Floods, Fires, and Festivals

This last weekend I came to a small realization, the kind of personal epiphany that impacts one person but most couldn't care less. So what better way to start a blog post!

 I had just biked over to Alex's house on Saturday. It was el Dia de los Amigos, loosely translated as friends day, and doesn't sound as cheesy in Spanish. Alex was hosting a barbecue to celebrate and had called me asking if I was available to help set things up. I made it to his place in record time, thanks to my recently purchased beater of a bicycle. Alex's house is relatively large, but pretty standard when it comes to Latin American housing. He and his wife, Fernanda, share it with other family members, it includes a large central area surrounded by various rooms, and each floor is inhabited by a different faction of the family. I was ushered upstairs to the rooftop patio where the barbecue was to be enjoyed. We set up a tent for when, not if, it rained, even though we were currently sweating in the hot, equatorial sun. We had been chatting, preparing meat, cutting vegetables, drinking beer - normal barbecue stuff - when Sergio called us and said he was on his way with his girlfriend but didn't know where to go from the bus stop. Sergio lives a ways away and doesn't come up this far too often if he's not headed to school. Since Alex needed to be at his place in case other guests showed up, I offered to pedal my flattening two wheels over to the bus stop to collect our Phy Ed teacher and company. As I hopped the curb off into the street (likely the cause of said flattened tires) and sped past the empanada and bread shops, a wave of comfort came over me. Maybe my Colombian bike's new seat fit my buttcheeks just so. But that wouldn't have been the only thing that felt right. Life dropped a boonies kid here in one of the largest cities in Latin America. There are still things I loathe about cities, and aspects of my Minnesota home that I miss dearly. But as I hung off my cushy bike seat, weaving through cars, around strollers, and lifting my legs over aggressively curious dogs, all to get some friends to a barbecue on a day that celebrated friendship, I couldn't help but that the whole experience felt right. Whether the city or its inhabitants approved or even gave a hoot, I felt like I belonged.

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My weekends seem to be outdoing each other lately. Maybe it's because we work so hard during the week that we want to take advantage of those two precious days we have off. But I can already hear my father saying something along the lines of, "Dude! You? Work hard? Bullshit!" And to his credit, my weekend seemed to start a little early this time around.

Estereopicnic. Bogota, 2016.

My friend Amber was passing through town again, and we had decided to go to Bogota's biggest musical festival, Estereopicnic. This three day festival, however, was no picnic. Though headliners of different days were big names like Snoop, Skrillex, Kygo, and the Flaming Lips, our chosen day, Thursday, was hosted by a modest lineup of Die Antwoord, Of Monsters and Men, Tame Impala, and Mumford and Sons. We waited for the rain to stop before catching a short taxi ride further north to the park just in time to catch Of Monsters and Men's opening songs. The night was a weird mix of music for me. I arrived excited to see one of my favorite musical groups, Of Monsters and Men. But after them, we watched Odesza and Tame Impala. Definitely great groups, but as their music tends to be a little trancey, I discovered my middle of the week exhaustion and had the strong desire to just lay down in the grass and listen to the music. Instead, I just closed my eyes and bobbed to the tunes with everyone else.

Marcus Mumford.

 It didn't take long, however, for Marcus Mumford to get up there and wake everyone up with their characteristic hard driving songs. Then, all hell broke loose with Die Antwoord as we got pushed around for a few songs before deciding we'd be safer on the outskirts. Overall, I was glad that after months of talking about this festival we actually went. Though I will say the tame and well-behaved Colombian crowds made me miss my crazy gringo outdoor concerts i.e. Trampled by Turtles  shows, with everyone jumping, dancing, and letting it all go.

View from the teachers' lounge.
Notice the collected hail on the roof.

Friday was a normal day, until just after school ended when many of us teachers were stuck in the lounge. At around 3:15, when the majority of the students had made their ways home and we were finishing up paperwork and correcting in the lounge where all our desks are, it began to pour. It started much like a Midwestern summer rainstorm that sends everyone indoors, before quickly advancing to near monsoon status. But by 3:30, I was searching for two of the office cats and guard dogs to bring with me on the ark I was hoping would float by. The rain came in such heavy blankets that one could barely make out the building right next door. In the teachers' lounge, some of the windows have downward facing grates above them to help with ventilation. The winds were so strong that water was spraying in over the desks, and those of us that hadn't escaped yet now scrambled to unplug computers and carry desks full of essays and tests away from the sprinkler system that used to be our windows. The storm grew deafening as hail began to fall in blizzardish quantities. But if anyone was truly worried, you couldn't tell, since we had music going and spatterings of dancing here and there. Yet another quality I love about Colombians is their desire to always have a good time, even during a rain and hail storm. After the rain slowed to a normal wettening, we got word from those who'd ventured downstairs that the drainage grates had plugged and that the whole ground floor - so all the classrooms, outdoor hallways, and the auditorium - were covered in about five inches of standing water. 


As much fun as I was having shootin' the breeze with the other maestros, it was a Friday afternoon and I wasn't about to spend any more time at the school than I needed. That, and with everything clogged, I wasn't about to wait for the sea levels to recede either. So I ingeniously scrapped together some waders. And by that I mean I found two plastic bags and shoved my "huge" gringo feet in 'em. We made our way downstairs and waded our way out to the swimming lane hallways. It was at this moment that I realized the baggies had holes in them. Not that I expected them to be stupid proof. But I was hoping for more than ten feet before my feet were just as wet as Ambers' were in Chacos. Pretty expectedly, my last steps out of the schools drowned compound were hurried and squelching. 

We had originally planned to meet Tatiana at the mall to watch a movie. But since it had been a long week, everywhere we walked was drenched, and we were cheapskates, we decided instead to pick her up and have a mini party in the monastery guesthouse. It really brought me back to my freshman year of college, partying in my room. Except this time we were trying not to disturb other guests with our music and antics instead of avoiding the RAs and Life Safety.

We already know most of my Saturday, or at least the beginning. I should probably admit that when Alex called me to come help with the barbecue, I'd thought it'd be a quick fix and I'd be back for lunch at the monastery. Well four hours later, as equivalent amount of Poker beer (a local favorite), and a bike ride to pick up Sergio later and we were welcoming more guests to the party. We weren't exactly a crowd, but there were enough other teachers and friends of Alex's family that things got going quick. Previously, I had let Devon and Amber know that I wouldn't be able to come back to collect them. So they were on their own getting to Alex's. When they did show up was when things really got going. And by that I mean it started to pour again. Luckily, Alex, Sergio, Felipe and I had just finished the grilling process and frantically began shuffling everything from the rooftop patio down to the main gathering space on the ground floor. It would take more than a little rain to stop a Colombian party, however. So long as the beer lasted and the music blasted, we were having a good time. There wasn't the normal barrage of dancing, which probably had more to do with everyone having eaten their weight in meat than anything else (Poker having rid all other possible inhibitions).

One memorable moment was probably when racing Alex to see how many beers we could finish. Juvenile? Maybe. But shit, it was friend's day, which meant Poker beers were 1,000 pesos each (about 30 cents). Anyways, I had just finished my fifteenth beer and was telling him as much. (For you PG readers and mother out there, keep in mind I had been there for a solid 10 hours at this point). Upon hearing of my feat, he said something like, "No way! You caught up to me??" He then proceeded to tip his bottle upside down with a boyish giggle and cheered, "Empty, man, ha HA!" Another memory was when Camilo, a friend of Alex and Fernanda's whom I'd met on other occasions, was introducing us to some other attendees. "This is Devon from the states. This is Amber. She speaks pretty good Spanish. And JJ? No, marica, JJ es colombiano!"

Well, it's off to Guate mañana. Catch ya on the flip!

J.

Fireflies Dancing in a Marsh

Totally unrelated to the post, but I had
my 6th grade English class to draw
 2 people and write sentences describing
 them. This is one student's rendition
of their teacher.

It's probably safe to say that most people in my generation, at some point during their scholarly years, took the time to Google their teachers or tried to find them on Facebook. I remember finding an assistant teacher's Facebook page when I was in middle school. His profile picture featured his nonathletic self in basketball shorts hiked up to his nipples and I thought I had stumbled upon the world's greatest secret, mostly because I only ever saw him in khakis and a dress shirt that never seemed to fit. So I wasn't too surprised to have my own students start adding me on Facebook last year. That hasn't been too much of a problem this year since I moved down to 6th and 7th grade (our school doesn't allow kids under 13 to have Facebook, so them adding me would be asking for punishment from the school). What did catch me a little off guard was when a student told me on Monday that he'd seen my video on Youtube. For a moment, my mind screamed, "Shit, what videos do I have on Youtube??" before remembering that I only appear in three videos (I'll save you some time: one is a relay finish before my body began failing me in life, another is making leche asada in Chile for a Spanish assignment with my friend, Bobby, and the last one is our Beyonce dance last year at school here in Colombia). But, much like 12 year old JJ, this kid thought he'd struck gold. Or, at least black mail. Naturally, by the time Friday came around, nearly all of my students had seen me either dance in a Chilean kitchen or in front of hundreds of innocent Colombian youths. Unfortunately for this kid who'd thought he'd discovered my darkest secrets, I could give zero you-know-whats if everyone saw me dancing because I've grown to enjoy the hell out of it.

I should probably clarify some things. First, when I say dancing, I sure as shit don't mean whatever atrocities are committed in the crapshoot that is Sal's Bar back in St. Joe. People throwing their bodies against one another in a rhythmically challenged, alcohol ridden seizure isn't really appealing to anyone involved. And second, by saying I enjoy real dancing definitely does not mean that I claim to be any good at it. But I've sure found chances to do it a lot recently.

Good pictures are impossible.

Early in the week we decided to finally go to Gringo Tuesdays, an event at a bar in the swanky Zona Rosa district that encourages learning of different languages. We had heard from other expats that we'd met that this event also helps gringo dudes meet Colombian dudettes, which played no part in our decision to go whatsoever. When we walked in I was initially taken aback by how much English I was hearing, since I never hear it spoken in public these days (you know, Colombia). We quickly found our way to an English table (there were tables for French, English, Spanish, German, and Portuguese, with basic and advanced tables for each) and said our hellos. I had asked my friend Tatiana if she wanted to join as well to practice her English. But since it was a crowded and loud bar the conversation quickly reverted back to Spanish, as two occasionally confused gringos were better than five frequently confused Colombians. It turned out to be a lot more fun than I had originally thought, meeting new people and knowing where to find an enclave of young people with a similar desire to improve a second language. What was even more fun was when the clock struck nine and security came around and started stacking chairs in the corner to make room for a dance floor. I must have been distracted by the riveting conversation with our new friends to notice how quickly a DJ got set up and dudes were on stage singing, rapping, dancing, etc. We ended up dancing way later than I'd wanted to, since I was the only one who had to work as early as 6:30 the next morning. But as is my motto: #$%& it, worth it.

Some homeroom kids, as well as my homeroom
co-director, Eliana.

Friday brought democracy to our school, an increasing rarity around the world these days it seems. We had our student body presidential vote, with the incumbent eventually winning. There were also seminars and videos on the importance of democracy. To cap the day of civic happenery, we had mini Olympics, with each grade forming teams and competing against each other in various sports. Each homeroom also was given a country and needed to create a flag and team cheer/dance. My group, 6B, represented Peru like a boss, taking home the award for the best cheer. Which is a good thing too, because we didn't win anything else the rest of the day! Later that evening, Alex and I had another basketball game. We ended up losing, but we had also lent the other team one of our better players since they were too few. What was more fun was grabbing a few beers with Alex afterward and getting to know the math man better.

Saturday was supposed to be uneventful. I had nothing on my mind but grading quizzes and reading, until I went to find Luz, one of the monastery cooks, to tell her that we had to decline her invite to go dancing with her daughter and friends next weekend because we had something previously planned. Contrary to my expectations, she lit up and said, Well that's good, because I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to go tonight instead! I thought for a second about my fun-filled evening awaiting me 'neath the stack of seventh grade quizzes on adverbs of frequency, and quickly said I'd run and grab Devon. We ended up going to a club relatively close to the monastery with Leidy - Luz' daughter - and her friends (yes, that's pronounced like lady, and yes, it's a fairly common name here). Again, the dancing lasted much longer than my body wanted it to, especially with the basketball game the night before. But, again, @#$% it, worth it. Plus this club had a bubble machine and flamethrowers on stage that nearly gave me an early hairstyle change.

When someone asks me what we dance in the States, I can already sense a long conversation arriving.  "Well, we don't have a national dance or anything. In fact we don't really dance much at all."
"Then, what do you do at clubs or parties?"
"That's a really great question."
Thus ensues having to describe typical American parties, not exactly a pleasant experience when talking to someone from any other country but Ireland and drinking isn't the focus of the party. I usually try to divert attention away from the drinking by claiming that we make up for it with lawn games, board games, bonfires, and other related shenanigans. But another topic I'm made to reconsider more while living in another country is how much Americans drink. And yes, I realize how many read that last sentence and thought to themselves, Damn right, we do! And, well, that is related to a bunch of other uniquely American problems fit for a different conversation. All those things - games and fires - are all fine and fun, but our dancing is atrocious. I learned how to polka last spring, but just as likely as someone my age having looked up a teacher on Facebook is that same someone not knowing how to dance. Again, not claiming I do it well. But I've at least lost the inhibitions of looking like an idiot, which is something I consistently do very well.

J.

Spanish word of the day: This is a random one. So I was midst quiz-grading yesterday when I was really starting to get annoyed with all the yelling happening outside my window. I looked out, and there were all the cooks and janitors of San Carlos doing fire training, complete with fires to put out and hoops to crawl under. The oft yelled word that drew me to the window was agachado! that came booming from a fully clad fireman yelling at the workers to stay ducked when they crawl under the hoops. This is because the verb agachar means to duck.

Song in my head lately: At the end of 2014, I was on my way down to Florida to canoe in the Everglades with some great people from CSB/SJU. My seat buddy on the way down, Katherine, introduced me to Matt Corby, a smoldering aussie with a vocal range that is decently rare these days. Resolution is one of his better ones, though Made of Stone - very different, stylistically - is also incredible. Listening to him will always remind me of the 30 hour van ride down to Florida and back. What a trip. Currently on another one here in Colombia.

Come here so I can paint your face, office cat.