Small Town Charms and Big City Sights

Have now lived in Colombia for over a month (?!?!?!). No more sign of my secret admirer, but meanwhile more important things have been happening.

First, the event with my internship three weeks ago, the Congreso de los Pueblos – huge gathering of thousands of people from all over the country, five days long, with speeches, forums, cultural events, and a massive march through the city at the end. I went with another guy from Witness, Diego, to accompany the event, meaning we were there to sort of… observe passively. The idea of accompaniment is that, as internationals, we don’t participate in demonstrations, but just by being there, we show that an issue is getting international attention, and that attention is a form of protection and encouragement for people that have chosen to stand up against some really powerful, influential opponents. A lot of the people at the Congreso, for example, were indigenous or Afro-Colombians, farmers, students, etc, who often don’t get a strong voice in national decision-making. And they came with a lot of demands concerning land rights, labor rights, etc., that most politicians and big businessmen don’t really want to hear. Here, confronting such powerful people can be seriously dangerous to one’s life. So that’s why we were there.

The weekend was fascinating. It was like they brought their small towns and rural lifestyle and just transplanted it right into the middle of Bogotá. Everyone camped out on a university campus. People started cooking fires, boiling giant vats of soup for lunch, smoking pigskins, and brewing fresh, homemade chicha. Tents and tarps formed little settlements. A long pipe was constructed to pump out water for simple, open, community showers. Little kids played in the grass. Small informal music circles broke out. I saw a Bogotano student on clarinet join in with an Afro-Colombian drumline, a whole new sound you wouldn’t traditionally hear. That was the point of the whole thing. To join forces. But the most magical part of it all was the weather. Prior to the Congreso, it rained every single day in Bogotá for two weeks, like clockwork. Miserable. That weekend, though, some of the events’ indigenous leaders let us know that their tribes’ elders had been at work in the mountains, performing rituals to ask Mother Nature to bless the event with good weather. And it stayed sunny for seven whole days. Only a few scarce drops, and the rest of the time we saw beautiful, clear skies. The power of being in touch with nature like that is astounding – I absolutely believe it made a difference.

So we saw the whole event, met a lot of people from all across Colombia, as well as some other accompaniers from various countries/organizations. We sampled regional flavors, observed dances, music, and works of art, and we witnessed a lot of passionate people at work. Many in Colombia really do struggle to hold onto some of the most basic of human rights. It was amazing to watch the emotion and the resolve they displayed when talking about their communities’ challenges, and even more, their personal experiences. Once again, you can read the blog post I wrote afterwards, here.

With the Congreso and work surrounding it, my birthday arrived before I could blink. Since it fell on a Monday, and since 23 is not exactly a landmark year, I didn’t really expect much, but I got a good extended weekend out of it. A friend from Mexico, Andres, arrived Friday to help me celebrate, and he was barely off the plane before I rushed him off to party hop. Most interesting was a bicentennial-themed party, since Colombia also celebrated 200 years of independence this year. People in 17th-century costumes everywhere, in a really old house with lots of creaky-floored dark rooms, music on every floor, and a fire. Chevere, as they say. Then, Sunday, met up with a friend from AU, Jorge Andres, and his friend from the States, Ryan, who, small world, is also from Saint Louis. Jorge showed us what Bogotanos do on Sundays – leave Bogotá. We got lunch in Chia, a little town about an hour outside the city that pretty much only exists for upper/middle-class Bogotanos to visit on weekends. Great food though, and a pretty drive.

Finally, then, the big day: I rang in my birthday at midnight with shots of cheap rum in the restaurant next door, surrounded by loud Italian Miguel, his Colombian wife Ingrid, the waitress, Sandra, my neighbors – Italian Walter, Puerto Rican George, Colombian Eduardo, Israeli Raz, and his dog, Chico – and Andres. Ingrid played a video of “Las Mañanitas” on youtube for me – the traditional Latin American birthday song, with a little cartoon mouse in a sombrero serenading you. Sometimes I think about how I used to imagine my life when I reached this age. Like I’m so old, I’m reminiscing on the illusions of my youth. Anyway this is definitely nowhere near what I pictured, and that makes me happy.

Birthday-day, went up Montserrate with Andres, Jorge, and Ryan. Montserrate is pretty much THE tourist attraction in Bogotá – church on top of a mountain that overlooks the city. We took a small train up, but they say if you hike it, you get absolved of all your sins. Amen. Anyway at the top, besides the rather generic little church, there’s an amazing view of the city and tons of vendors selling really typical Colombian food and beverages. We lunched on ajiaco, arepas, mazorca, canelazo, and coca tea. After one last look down the mountain, we descended, took a walk around downtown to check out some other landmarks (Presidential Residence, Casa de Monedas, Plaza Bolivar, etc.), and went for dinner and drinks. Aaaand just to make the good times last, we rounded it all off with dinner again the following night at Andres DC, a restaurant/club that reigns as the favorite celebration spot in the city for twenty-somethings. Since I arrived, there has been some kind of party at Andres at least once every weekend. Never a bad choice.

And so time flies!

Well, that's new to me.

I have a secret admirer. Twice now I’ve found mysterious little gifts attached to my door – a flower crafted out of wire, and a heart-shaped balloon. Of all the unexpected occurrences that I could potentially encounter in this country, this would happen. Kind of fun though. I suspect the neighbor boy across the hall. We hung out a bit the weekend before last – Saturday night, went to a spot down the street to hear a band play costeña music and spy on the U.S. ambassador, who was there attempting to soak in a little culture incognito. And Sunday morning we went to the Gold Museum, which was surprisingly more interesting than I expected. But I believe now this boy is smitten. Or the real culprit is still out there…

More importantly, that Sunday I also attended an event as part of my internship, a concert supporting a group of men who are going through some complicated, and completely unjust, court procedures. All for organizing a workers’ strike two years ago – something they have every right to do. Even more alarmingly, for their leadership role in the strike, these men and their families have been the target of some serious intimidation tactics, even threats on their lives. This is not uncommon. Labor rights are a huge issue in this country. For example, out of 101 unionists murdered last year worldwide, 48 were Colombian. So almost half. Often because they choose to exercise rights that we in the States take for granted.

After the event Sunday, one of my duties was to write a short blog post about the event for Witness’s website, which you can read HERE, the first entry for October. Other duties lately: making speakers’ tour promotional videos, translating, and accompanying another event this past weekend (I’ll elaborate on this in the next post).

Back home in hostelworld, I pass the evenings with my neighbors and occasionally get to witness happy travelers making memories. The other night, for example, I came across Miguel in the restaurant, having a few beers after hours with some guys from the neighborhood. I joined, and eventually a few backpackers wandered in – a Brazilian and a Canadian who wanted food but settled for the wine that Miguel offered. More time goes by. Miguel is being loud and dancing. My other neighbors egg him on. The Israeli guy from across the street comes in, Hebrew-speaking black lab always in tow. A bum outside passes by the open door with his cart and stops, a huge teeth-baring smile plastered on his face, eyes glazed over. Miguel calls out to him, the guy keeps smiling brainlessly, Miguel praises him as the happiest man he knows, then blasts the music and goes on singing in Portuguese. It wouldn’t have been that noteworthy of a night, except what I really liked was watching how much the backpackers were enjoying the whole scene. They absolutely loved it. “Life is so random,” the girl says, and it’s fun because I know that feeling when you just stumble upon the unexpected. And when a situation so normal to some people, seems so extraordinary to someone else.

Some other ordinary things that are new to me: Using the Transmilenio, the city’s mass transit system, which is highly confusing and obnoxious in my opinion. But a challenge. Also, foods like arepas – corn patties grilled and usually filled with cheese or meat, or just loaded with butter and salt, and chicha – traditional indigenous fermented corn drink, really sweet and somehow delicious, unlike the Mexican counterpart (pulque) which I hated. I also drink a lot of tinto – black coffee, served in tiny, tiny little cups.

I could go on. But long story short, there’s plenty to discover in Bogotá.

Colombia: the Final Chapter (this year)

I’ve hit the final destination. Until December, I’m renting a room in Bogotá’s historic, colorful, charming yet dirty downtown center, in a neighborhood called La Candelaria. A long hallway connects my room to five others, occupied by one Italian DJ, two Colombian EMTs, and two other girls I have yet to properly meet. With the bunch of them, plus the owner, Blanca, who lives behind us, and another Italian, Miguel, who runs the adjoining restaurant (complete with secret door that connects to our hallway), there is always activity happening, and always music blasting. When my room starts to feel too small, I sneak into the restaurant to hang out with Miguel – the most stereotypical Italian I’ve ever met with his LOUD voice and over-expressive gestures – and his two waitresses. Hopefully picking up some cooking tricks.

I try to avoid spending too much time in my room, because I’m getting what I pay for, which is not much. Since I’ve been to Bogotá before, I’ve already hit some main attractions during past visits – the Plaza Bolivar, for example, and the Botero Museum (both great). Besides tourist stuff, though, just walking around the city makes for a decently entertaining afternoon, especially in my neighborhood. La Candelaria is backpacker central, overflowing with hostels and all their supplementary perks: restaurants, bars, internet cafes, laundry services, etc. This works to my advantage because I have everything I need at my fingertips, and there’s never a shortage of random foreigners to talk to. Unfortunately there’s also no shortage of pickpockets ready to target careless travelers. But I’m not terribly worried.

So far, the best moment hostelworld has yielded happened last Friday night, my second night in town. After the bars shut down, I ended up in a hostel down the street with two Irish backpackers and a Colombian ex-helicopter-pilot-turned-musician. Picture: Four people in a tiny cell of a room. Colombian guy singing and playing guitar, Irish guy joining in on his little Irish flute, both of them improvising, working out the music together as they went. Irish girl and me swaying, humming, singing along to the songs we knew, trying to learn the ones we didn’t. I don’t expect I’ll ever again hear a traditional Irish flute accompany an acoustic ballad sung in Spanish.

This past week, I also got to reunite with a few Colombian friends who used to study with me in DC. One of them took me with her parents to a park outside the city called Panaca – like a glorified farm, where you can see pig races, horse shows, etc, and pet the animals, or even just sit and enjoy the gorgeous mountain view. This is where I got my first taste of panela, made of dehydrated sugar cane juice and used in teas and other sweet dishes, especially in different corn and/or dairy combos. I’m seeing that food-wise, where most Mexicans would use chili, Colombians often use either sugar or butter. Score one, Colombia.

And finally, to bring some productivity to the scene, last Wednesday I started my internship with Witness for Peace. In brief, Witness works on social justice issues in Latin American countries, specifically with relation to U.S. foreign policy. In Colombia, this includes a wide variety of complicated problems that I could spend days explaining. My first day of work alone included a meeting with RECALCA – a coalition of NGOs working against free trade agreements in Colombia, and a second meeting with a woman named Daira who was forcibly displaced from her home in the southwest of the country, and who is about to travel with Witness on a speaker’s tour in the States. She was outstanding.

All together, a good start to what will hopefully be a great experience. I’m excited to see what unfolds!