Peru Part III: A Swarm of Butterflies

Walking through Peruvian jungle on our way to Machu Picchu, we were forced to keep our attention focused on the train tracks we were walking along so as not to trip over the wooden beams. After a few minutes the gray gravel between the rails had given our shoes a seasoned dusty look we didn't yet deserve. We were talking with some of the other hikers in our group when we started noticing flecks of orange interrupting our otherwise dull walkway. I gave the butterflies a mental high five after our guide told us they eat the black flies that gather on the tracks to feast on hikers. We saw many that had been crushed under the feet of the very tourists they were protecting, until we came upon a horde of them gathered in a fluttering pile like orange stained glass shards that had been swept up. The crowd was so heavy we couldn't see what all the fuss was about, but Broly said casually that they were probably just finishing off a carcass of one of their own. For me, somehow, that desperation and ferocity gave their wings a more violent shade of orange.

  

The crew.

Initially, we weren't even going to go to Machu Picchu. We had heard about the crowds, wept when we saw the prices, and I had my own personal vendettas against intensely touristy locations. It wasn't until we were entering the week before our flight when we decided to just suck it up and do it. There are few assured things in life; we were lucky enough to be going to Peru, who knows if we'd ever return? The one condition I had was that we had to do one of the treks to get there. I was already being touristy, but I'd be damned if I was going to shell out a couple hundred dollars to be one to simply bus up to Machu for a view. Plus, the prices for trips are relatively similar whether it's a 1 day or a 4 day hike. This is because most of Machu Picchu's cost is in the transportation to get there. So the added costs of more food and lodging is essentially evened out by taking less of the monopolized private transit. The trek we chose was the 3-day Jungle Trek trail.

Day 1: Don't get me wrong, we didn't just walk to Machu Picchu. After flying into and staying in Cusco, we woke up at 4:30 and were taken by bus up through the morning fog into the Andean mountains an hour away. At over 14,000 feet, we strapped on what were probably old hockey pads, clipped on BMX helmets, and sped 10,000 feet down the mountain the opposite way we'd ascended on mountain bikes. After two hours of white-knuckled coasting around cliff turns with the wind whipping water from my eyes, we arrived at our lunch spot where our group split up. Devon and myself found ourselves in a trio with a girl from Holland named Fieke (though she just told us to call her Sofi, her nickname). The three of us caught a ride and checked into our hostel for the night before checking out some nearby hot springs, where we met up with our guide and the other two members of our group, Zach and Sirena, a newly wed couple from California whose honeymoon was traveling the world for a year.

Day 2 started with some more adrenaline. We had the option to do some zip-lining in the morning. It cost a little bit extra, but we decided to stick to our trip's theme of why not? or, more colloquially, f@#k it! So after five lines back and forth across a canyon, and a suspension bridge on which the five of us made an uncomfortable experience for those not in our group since we jumped and twisted and shook the bridge the whole time (hey, we were all wearing harnesses), we found our way to the train tracks to follow to Aguas Calientes, the town just below Machu Picchu. There isn't a whole lot of wildlife at high elevation, but the black flies knew where to find fresh tourists. I think in writing this, four weeks after hiking, the fly bites have finally gone from my arms. After an hour or two, we finally arrived at Aguas Calientes, which is the launching point for everyone to hike or bus up to the Machu ruins. We got to our modest hostel tucked behind the ritzy hotels and settled in, an experience vastly improved by the symphonies emanating from the shared bathroom after many had contracted some form of bug or other stomach problem.

We awoke on Day 3 long before the sun, as we wanted to beat the rush from the gate at the base of the mountain that opened at 5am. After we tourists swarmed in, we quickly spread out as our hiking speeds allowed. Devon and myself found ourselves near dead after just an hour of climbing what was probably a 57 degree angle (never forget your protractor when traveling, kids) to get to the Machu ruins, where we were greeted by hundreds of others who had slept in and hopped on a bus up in order to be fresh for hiking. Where the clouds had shrouded the scenery from us as we climbed, the late morning sun blew them all away and exposed the jungled mountains and ruins. The actual Machu ruins are on a plateau in between quite a few other mountain peaks that the indigenous people called their guardians. So, being the strapping young lads we are, we made the wise choice to climb some more, and made our way up Machu Picchu Mountain. While the views of the surrounding area were phenomenal, I was gassed. This was before hiking all the way back down the entire mountain later.

Why does everyone on top of a mountain
smile for the camera when they're dying inside?

As soon as our group went from five to five hundred at Aguas Calientes and at Machu Picchu, the question on my mind was What would the ancient Andean people have thought about this? I know, I know, screw me and my hypocritical self-righteousness when I was part of the problem myself. And like many other parts of Peru, I know tourism is huge for the locals. But I should mention that almost none of Machu Picchu's revenue is given to Peru. Apparently, the president of Peru a while back sold rights to British, Canadian, and American businesses to create the monopolies of hotels and transportation that make up the heavy, heavy majority of the sites earnings. So that discomfort kept nagging me, and pinged even more when I would notice what looked like tiny shacks jammed behind hotels and realized that those are where the locals live, or when we stumbled near the edge of the town and found ourselves in a local, not touristy market with women sitting on stools in front of bags of nuts and fruit while their children played on the floor with string, or when I saw a huge storage warehouse that wouldn't have felt out of place except for where it had been empty when we arrived yesterday afternoon, after one day it was overflowing with trash again. My one souvenir from Macchu Picchu is a patch showing the mountain's outline with four Peruvian women seated at its base looking up at it, as if reminiscing that it used to be theirs. It was, literally, the absolute least I could do to remind myself.

Parts of Machu Picchu you don't see in the ads,
 trash accumulation.

Yes, Machu Picchu was great. But I was glad we took our time getting there, because my favorite parts were the little things: all the different people we met at bars and in traveling, joking about how sick we all were on different days, the rush of adrenaline from racing down a mountain on a bike in the rain or down a zip line upside down, playing a never ending card game at a random bar in a tiny town along the way with Broly, Zach, and Sofi, eating guinea pig with Devon, Canadian Henry, and Israeli Dan, and many more events that aren't photoed but were lived pretty damn well.

Finally done with the Peru posts, now I can get back to annoying everyone about my time in Colombia.

JJ

Spanish word of the day: Bailar means to dance, something my hips and knees do not let me excel at.  This weekend was full of dancing, as the school had a dance on Friday night for the kids (side note, high school dances in Colombia are way better than in the states) and last night (Sunday) for the parents. So, basically, I danced with the vice-principal and moms until finally getting to dance with someone's cousin who was closer to my age.

Song in my head lately: It hasn't exactly been in my head lately, but Red Grammer's Listen deserves some attention. If you weren't aware, last week marked the anniversary of Jacob Wetterling's abduction from St. Joe 26 years ago, an event which affected many a Joetown native, not just those who also cruised the streets on their bikes as a kid like I did. Red Grammer became popular in our house after Jacob's disappearance since Listen was one of his favorite songs and my parents were friends with the Wetterlings. It deserves a few listens. What with the supposed new evidence coming to light recently, let's hope closure can be found.

Peru Part II: Teudosia

"Are you two with Loki?" Devon and I turned to see a friendly looking dude with an All Ways Travel vest on over his jacket. Loki was the name of the hostel we had booked our tour through, and we had taken a bus overnight from Cusco down to Puno, Peru to see Lake Titicaca.* We had arrived so early in the morning that the travel agency hadn't opened yet. So when our man saw two backpackers sitting outside his door on the street at 6am, it probably didn't take him long to put the two together. We went inside, and waited for the van to come pick us up. When it did, we met our crew mates and hopped on our boat o're the waves. And damn, did it feel good for this Minnesotan to be back on water.

A small-scale version of a Khili; how the Uros Islands are made. 

Our first stop was to the Uros islands, a series of floating islands made out of reeds that can hold 3-6 families. Each island has a leader and together they form a community that is sustained through fishing, trade with the mainland, and tourism of having gringos come check out their digs. It's similar to Bard's Laketown in The Hobbit, but instead of wooden, multistoried housing, these houses' foundations are reeds woven on top of what they call Khilis (seriously, did Tolkien visit here before writing?) which are the dense root systems of the reeds. The islands are then anchored into the bottom of the lake with long tree branches.

Teudosia

After a couple more hours boat ride, we disembarked on Amantani Island. Made of earth instead of reeds, it's home to a couple thousand people, one of whom was our host mom for the evening, Teudosia. A short woman who shuffles her feet, Teudosia's beaming, generous eyes can only be seen when you sit down and look into the shawl she wears over her head. She puts her guests needs often before hers or her family's, a characteristic of a great host that took me longer than it should have to appreciate in my own parents. This was evident when we ate in the dining room while her family ate in the small, low-ceilinged kitchen, sitting on a log against the back wall. In an effort to reduce the social distance between tourist guest and native host, I hunched my way into the kitchen while she was cooking our dinner for the night and offered to help. After she wisely rejected my culinary assistance, I sat on the log and we chatted. Nothing profound, we mainly just talked about our families and food. But it was nice to know a part of her life that few other tourists would get if they didn't speak Spanish.

Later that night, Teudosia dressed us up in traditional Peruvian getups, meaning dresses and shawls for the girls and ponchos and hats for the dudes. Walking to their town hall which doubled as a dance hall, we could hear the music long before we found our way up the switchbacks on the hill to the top. Inside, a live band had their guitars and pan pipes singing, characteristic of the hard beat of Andina music. We danced a few numbers, but mostly just watched the band and other dancers do their thing.    

I apologize for the lackluster lighting, but electricity is a commodity on Amantani Island. Also, in the second video, the dumbass attempting to dance is yours truly.

To be honest, I'm not a whole fan of the indigenous tourism business, or the "Oh, let's stay on an island with an indigenous family to see what they're like!" idea. My answer to that tourist's curiosity is, "They're people, what do you expect?" The novelty of saying you stayed with an indigenous family one night seemed a little dehumanizing to me, especially since everyone's got their cameras out trying to snap the quintessential shot of a wizened Peruvian woman knitting with a frown on her face. Now, I'll be the first to admit my hypocrisy in arguing this. Did I book this tour, knowing full well what it entailed? Did I bring my camera and take a crap ton of photos? Yes and yes. But, I frequently could not get out of my head the thought that we tourists were treating this community like an exhibition in a museum, and the similarities between that situation and many in the States with our own native peoples were eerie to say the least. The main difference is that Peru has an intense, deep sense of culture that remembers and safeguards its native inhabitants instead of heavily marginalize them.

You might rightfully argue, "But JJ, tourism is such a large part of their local economy, and they even take turns hosting tourists so that every family benefits financially." First of all, how the hell did you know that?? That's impressive. Second, yes, they do rely on tourism, but am I allowed to ask myself if maybe there were underlying reasons for their increased dependance on tourism? Again, I'm hardly an expert on the subject, just some jackass lecturing on a laptop, but I'm not ignorant to the fact that there was surely a time when their community was flourishing without tourism. Who knows, maybe the increase in population around the lake decimated their fishing industry and were more or less forced to cater to tourists as an alternate form of income? Just spitballing.

Stepping off the soapbox, I did actually enjoy my time there and was glad I got to experience and learn what I did. Easily my favorite part of our Lake Titicaca experience was the night sky. In Bogota, all the city lights give the night a mechanic glow, but the stars are just a handful of dull flames while the green and red flashers on planes fly in and out all night. But at 12,500 feet and in the middle of a 3000 square mile lake, I felt like I was seeing more light than dark. The milky way even made an appearance, cutting a celestial wake of light above the water. Obviously, my camera could not even attempt to capture it, and after a few tries I resigned myself to that I should probably just look up instead of down at my camera.

The next morning we explored one last island before setting sail back across the lake. A writing professor in college, Matt Callahan, often spoke of proximity to water being good for humans. I knew we were headed for a dry Colca Canyon, so I spent almost all of that three hour return topside, trying to get as much lake wind in my face as possible before returning to the dry heat of Peruvian terra firma.


Spanish word of the day: we'll go with a verb. Subir means to climb, and it's used not only in climbing mountains, but also in getting on modes of transportation. For example, subimos is we climbed, a phrase we often used in descirbing our Peru trip. Also, sube! (pronounced Sue-bay) is "get on" as in "get on the bus," a phrase we often heard with all of our bus traveling.

Song in my head lately: a relateively recent find has been A.A. Bondy, a predominantly solo guitar-harmonica act who's got some Bob Dylan echoes. His song American Hearts, is no exception.

JJ

*Editor's note: the writer is definitely aware of the humor involved in the lake's name. Feel no shame, I still giggle every time.

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.

*      *      *

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

*      *      *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J

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

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

                               Monastery patio                                                                   Making pizza

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

Garden/Courtyard #1

Karaoke, Stars and Stripes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Steps off soap box*

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

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

Deuces,

JJ

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

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

Rainbow o're Benedict and the monastery.

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).

*  *  *

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.

* * * 

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.