Perú Part 1: Condors and Canyons

"JJ, wake up! Our bus is here!" Devon was shaking me awake from my top bunk in a hostel room full of sweaty, sleeping travelers. Thinking that my fellow volunteer was just messing with me, I yawned, stretched, and mumbled a lazy, "Hmm?" I sure wasn't about to be taken in by his practical jokery. It was then that I heard a booming voice from the lobby downstairs yell, "Ho-elle!!" (which is how Joel is pronounced in Spanish). Sure enough, a quick glance at my watch said 3:37am, and our 3:30am departure time was being held up by yours truly. So like a newborn bird who has yet to master flight, I fell out of the top bunk in my panic. Luckily, I had packed my bag the night before and had my hiking clothes hung up and shoes ready to slip on. It's like I predicted my alarm not going off. I slid down the smoothed wooden stairs with one button done on my shirt and said a hasty apology to our guide while I tied my shoes. He took one look at me and burst out laughing and closed the van doors. We were on our way to Colca Canyon.

This is part one of most likely three different posts about our trip to Peru a couple weeks ago. "How did we have time for this?" -Our school had the week off- "Why Peru?" -Why not?- I've decided to infuriate Maria Von Trapp and begin my Peruvian journey at the end. It feels like a very good place to start, since I feel strongest about our adventures in reverse chronological order. You'll see what I mean.

Piled into the back of a van full of other impatient hikers, we soon fell right back asleep as we left Arequipa in the southern Peruvian dust. We had already hiked Machu Picchu and visited Lake Titicaca, so falling asleep on less than ideal transportation was second nature at this point. After a few pit stops, we arrived at the pay station where tourists needed to buy a "tourist ticket" to enter the canyon. The foreigner ticket cost 70 soles, which is about 22 US dollars. Devon and I were hoping that our temporary Colombian Visas would knock us down to the 40 sol Latinoamericano price (~$12). Our guide walked to the station with our IDs in hand, only to be followed right back by the officer. Well, shit, we thought. The dude sticks his head in the window and asks, "Latinoamericanos?" "Si?" We both raise our hands awkwardly. "Bueno, ok," and he turns back to his station. Devon and I shared a look that said, did that really just work? Yes, yes it did. 

Colca Canyon is carved by the Colca River in southwest Peru. With a depth of over 10,000 feet, it is more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon (though not as wide). Still inhabited by indigenous descendants, one of the calling cards of this area is that it is home to the Andean Condor, a veritable cross between a vulture and a pterodactyl a.k.a. a devil bird. These suckers can be over thirty pounds and have a wingspan of over ten feet. But fear not, I brought an extra pair of underwear just in case I came face to beak with one.

And I did. See condors, not wet myself... ...I swear.

Just a bunch of asses hangin' out

Our trek was relatively short in terms of time, long in distance. On day one we first hiked down into the canyon, knees and quads screaming the whole way. We then walked along it near the bottom for a while until arriving our bungalow cabins for the night. Here, we hopped in a pool and soaked our sunburns after our 25 kilometer hike. After dinner, Devon, myself, and fellow northerner (Montreal) Charles found our way over to the next camp to see what it was like, and found a very functional bar and loads of people hiking the canyon without guides. We ended up staying here until creeping back into our huts for the night. A Frenchman who was the fourth in our shack said he saw a rat in my corner, but at that point I was really too tired to care. With a night cap or two as well, covers stayed under me that night as I snored that rat right out. 

Hiking makes me want to lie down

We got to sleep in until 4:30 the next morning, what a treat! This was in order to beat the sun up the canyon. Though we began nigh in total darkness, headlamps were soon unnecessary as we huffed on our way, this back up to the canyons rim. A good sign of when to take a break from physical activity is when you can hear your heartbeat through your ears. But, logical as I am, at that point I would have rather passed out than let that sun burn my sunburn (but maybe that's the way to get rid of it? Hmm..)  After reaching the top at around 6:30, I promptly situated myself on a rock and waited for the rest of my group to arrive. 

Phil made it, too!

Our trek ended before I knew it had started, but we had met some rad people and hiked some bad mileage. We caught another local night bus from Arequipa to Cusco and spent our last day in Peru at Loki Hostel, a huge hostel that can fit 200 guests and sports its own bar and restaurant. We met some more dudes from the U.S. (We'll make it out to visit you in Hawaii sometime, Austin!) and had a great night before hopping on our morning flight back Bogota.

Peru was a beautiful country with the most conspicuous sense of cultural pride and remembrance than any other country I've visited yet. The strange thing was, it took eleven days in another country to appreciate the one we were currently living in; the feeling of homeness in Bogota brought about by being a foreign tourist somewhere else. So as the plane left the Cusco tarmac, we fist bumped and said, "Let's go home." 

Spanish word o' the day: Not to be confused with mulah or moolah, meaning cash, mula means mule. Since we hiked with a group, those far in front had to frequently stop for others to catch up. Now, we're some pretty patient dudes, but there were two French girls who would fall behind one or two minutes into setting out. But thank god the second day they took the mule taxi option to pay a little extra to ride on mules the rest of the way.

Song in my head lately: What with all the overnight traveling to and within Peru, it seems apt that the song I made sure always played was Vance Joy's Red Eye   

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.

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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.

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"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.

Cut Grass

As I was walking across the freshly mowed soccer fields to class the other day, I felt like Hermione Granger in the sixth Harry Potter when she says she loves the smell of freshly cut grass. Mixed with the smell of soft rainfall, those damn chopped forbs made me think of home. Picture a summer afternoon, with Michael Roske hurrying to mow the lawn before the rain comes, while I undoubtedly sat comfortably in our living room doing nothing son-worthy. Then, our dog gets her run tangled around a tree during said rain, in classic Shadow fashion. Feeling particularly noble, yours truly steps outside to help the distressed pooch, only to be halted by the heavenly smell of shorn green yard. This scene is what sliced through my mind when walking those fields the other day. You might say that what it made me do was reminisce.

Reminisce (rem-uh-nis) verb: to recall fondly, to be nostalgic about, look back on, or reflect on. Best done around a campfire, at a bar table, or looking up at the moon. Best not done paging through old Facebook photos with a bottle of wine and eating a bowl of ice cream while 50 First Dates plays in the background. The point is, some reminiscing can feel good, some can be bad. My last week gave me plenty of opportunities to reminisce, and I'll let you decide where I landed on the spectrum (grabs large spoon and pops in DVD).

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For the last few weeks, the students of Colegio San Benito de Tibati had been preparing for Dia de Tibatiniadad, or what I will reduce to the much less romantic "school pride day." This day included skits and art demonstrations, so there had been art supplies and dance routines all over the school for weeks. From traditional Colombian dances by the 6th graders to the 10th graders' skits impersonating their professors, the day was devoted to celebrating national and local pride.

One highlight of the day was a sort of homecoming royalty beauty pageant. A couple from each grade dressed in the typical school uniform of each of the last six generations of the school, plus some flair. Not only were they judged on their appearance, but also their knowledge of the school. The trivia revolved around school history (when was it founded, by whom, when did so-and-so start working here, etc.) They were all questions that I guarantee no kid in the states would know about their school. There were to be two winners, one couple from 6th through 8th grade, and one couple from 9th through 11th (in Colombia, 11th graders are seniors). The 6th and 11th graders had the appearance part down, but my 8th and 9th graders eventually took the victories with their superb knowledge of their school's history. Naturally, as their teacher, I take all the credit.

As I was watching all these kids cheer for their classmates, I was brought back to the Weber Center of the Prep school, watching some poorly planned skit unravel, but still loving it. I was glad I was able to be a part of that same joy for other kids, even if my "part" was sitting in the back videoing it. Speaking of videos, The following one is from after the kings and queens were announced. Various duos, students and adults were selected to do a sort of Simon Says with different Hispanic dances. This video is the senior couple dancing.

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Saturday brought an old friend visiting. Jaime worked at La Universidad Adolfo Ibanez, the university in Chile where I studied two years ago, where he helped exchange students to get to know the area and plan excursions. This time, he was on an adventure of his own, as he was on his way to Chicago to eventually move to St. Cloud with his girlfriend, Cali (who was also in Chile when we were). His trial before reaching the good ole red, white and blue, was a wonderful 17-hour layover in Bogota. Knowing that I was, in fact, currently living in said layover city, he asked to hang out. And after checking the blank page that was my schedule for Saturday, I found my way to the airport.

Accompanied by Br. Jorge, we found our exhausted Chilean roaming the terminal looking for us. We promptly got some food in him and discussed plans. Since Jaime had never been to Bogota, we decided to show him the whole damn city at once, which meant a trip up to Monserrate. If you remember my first excursion to Monserrate, you'll be pleased to find that our navigation this time around was much more precise. We enjoyed watching the sun set over the capital, never an easy task with mountains and constant cloud cover, before descending into the lights as the city came alive at night. After ambling around the main plaza and getting a glimpse of the Colombian president's house, we made our way back to the airport so Jaime could attempt to rest his eyes before his flight at 4am.

Not only was it good to see a familiar face, but I sincerely enjoyed chatting with someone who has made such a subtle difference in my life. To be honest, before studying in Chile, I was a bum. I watched a lot of TV, wasn't a huge socialite, and was just generally coasting through life. But I'll never forget our first week in Chile when Jaime took my friend Ari and I to one of his favorite bars in Vina, called Vienes. Over a few beers, we chatted in Spanish about anything and everything, including an attempted bear joke in Spanish on Ari's part. But he also encouraged us to get out and do anything and everything, as well. It was an unexpected catalyst for who I am today.  That sounds too dramatic, so I'll tone it down to Jage status by claiming that studying abroad in Chile not only made me excited for the unexpected, but it also made me learn from it i.e. getting on a bus and not knowing when to get off, or getting to a town at night without a hostel to stay at so you get in a strange woman's car and stay at her house only to wake up early and leave for fear of death. The point of my rambling is that it felt good to share time with someone who was part of that experience for me. Again, too dramatic, so I'll leave it there. The feels have reached their peak.

 *  *  * 

On Sunday, we took to the road yet again, this time with the novices of the monastery in tow on our way to Laguna de Guatavita. To the north of Bogota, this lake is sacred to the Muisca people, the indigenous people of the area. Essentially a sink hole at the top of a mountain almost 10,000 feet above sea level, it is also the source of the El Dorado myths. Apparently, some old Spanish dudes (you might call them conquistadors) were searching for gold when they happened upon the Muisca tribe, where they witnessed a unique ritual tradition. In it, the leader, called the Zipa, would cover himself in gold dust and dive into the lake, washing off the glitter as he submerged. Afterwards, the people would reportedly throw precious items into the lake as offerings to their gods. The Spanish saw this and thus assumed that if they had enough gold to throw in a lake, that was reason enough to be conquered. Like we've never heard that narrative before.

But, like any good tourist, rather than reminisce about the similarities between how each of our countries have treated their native peoples, I was ignorantly thinking about how beautiful the landscape was. We were out of the city, away from the noise, and up in the highlands of subsistence farming. But it was the presence of water that made me think of home. Although the hills were hillier and the air a bit thinner, it felt a lot like northern Minnesota as we stood near the shores of one lake after another. More than twice, I anxiously scanned the beach for an abandoned canoe and paddle I could commandeer.

Spanish word of the day: We're going to upgrade to some slang. Q'hubo is short for "que hubo" which literally means "what there was" but colloquially means "what's up?" Also, it's most often pronounced like you're saying the letters QO (kew oh). It still sounds weird to me, and depending on how you use it, you could be coming on to someone. So I'll probably refrain from using it until I know more its context.

Song in my head lately: There's usually a pretty good chance that Mason Jennings is stuck in my head. His songs are deceptively simple musically, yet pretty profound lyrically. Jackson Square is one of my favorites, but he has about twenty greats.

Well, you've wasted another perfectly good ten minutes reading the loose jumble of thoughts in my head. I like to think of them as those old screen savers, where you're either running into brick walls in a maze or watching colored pipes twist into infinity. That's pretty much my brain.

J.

Let's Get Physical: A Week of Belonging

The view from my room.

Last week was a full one, and despite the somewhat bipolar title, has been my favorite so far. Also, given last week's strange post, I've decided to stick to a more narrative approach that is sure to lull you all into deep, deep regret at having opened this post.

I love learning about STD's via PPT

We started last week off with a bang. Or at least, talking about it, since the older kids went to a talk on safe sex on Monday. Chock full of all the classic tips and resources, some of us younger maestros were having quite the time stifling our own giggling at the choice diagrams used while at the same time making sure the kids were taking it seriously. It didn't help that the young woman who gave the talk was quite  nice looking, kept putzing with her hair while she talked, and then invited some students up to take pictures with her afterwards in front of her company's poster - something that seemed to try to market her company more than educate the kids. So much for taking that seriously.
                                                     
                                    *  *  *


On Wednesday, all of the teachers got some pretty unofficial physicals through our school's nurses office. My appointment consisted of getting my blood pressure tested before standing on a Body Composition Analyzer, the sort of name given to a machine only Bruce Wayne would own. Anyways, after holding on to the handles for several seconds this machine spit out a receipt that told me that my BMI was 22 and body fat % was 10.4%.

My physical receipt. It's like the one from
the grocery store, only after you've eaten
everything you bought there.

How?
Science.
I should add that these and other desired stats seemed to be geared towards South American standards, since practically everyone was told they need to eat a lot more. Picture a strong South American mom telling all her kids to eat, eat, eat! Except instead of an apron, she's wearing scrubs.
                                      *  *  *

On Thursday, I walked into the teacher's office area to see everyone dressed casually and looking like they were about to leave. It turned out that it was the dia de autoridad, which is the day when the seniors literally take over the school. And I mean totally; teachers, janitors, doormen, and administration, including principal. Apparently it is meant to give them a taste of the real world, as well as give those students who want to teach a real opportunity to do so.

That speedy right wing wearing the white shirt
is probably an OK guy.

So what did we teachers do? Naturally, we got the hell out of there! we had a day of "pedagogical advancement" which involved skits, role playing and discussing effective teaching methods and classroom management. Some of it was boring, but most of it was, dare I say it, sort of fun. We also spent the afternoon playing soccer, so it had its moments. Probably my favorite part was when we were split into groups and given a teaching method to explain to the rest of the faculty, not knowing that it was to be presented in the form of a skit instead of just explaining it. So when other groups start, I see our leader writing in his notebook and we later get up and totally improvise the whole thing. It was hilarious, mostly because everyone knew we were bullshitting just like students would do.

We take to the streets for our games.

But the Thursday fun doesn't end there! We returned to school for a basketball game, which we narrowly lost against a team clad in purple and yellow called the Lakers. Who woulda thought?? Afterwards we were shooting the breeze with the other coaches and lingering faculty, joking that we should grab a beer sometime. They looked at each other, shrugged, and said, "We got a few cars, vamos!" So that's how we ended up at a bar in Colombia for six hours on a weeknight dressed in athletic garb; a bunch of young professionals drinking unprofessionally. It was one of the best evenings had yet here in Bogota, getting to know colleagues outside of the classroom. Some danced and some told jokes, but we all laughed and enjoyed teaching each other curse words in each respective language.
                                  *  *  *
The next morning was a dia festivo, or festival day, meaning we didn't have classes. We had previously organized with two of the priests at the monastery to travel a few hours to the North to some popular colonial towns. First, we visited Chiquinquira, a town about two hours to the North which indeed does sound like the words chicken and Shakira smashed together. It is notable for its beautiful church and fake horse photo ops like the one seen here.

"Together forever," me, my mini-horse,
and that random dude in the background.

Inside the church of Chiquinquira

Afterwards, we hopped back in the van and headed another hour or two through beautiful mountainsides and traditional farming communities to Villa de Leyva. A real tourist grab, it's an old yet very clean, quaint city with really nice restaurants and parks. It's probably also popular because it feels like you're walking through cobblestone streets of old European cities. What's more is that August is kite month in Colombia (because it's the windiest month of the year + the month commemorating the battle in which Colombia won their independence from Spain), so the church square was filled with couples, families, and lost children following their kites around. All in all, it was a pretty loving atmosphere and everyone was having a good time, especially these little dudes.

 

"Woah, check out my new shoes!!"

Father-son moment

Spanish word of the day: Cometa: looks like comet, actually means kite. Since it is kite month in Colombia, everyone has them and there are at least six flying everyday after work in the park near school. The mountains surrounding the city make for a nice backdrop.

Song in my head lately: Last week my friend Amber introduced me to Shakey Graves, a singer from Austin, TX. His most popular song is Dearly Departed, but I really like the version where it's just him in a bus. 

Thanks for reading.

J.

Kites and cobblestones 

I Gave In

Iconic American man-hero and NRA boytoy, John Wayne, once said, "A man's gotta have a code, a creed to live by." And he was right. What would man be if he did not possess the fortitude and resilience that stubbornness provides? If we caved to every others' wants and dreams, we would be no better than mere shafts of wheat that bend in the breeze. You might say 'tis better to be the oak; unwavering, solid, with deep, strong roots and slightly wrinkly bark.

 =

Just like John Wayne, one thing I pride myself on is sticking to my morals and what I believe. For example, I believe that cats are the devil in animal form, pants should only be tucked into your socks when hiking in the remote backcountry, and pancakes are best eaten with slices of cheese to squeegee up leftover syrup.

I also believe that no rain is strong enough to warrant the purchase of an umbrella. First of all, it's just water, and rain jackets are wonderful things. Secondly, if it is indeed raining devils and dogs, then anyone expecting you to be dry after braving the deluge probably tucks their pants into their socks anyway.

Even after beginning this chapter of my life in rainy Bogota, Colombia, I felt it best to stick to my beliefs: I took a picture of a dog instead of a cat and I have yet to tuck my pants into my socks. But while cheese isn't served with pancakes here, you can bank on the fact that I was fending off the illogical desire to purchase an umbrella.

But it is with a sad and heavy heart that I inform you, undoubtedly nonexistent reader, that today was the day I threw my beliefs in the same sad, dirty canal I walk across every day to get to school. This is because I gave in, up, and out and did the unthinkable. I bought an umbrella. We had been walking through the neighborhood on a characteristically rainy day, and in one small moment of weakness I dropped a hefty 15,000* pesos for a collapsable polyester shield. I can only hope that its ability to block rain is matched by its ability to safeguard me from the disappointed head shaking of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Liam Neeson from high on Man Rushmore.

Harry can't believe I failed him, either.

Shamefully, I have become like the weak wheat. No more proudly shaking off my rain jacket in the teachers lounge and sprinkling my colleagues with the morning dew. No more gallantly hobbling across the soccer field in the rain to class only to show up looking like Harry Potter during the Triwizard tournament. No, today was the day Aragorn was dreading when he said, "There will come a day when the courage of men fails." Because that day was today. I now walk through the streets of Bogota bearing my blue-striped albatross over my head, a pallbearer for the funeral of my manhood.

On the other hand, though I might not be that strong oak, you can bet your ass that if I stood under one I'd be dry. I guess I'll put up with this thing for now.

J.

Frequent sun/rain mixes lead to many of these light refractions.
If only my umbrella could shield me from them, too...

Spanish word of the day: Paraguas - you guessed it, it means umbrella.

Song in my head: Let the Rain Fall Down by Hilary Duff. If you know it, then you know why I didn't post a link to it. If you don't know it, you're probably a better human being for it.

*15,000 pesos is less than 6 dollars.