devon and I are staying, is now the guesthouse. But it used to be where the monks stayed until they built a separate small quadrangle, which surrounds the green dot.

Map of Tibati Monastery and supported schools, San Carlos and San Benito. My apologies, Jean, for the quality of this map. GIS is even harder to come by here, but Google maps has found its way into every country.

After a few years, the monks probably realized how wealthy their school was becoming, so they began a smaller school nearby for those families who can't necessarily keep up with the Jones' at San Carlos. So while I live next to a classroom at CSC I actually walk off the grounds to teach at San Benito, the yellow dot, begun in 1979 (a separate post will be written later for the school and my experiences teaching there so far). While San Carlos hosts over a thousand boys for elementary and high school, San Benito has under 500 students, boys and girls, from 6th to 11th grade (11th graders are seniors in Colombia).

So while I have the benefits of the peace and quiet of living on monastic grounds, we also live far enough away where we can blare music, movies, or guitar music, and generally come and go as we please. The only drawback is in its very proximity to the aforementioned school. The grade school starts and ends earlier than the highschool, and the former begins at 6:30am. Since I normally plan on waking up no sooner than 6:40am in time to make it to breakfast twenty minutes later, I have been making excellent use of my earplugs to avoid screaming and excited little boys running around the campus before class. As if I weren't getting enough of the school experience, my room is at the end of the hall and shares a wall with a classroom on the other side. Contributing to the fun/hell, down the hall and through a couple of doors is the administrative offices of San Carlos. They aren't necessarily loud, they just get to see our barely awake asses freshly dragged out of bed on our groggy way to breakfast.

Overall, living here is pretty damn cushy. I hopped on a plane to Colombia expecting to be sharing a room with another volunteer in a monastery packed in the middle of a South American metropolis. The privileged reality is that I have my own room that's larger than my own in the States, equipped with its own bathroom/shower, and separate keys to come and go as I please. And if I forget my keys, there are two entrances on either side that have 24hr guard service who would let us in and out. Oh, and did I mention that I don't have to cook any meals or do any of my own laundry? As much as I want to write about how I'm growing up and becoming an independent and marginally successful human being, sometimes it feels like my only responsibility is to wipe.

Don't worry, the level of coddling is not lost on me. But, biblically speaking, if you're supposed to treat others like Christ, then I'd say the monks and staff at el Monasterio Benedictino de Tibati are doing a hell of a fine job with their two gringo guests.

J

Spanish word o' the day: you want to be confused? Colegio you would think means "college," but it actually means high-school, but only the institution. Bachillerato is "highschool," the education. For example, a short conversation could be, "Where did you complete your bachillerato?" "At Colegio San Benito."  Also, Universidad is "university/college." So you can imagine the questions and confusion when I wear my College of Saint Benedict shirt when I teach at a high-school called Colegio San Benito. Hell, now I'm confused.

Song in my head lately: My brother, Ben, sent me a recording from the Avett Brother's concert at the MN State Fair on Saturday that he and Ellory went to. I now have Avett Brother's Murder in the City in my head, which is just fantastic because I now live in a city. Thanks, Ben. But it's a tearjearker because it talks about strong familial bonds. So thanks, Ben.

                               Monastery patio                                                                   Making pizza

Garden/Courtyard #2, with a view of #1 through glass hall

Garden/Courtyard #1

Karaoke, Stars and Stripes

What are you proud of? Are you proud of yourself for painting that picture or downing that drink, or are you proud of your child for graduating high-school or of your wife for getting that promotion? Are you proud enough of how long you've been friends with someone on Facebook that you share it for everyone else to see? (what's with that new trend, anyway?) To Simba, pride is a family. To us, let's face it, pride is a weird emotion. It can be directed towards yourself or related to someone or something you're associated with. While it can be self-fulfilling and encouraging for others, it can also be blind, sensitive and destructive. Living abroad gives me the chance to experience all of these.

Yes, my prize was a box of candy.
 No, they didn't last the night.

Often, feeling pride can be great. For example, I'm proud that Devon and I ran in the school's 5k race last Friday. I'm proud of Devon for deciding to run it at literally the last second, and I'm proud of myself for getting second place (let's forget that that means 2nd place in my heat, which was just teachers, and I lost to the only athletic trainer that ran). Nonetheless, pride. I was also proud of our students. We ran for fun, they ran for a grade in Phy Ed. And some of them kicked absolute ass. For example, our best basketball player ran it in under 18 minutes, which is pretty darn good considering running isn't as much of a priority here as it seems to be in the states. What probably helped is that we have to bike to our basketball games, and since we are always short on bikes, he simply runs alongside us to our games. So, he essentially runs a 5k before every game.

Athletics isn't the only realm where I've experienced pride. I'm proud of myself if I successfully manage a classroom for the day (or even 5 minutes, really). I feel pride when someone tells me thank you, or if I make a joke effectively enough in Spanish that my kids laugh. But I'm also proud when a student finally understands what we're teaching, or when someone who didn't seem to get it at the beginning gets a great grade on a test.

But pride can also put you in tricky situations. I'm proud of where I'm from, but even if you think you're just patriotic, if you travel the world with stars and stripes in your eyes and proclaim how the United States is the best country in the world, your pride is probably a little blind. For most of the people we've met in Bogota, we are likely part of a very small group of people they know from the states. Because their pool of representatives is limited to we few and what the media displays, they're likely to make generalizations about what we're like. In other words, many people think Americans eat a lot of fast food, we want Mexicans out of our country, and that we love war. And while all of those, indeed, are true for many from the states, it can sting a little to be shoved into that stereotype. More often than not, it's easy to get offended and separate yourself from those Americans. However, there's nothing like an outsiders perspective to make you really see how messed up your own country is. For specific examples regarding the red, white, and blue, do a quick Google search of racial or gender inequality, mass shootings, rape culture, questionable justice system etc; all things that the majority of the population tends to sweep under the rug if they haven't experienced it. Not trying to burn the flag here, but Uncle Sam should realize that there's a few fingers pointing back at him. And rather than get defensive when my patria is criticized, I'd like to think I've learned to lay in the bed we've made, which is hard to do because I never actually make my bed.

Personal pride is pretty much stripped naked and exposed when you're living abroad and communicating in a language not your own. Every time I open my mouth, I know others' ears will prick at the sound of a foreigner attempting Spanish. I know this because I come from a small town where we are caught staring at anyone with an accent different from our own. Also, if you didn't know, I can't even roll my r's, a staple of Spanish-speaking. One way you can deal with ensuing laughter emitting from the locals is to take offense and have them say a tongue twister in English, that usually shuts 'em up. But instead, I'll usually just laugh then and undoubtedly just cry myself to sleep later. In all seriousness though, learning to laugh at myself was one of the greatest things to happen to me, probably stemming from all the times I screwed up my trumpet solos in band or falling on crutches (both occurred with unfortunately high frequency). So for now, I'll continue to ask for clarification on what someone said, even if it makes me look stupid.

Overall, I think pride requires study from a distance, and being able to analyze your pride might be more important than having it. On the surface, pride feels good and builds confidence. In the big picture, I'd think it's better to make the things you're proud of such a habit that pride is replaced with character. I'm proud of who I am and who I'm becoming, but that doesn't mean there aren't occasions when I can be an insensitive ass. But for me, pride is less about short-lived satisfaction and more about a desire to improve and see others do so as well.

*Steps off soap box*

Sometimes, though, pride can be like a bandaid you just gotta rip off. On Saturday, to commemorate the recent birthdays of the oldest and youngest member of our monastery (Prior Phillip and Yeiner, respectively), we went guns blazin' with a piñata and karaoke! Since yours truly missed the last karaoke session due to hanging out with an old friend, the gringos sang multiple duets to compensate. We sang such classics as Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Barbie Girl, and Don't Go Breaking My Heart. Also, rest assured that if there were ever gender differences in the songs, my long hair and freaky falsetto gave me the female lead, naturally (pride?). My personal favorite, though, was nabbing a nearby rug and singing/acting Aladdin and Jasmine's A Whole New World while sitting on our "flying" carpet. There are videos and photos out there somewhere of all of these that will hopefully never see the light of day.

Point is, some pride is good, while too much can be bad.

Deuces,

JJ

Spanish word of the day: Orgullo - Pride. Proud is orgulloso. There's really not much to add here.  El orgullo no es el problema, sino que ser demasiado orgulloso.

Song in my head lately: Lost and Found by Johnny Flynn. I ran into Flynn watching a movie he starred in, and decided to check him out. I like him because he mixes a bunch of different genres and knows how to play a zillion instruments. He has quite a few good songs, but this might be might my favorite.

Rainbow o're Benedict and the monastery.