2017 in Vignettes

My homeroom from last year along with my homeroom for this year.

If you've been keeping up with me the whole twenty months here, dear reader, you might have noticed that my commitment to flushing out a post every week has turned out to be full of shit. This is partly due to other commitments, new and old, coming to the forefront. Everyone who's admired my lanky form will be undoubtedly intrigued to know I've joined a gym. And I'll be the first to lay your curiosities to rest by acknowledging that the results are about as unnoticeable as expected. The bright side is that I'm on first name basis with management and other clients. It's like cheers, but isntead of beer and laughs you get surrounded by sweat and groans, a sad reality that reminds me of my adorable attempts to use the weight room back in college. But, moving on!
     I'm now a lead homeroom director instead of the assistant, which doesn't mean a whole lot except I have a few more meetings with parents to attend, and more people have this strange notion that I have any answers to their questions about permission slips, due dates for school payments, and other logistical Jeopardy questions that I deflect with increasing ease. 

Sergio, the smallest teacher, replaced with a Biology prop.

I’ve also been appointed head JV basketball coach. Managing to work my way up the ladder from extra defender during my first semester here, to assistant JV coach last year to my friend, Alex, when there wasn’t a varsity team. Head coach has provided new obstacles, as during our first two weeks of open gym practices Steven and I had about sixty kids for each practice. My job after that is to narrow it down to two fifteen kid rosters for boys and girls (here’s to a week of teenagers asking why they didn’t make the team!).

As if a regular teaching and coaching combination wasn’t enough, I’ve also sacrificed my Saturday mornings to teach high school seniors. Colombia’s ACT test is called the ICFES exam, and I foolishly agreed to teach essentially a prep course on Saturdays for the next few months. While this has not changed the customary beer(s) and dancing with coworkers after school on Fridays, it’s sure made Saturdays an interesting math problem: If JJ gets off work at 3pm on Friday and starts at 8:30am the next morning, how many beers can he have without the students knowing he went out last night? You won’t find that question on the ICFES, but I’ve aced it every week so far.

Night out with Fernanda, Alex, and Marcela

And through what can only be described as a hereditary lack of being able to say no (thanks, pops!) I also find myself sacrificing what little free time I have to help tutor some of the other new teachers at my school. Tutoring the disciplinary coordinator, Viviana, has provided unforeseen fruits, like when she gave me a pair of nice dress shoes that her husband got but were too big for him. Also, it keeps me on her good side, which is helpful because it’s her job to nag teachers about paperwork, litanies I’ve managed to avoid since tutoring her. Teaching other young teachers like Juan Pablo and Angelica have provided mostly funny moments, since they always want to learn new English swear words. One day, while explaining the difference in vowel sounds in similar words, I found I had written kiss, keys on top of it, eat on top of bitch, beach. After reading the first column aloud, our new greeting for each other was solidified when we realized we were telling each other to “kiss it, bitch.” I still don’t claim to be a decent teacher.

My "getting burned" face.

I’ve also managed to forget what free time is like outside of school as well. Back in January, my friend Karen – who I’d met in Cartagena – was still lingering in Bogota after her dad’s car needed some tuning up in the shop. She had invited me to Bogota’s theme park that I had yet to experience, Salitre Magico. I convinced Nate and Steve to join and she brought her sister and cousins, and we all had a great time getting sick on rides, eating cheap fast food, and getting sufficiently sunburned in the Bogota sun.

Photos are hard.

Karen is a tiny red head who eats like a bird and whose fierce independence comes from having lived alone for almost three years when she was sixteen, since her father’s job brought the rest of the family to the coast but she wanted to finish at her school. Her lack of interest in my foreignness was a breath of fresh air, as one tends to bore oneself after explaining what American life, food, family, housing and economy is like for the umpteenth time. We chatted mostly about nothing, and saw La La Land in a theater mostly by accident. We were bored, and the small theater had only four movies going. Neither had ever heard of this new movie, but I knew that Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone were good actors, so we went for it. Then, when the film opened with a song and dance, Karen and I turned to each other with a “wtf is this?” face. I then had to confess that I not so secretly enjoy musicals. As a vegan she never judged me for my carnivorous ways, and even dragged me to a vegan festival where we were educated on the benefits of a plant-based diet. Oh, and where the next anti-bull fighting rallies were going to be held and how meat is murder. But while the food they had was oh so morally tasty, while you can take the kid out of Stearns County, you can’t take the Stearns County out of the kid. Unfortunately, she had to return to the coast with her family to work, joining a long list of great people I’ve met here whose impact on me has outlasted our time together.

Ventino by sunset at San Carlos Day.

The fancy school I live at, but don’t teach at, had their school pride day recently. Colegio San Carlos’ deep pockets usually draws a crowd whose collective wealth is humbling to even most gringos, as bingo prizes included TV’s, fancy toys like videogame consoles and bicycles, with a grand prize of a 3,000 dollar trip to a destination of the winner’s choosing. For one game, I was an N67 away from free English lessons. The day’s big bang is usually the music, as you may remember last year we were treated with Colombian pop star Andres Cepeda, Latin Grammy winner and judge on Colombia’s The Voice show. This year, however, the highlight for Nate, Steve and I was arguably when we got the chance to beat the snot out of each other. Safely, of course. Along with the inflatables, mini golf course, harnessed jumping trampolines, and mechanical bull, the school also sprung for a set of inflatable spheres you get strapped into in order to make yourself into a human bumper car and knock into everyone else on the field. As we waited in line, we noticed how cute everyone looked softly bumping into their friends, or how adorable the children acted as they did summersaults or rolled around with their tiny legs kicking in the air and needing to be pushed over to get their legs under them. Then come these three gringos who eagerly rush into their harnessed bubbles of invincibility and start knocking the crap out of everyone else on the field. Thankfully, the children had been removed and our only other obstacles were university students, because there was little mercy that day in the shadow of the monastery. 

Morat, San Carlos Day's headliner.

We took turns starting on either end of the field and crashed into each other, resulting in some hilarious leg flailing through the air and a crowd gathering to see these oversized idiots continually ram into each other. Contrary to what you might believe, it’s respectably taxing to run full speed at each other only to have your momentum blasted the other way with enough G-force to give you a headache, only to struggle to your feet and fight for air through a hole at the top of your bubble and do it all over again for ten minutes. Naturally, we convinced some monks to come do it a little later, but when we returned the guys were packing up and said, “Besides, you guys play too rough and damage the spheres.” Can’t knock him on that one, but I’d sure like to.     

The hills around Choachi.

A couple weekends ago I visited Colombia’s tallest waterfall. Almost. After my Saturday morning class and subsequent tutor session, I met up with our school’s library assistant, Tatiana, not to be confused with my friend Tatiana with whom I travelled to the coast. We found the tiny bus station next to the Tercer Milenio bus stop, and dropped a hefty 10,000 pesos on a ticket to Choachi, a little town southeast of Bogota, which is the setting off point to visit La Chorrera, Colombia’s tallest waterfall. We got to Choachi, only to find out that we needed to have gotten off the bus about five kilometers before the town. We hopped on the same bus back the way we came, and finally found the road needed to get to the trail. We walked down the hillside past scattered houses, not entirely sure where we were headed. We stopped to ask an older lady walking up the hill towards us where the trail was, and response was a defiant “Are you guys planning on camping there? Because you won’t get there until dark!” Since I had a parent/teacher workshop the next morning at school, no I wasn’t planning on camping. And, you know, no camping equipment. So instead of a jungle hike to some falls we hiked back up the hill, hitchhiked back to Choachi, ate dinner, and caught the last bus returning to Bogota. But hey, now that I know when to get off the bus, a return will soon be made. 
  

Spanish word of the day: Just like Spanish has two different verbs for our one verb "be" (ser and estar), they also have two verbs for "know" (saber and conocer) because Spanish is specific as hell. Saber is used for facts and knowledge; yo sé = I know. But conocer is used for knowing as in a person or a place. So saying something like ahh si la conozco is "oh yeah, I know her." Or conoces Nueva York? is a question I always have to respond to negatively, as I've never been to New York. Conocer is like being familiar with. He  conocido mucho por este país pero todavía me falta mucho.

Song in my head lately: San Carlos Day's headliner band this year was actually quite good, and I've found myself listening to a handful of their songs on repeat the whole week, especially Cuanto me duele and Como te atreves a volver.

  

Champeta and Costeños

Club bouncers were trying to close the overhead door entrance to no avail, and the fight that began in the street spilled back into the recently closed establishment. As we backed into a corner near the door, our eyes met the light off a knife one of the guys brandished as he was held back by four others. My mind spoke for me when I yelled, “Yup, @#$& this! I’m out!” and we scuttled out underneath the half closed metal door. Parked cars blocked the street and we first turned left, only to nearly interrupt another duo yelling and spitting at each other in their frail attempts against those holding them back. Just as we spun on our heels to the right a policeman in his bright green reflective gear pulled out his gun, the chu-chik of his gun cocking and pointing at another gentleman he seemed to be at odds with. With eyes wide and probably wet pants I about faced and we jumped between the cars to cross the street. We jogged away from the scene as more bright green outfits screamed by us with their cars and motorcycles, the sound of multiple tasers serenading our escape into our last sweaty night in Cartagena.

 *                                    *                                       *

I had just finished up my first full year of teaching English to hordes of Colombian sixth and seventh graders. With a visit back to Collegeville already planned for Christmas, I was hoping to squeeze in a little adventure and try to see more of this wicked country I’ve called home for nigh on twenty months now. It just so happened that my friend, Tatiana – the girl who fled to Mexico to pursue an acting career – was due back in Bogota in December. I floated by her the chances of travelling to the coast together, something she hadn’t done in a while. After a few video calls we finally nailed down some dates. Then she mentions she wants to bring her family, too. Now, I love her family; Tatiana, her sister, Valentina, and her parents (adorably named) Beto and Bety, and they treat me like part of the family. But my preferred style of travel isn’t exactly familial. It’s not very well planned, usually involves lots of hiking, last minute decision-making (or lack thereof) and getting into trouble/beer. I enjoy meeting new people wherever I go, something that’s harder to do the more people you’re with. She also wanted to bring her dog, Limon. Again, I love dogs and hope to be the proud owner one day. When I’m done living abroad and travelling like I do, that is. You probably don’t think about it if you’re part of the average car camping American family, but travelling with pets requires a certain level of responsibility and travel style, neither of which do I currently claim mastery of. It’s like travelling with a baby: you can’t go certain places, you need to always be watchful of them, and you gotta clean up after a lot of shit. Plus, with pets even more so than children, there are a lot of places you can’t stay. Being a relatively independent traveller, I was apprehensive but still excited to finally be getting to the Colombian coast.

            One thing that eventually fell through the cracks of our planning was our times of arrival. Tatiana isn’t great about responding to messages, so after a few days of not getting back to me about sending me their flight information I simply bought a ticket based on “We leave Bogota around ten on Sunday.” Fast forward to me arriving at the airport on Sunday morning and waiting at my gate. I text Tatiana, telling her I’m scheduled to land on the coast around noon. Surprisingly her reply was swift, with a confused, “ehm, we get in at midnight because we don’t leave until 10pm.” As I was switching my phone to the airplane mode my mind flew back to a time travelling south in Chile with my friend, Craig. Our miscommunication about arrival time then had gotten us to our destination a half day early as well, that time requiring us to find lodging in a strange lady’s house who we met on the street outside the bus terminal.

            I arrive in the perpetual sweat of Cartagena, Colombia, with no plan whatsoever. I didn’t know where we were staying, had done no research on the city beforehand, and was without data in an airport without Wifi. Did I mention my way of travelling probably doesn’t work with a family? I sat down on the floor in baggage claim next to my backpack.  I watched other holiday travelers exit the glass doors out to the parade lines of taxi drivers waiting for an easy few thousand pesos and thought to myself, I wouldn’t even know where to tell them to go. As I watched one particularly portly fellow struggle with his wife’s ridiculously leviathonic luggage, my eyes glazed over the advertisements on the center of the lazy river of baggage floating past me. Amidst the overpriced tour packages was a poster promoting a hotel facing the beach. The ad included a map telling me I was only five blocks from the beach. I snapped a picture of the map, exited the glass doors and hustled past calls of taxi! and was looking at the Caribbean Sea in less than ten minutes. I spent the next twelve hours making significant progress in the book I was reading, La isla del tesoro – a fitting book considering my current setting, walking along the beach, sitting under palm trees, and being the only customer at a dimly lit cantina bar drinking from a bottle whose lip tasted like the ocean. I was on vacation.

           

We were able to check a lot of the tourist boxes soon enough. We took a boat tour to the Islas del Rosario, a series of islands just off the coast of Cartagena that offer beaches like playa baru and playa blanca that make travel guide authors’ mouths water. It’s one of those places where you can spend money quickly on beach chairs, massages, cocktails, snorkel gear, oysters, etc. Beto and I were satisfied with a beer. While it was good to be on the water again, something we should all have more of in our lives, I wouldn’t call myself a beach person. But I always welcome a good sunburn!

Boating in Cartagena.

The next day involved changing my identity. Cartagena being an old colonial city, with the now touristic area set within the walls of what was once a walled fortress, we were at the entrance to one particular fort, El Castillo San Felipe de Barajas (1657). I was told to keep a low profile by my new Colombian family since extranjero prices were almost triple those of native Colombians. Beto and Beti’s solution? As I’m not saying a word to avoid exposing my accent, they approach one of the guys selling water out of a cart nearby (I may never get their cries of aguaguagua, es necesario! out of my head). They convince him to lend them his ID to buy my ticket to the fort, and in exchange we buy some water from him. So thank god the people selling and accepting the tickets were different, or they would have noticed that this white gringo was using the ticket of a much darker Colombian water salesman. Welcome to Colombian negotiations.

Castillo San Felipe de Barajas.

          Soon, we had a rental car ready to be on our way west to Barranquilla and Santa Marta. But not before witnessing a few endearing moments outside the city proper. We met up with one of Beto’s cousins, Juan Carlos, who works as a driver for the Hilton Hotel in Cartagena. He took us up to a little known overlook of the city and was pointing sites out for us. As he drove, he and Beto recounted the trouble they would get into back in their heyday in Bogota. Tears of joy came as often as those of sadness for both men in the front seats, and it was breathtakingly adorable to witness them come together after so much time apart. 

Juan Carlos and the Alvarez family overlooking Cartagena.

Juan Carlos then took us to his house up in the hills that flank the city. His home didn’t quite have enough room for us all, so we ate rice tamales in chairs out in the street. The tamales, food typical of Colombia, were made by his neighbor across the street, who Beto eventually starting dancing with to the salsa music that had been pumping since before our arrival. Eating, drinking, and dancing there in the street with whoever was around made me think: shit, this life ain’t so bad. I also got a mini English lesson in when Juan Carlos’ daughter brought her toddler over. She was crawling on the curb playing with her animal toys. I crouched down and began naming the animals for her. “Alright kid, you have no idea what I’m saying. But that’s cool, neither does anyone else here. We’re gonna learn you some English.” I can only assume the look of panic on her face as she looked for help from her mother was the result of my improper verb usage. We’ll work on slang some other time.

Silhouetted fam at Puerta Colombia, Barranquilla.

Barranquilla will get a mention here merely for archival purposes, so that it’s known we stopped. There’s really not much to see. At some key points during the year the city plays host to carnivals and parades. But its attractions are almost limited to an admittedly impressive cathedral, El rio Magdalena and subsequent delta into the Caribbean, and being the birthplace of Shakira. We stayed with another of Beto’s cousins, this one being a wealthier bachelor living near the heart of the city. Worth noting however, was when we visited the vast river and happened upon what I can only guess was a birthday party for an elderly lady. As the live band played traditional cumbia music with drums and flutes, Beto gave his video camera to Tatiana and found the birthday girl out on the dance floor. Soon enough, he was dancing with half the old gals under the party tent cheering him on.

Cathedral of Barranquilla.

Two more hours to the west found us in Santa Marta, another beach town known for its ecotourism mostly thanks to the town’s relationship with the local Kogui and Arhuaco tribes native to the Sierra Santa Marta mountains surrounding the area. Here, the beaches are even better than those of Cartagena. The sand is whiter, making the water clearer. The city is smaller, and it carries a backpacker feel instead of the luxurious vibes of Cartagena. It would be easy to spend a month in Santa Marta and not get to do everything there is to do nearby. Adventures that would influence my return would be the 3-5 day hike to the Lost City or a hike through the Sierra Nevada Mountains, both making their way through land owned by indigenous tribes that have much better relations with the government than their Native American counterparts in the U.S.

The fam in Tayrona National Park.

But we did get to hike in Tayrona National Park, probably Santa Marta’s most popular destination. Covering nearly 60 square miles of land, Tayrona protects many endemic species from nearly 3,000 feet above sea level all the way down to the coast. The government has put in quite some work to make a well-built and maintained trail that attracts all sorts of hikers. There are a handful of small hammock and tent hostels along the path, but it’s also possible to hike into the beaches for the day and leave before the trails close after sundown. While I would have preferred the former, the consensus was reached with my current host family that we would just hike through the jungle and along the beaches.

Beto walking among the palms of Tayrona National Park.

Because the park’s popularity is no secret, there’s quite a lot of traffic on those trails. Fortunately, the government closes the park for the month of January both to give the park a breather from tourists and also so that the native tribes aren’t interrupted when they come and perform their rituals throughout their land. But what land they’ve got! Just the thought of hiking down mountain jungles to the endless beaches far from any road or building makes me want to take that month and go back to see more. Monkeys and iguanas were a regular site along the paths, and we waded through a river that we had seen an alligator in about 100 meters upstream. The reason you’re expected to be off the trails by nightfall is partly so hikers don’t get lost, partly so that you don’t cross paths with a jaguar, snake, alligator, or spider you might not see soon enough. Because sweat is a constant on the coast, water salesmen do very well at their stations within the park. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to borrow an ID this time to avoid the hefty gringo price I paid:  about 15 dollars to the Colombian 5 dollar entry.

Another day we made it to the less popular but equally breathtaking Palomino beach just outside Tayrona park. This beach is where a freshwater river flows into the ocean. So standing on a peninsula of sand, you could have one foot in clear, cool fresh water churning together with cloudy salt water that your other foot stands in, all while looking at palm tree covered mountains and endless ocean. I’ve seen worse (e.g. mirrors).

River meeting the ocean at Palomino.

no doubt making a phallic joke.

Unfortunately, our days in Santa Marta passed too quickly and we drove the 5-6 hours back to Cartagena for Beto and Bety to catch their flight to Bogota. Unlike the family I grew up in, this family doesn’t travel together often. In fact, this was Tatiana’s parents’ first trip to the coast. I made sure to let the girls know that their parents were able to make this happen. Sometimes my way of travelling can be stressful; not knowing where I’ll be staying, always a bit wary of someone who might try to rob a gringo, needing to take my pack with me anytime I move. But travelling with a family, even one that’s not my own, reduces a lot of those stresses when you’re with parents who are responsible and are always thinking about the next step. It made me grateful and in awe of how my own parents were able to bring my siblings and I on so many adventures growing up. And I’ll always be grateful to Bety and Beto for their kindness, and Beto especially for his humor and inhibitions to dance with anyone at any time (along with dancing with old ladies on the riverbank in Barranquilla, he also danced to street rappers in Cartagena and a street band in Santa Marta) and for treating me as if I were his own son, often confusing relatives we visited when I was introduced as his oldest. As if there weren’t enough similarities between him and my own father, Beto also videos everything with a camcorder a la Michael Roske for our childhood (though I am aware it was also often my mother behind all our home videos).

Youngest children are the sassiest.

Tati and I in Barranquilla.

Though our parents had left, the adventure was not over for Tatiana, Valentina and myself. The day the rents flew home, we checked into a hostel within the walled city of Cartagena and made our way to a champeta club. Champeta is a genre of music with Afro-Colombian roots. Apparently, champeta was a word used to describe a machete knife. And since this knife was often used by the African slaves and workers on the coast, the social elite often derogatorily referred to them as champetudos. Then in the 1970s, those populations embraced the term to refer to a burgeoning genre of music that combined African and Caribbean sounds. Our night at the club began with dancers on stage who taught everyone a boatload of champeta dance steps before a live band got on and played for hours. Now, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the greatest dancer. Dancing is hard work, and I get lazy easily. But, for a gringo, I do all right. That’s also what I’m usually told by Colombians, and dammit I take it as a compliment!

The next night brought me more dance practice. We three had this tradition down of going into a club early in the evening, then leaving right away and convincing the bouncers that if we returned we wouldn’t have to pay the cover. It should be noted that I was no help in the convincing process, that was the job of the two young women I was with to convince the burly dudes at the door. And when the girls’ smiles and words melted the hearts of the behemoths, I couldn’t help but think, good god, man, you did not just fall for that! (This common phenomenon also occurred at the beach when the girls were able to convince a young man renting out beach chairs and umbrellas, who normally charges 5,000 pesos an hour for a chair and 8,000 an hour for an umbrella, to give us a chair in the shade of his mom’s fruit stand for 3,000 for over an hour). Anyways, after Tati and Vale had hypnotized a few of the club brutes, we made our way to a burger stand and found two other sisters who we spotted at the club we’d just left, and apparently they had similar club going traditions. Karen and Jennifer were actually from Bogota, but now their family lived in Cartagena. And now that pairs of sisters had found each other, I basically didn’t exist, and ate my burger in blissful silence as chatter and gossip ensued all around me. We ended up spending the evening all together in the club before fleeing down the street together when the night club turned into the fight club.

Last day in Cartagena. Wild ride of a week.

Song in my head lately: It probably wouldn’t be fit to talk about champeta music without posting a song. This is probably one of the more famous songs, though I can’t say much about the lyrics. Unless you’re rhythmically challenged or don’t like music, you’ll probably find yourself tapping your foot or bobbing your head. That’s the idea. There’re these bonus songs, too.

Spanish word of the day: a common verb expression English speakers learn in Sapnish classes is tengo que (which means I have to…) followed by a verb, so tengo que madrugar would be I have to wake up early. In Colombia, and maybe other South American countries – though I’ve only heard it here – use the verb tocar (to touch) in the same way, if a little more informally. So me toca madrugar would mean something like I gotta wake up early, which is a common phrase in a country where schools start at 6:30 or 7am.