We left the small, primitive town of Tierradentro, where we spent two days hiking the mountains to see underground tombs from the 3rd to 9th centuries. We stayed at the Hospedaje Lucern, and indeed there was a poster of Lucern, Switzerland inside. Our room there and in San Agustin was OK. The hotel owners were an elderly hobbitlike couple, absolutely adorable.
But we have now been in two hostels, one run by a Scottish couple, one by a Dutch guy, with immaculate kitchens, and smooth, consistent pillows that don't feel like clotted cream. The sheets stay tucked in. I feel like I'm back in the West.
But that's the wrong word. I always was in the West! I'm back in the North American - European - Australian paradigm. I don't know what else to call it, but it sure feels good when my head caresses the pillow at night.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Career Counseling
Jose is a 19-year-old who works for the hotel owner at our San Agustin family-run hotel. He's very friendly and helpful, and last night we started chatting. I asked if he was in college. He said his family couldn’t afford it (although public universities here are basically free), and besides, he didn't want to leave the countryside.
"What do you see yourself doing in five years?" I asked.
He told me his parents own a coffee farm just outside of town, and he likes helping to produce coffee, plus he earns more doing that than at the hotel. But he has also bought some land near his parents’ coffee farm, very calm and tranquilo, and he is building a cabin to rent to foreign tourists. He explained the design plan: three bedrooms, living room, TV, kitchen.
"Great idea!" I said. "I think more and more tourists will be coming to this area, and you'll be able to make a good living working with tourists."
"I also bought a bull recently," he added. The first of a herd.
"You’re really an entrepreneur!" I said. "My husband and I both work for ourselves too. Would you like my thoughts on how to be successful?"
"Yes!" He seemed very excited to hear my ideas.
I said, "In your tourist cabin, I'd skip the TV and instead offer wifi. If you were targeting Colombian tourists, it might be different, but foreign visitors are far more interested in internet access than watching Colombian TV. It’s funny, every hotel we stay in has TV, but a lot of them don't offer wifi. Yet tourists don't come here to watch TV. The quality of European TV especially is generally very high, so they might not find Colombian TV that great." I was wallowing in these last words, regretting saying them, thinking they might sound offensive.
Jose said he thought wifi would be hard to offer because San Agustin is so remote.
"True," I agreed, "but the capacity will come. And also," I said, "I'd learn some basic English." He made a face. "I know, it’s a pain," I said, "but not everyone who comes here speaks Spanish and it will give you an advantage." Just then a friend of the hotel owner came in and introduced himself, immediately plunging into English, telling me he was a hairstylist and guitar player. "I'm learning English at the college," he said, "so I can understand tourists."
"You're just the testimonial I was looking for," I said. "See?" I said to Jose. "He's studying English."
Later that night at the internet center I asked the girl working there about Colombian TV. I was feeling badly about sounding negative when I really I know zero about it. "We have a lot of telenovelas (soap operas)," she said, pointing to the TV screen perched high on a wall. Characters in elaborate 18th century period costumes were speaking melodramatically. "And we have one channel about the country and one about animals." She paused. "But really, a lot of telenovelas."
I woke up thinking about Jose’s vision and decided his cabin would even better with a terrace or balcony. Our hotel room has a nice window, but would be more attractive with a balcony to enjoy our morning coffee or evening copita. In the morning, I'll suggest that to Jose.
These conversations are so much fun. Knowing Spanish helps, and I don't minimize that. But even Barry, whose Spanish is weaker than mine, just jumps in. It makes me feel more involved to talk with people. We find taxi drivers, tour operators, and hotel staff are easy "targets" (!) And they seem to enjoy it too.
"What do you see yourself doing in five years?" I asked.
He told me his parents own a coffee farm just outside of town, and he likes helping to produce coffee, plus he earns more doing that than at the hotel. But he has also bought some land near his parents’ coffee farm, very calm and tranquilo, and he is building a cabin to rent to foreign tourists. He explained the design plan: three bedrooms, living room, TV, kitchen.
"Great idea!" I said. "I think more and more tourists will be coming to this area, and you'll be able to make a good living working with tourists."
"I also bought a bull recently," he added. The first of a herd.
"You’re really an entrepreneur!" I said. "My husband and I both work for ourselves too. Would you like my thoughts on how to be successful?"
"Yes!" He seemed very excited to hear my ideas.
I said, "In your tourist cabin, I'd skip the TV and instead offer wifi. If you were targeting Colombian tourists, it might be different, but foreign visitors are far more interested in internet access than watching Colombian TV. It’s funny, every hotel we stay in has TV, but a lot of them don't offer wifi. Yet tourists don't come here to watch TV. The quality of European TV especially is generally very high, so they might not find Colombian TV that great." I was wallowing in these last words, regretting saying them, thinking they might sound offensive.
Jose said he thought wifi would be hard to offer because San Agustin is so remote.
"True," I agreed, "but the capacity will come. And also," I said, "I'd learn some basic English." He made a face. "I know, it’s a pain," I said, "but not everyone who comes here speaks Spanish and it will give you an advantage." Just then a friend of the hotel owner came in and introduced himself, immediately plunging into English, telling me he was a hairstylist and guitar player. "I'm learning English at the college," he said, "so I can understand tourists."
"You're just the testimonial I was looking for," I said. "See?" I said to Jose. "He's studying English."
Later that night at the internet center I asked the girl working there about Colombian TV. I was feeling badly about sounding negative when I really I know zero about it. "We have a lot of telenovelas (soap operas)," she said, pointing to the TV screen perched high on a wall. Characters in elaborate 18th century period costumes were speaking melodramatically. "And we have one channel about the country and one about animals." She paused. "But really, a lot of telenovelas."
I woke up thinking about Jose’s vision and decided his cabin would even better with a terrace or balcony. Our hotel room has a nice window, but would be more attractive with a balcony to enjoy our morning coffee or evening copita. In the morning, I'll suggest that to Jose.
These conversations are so much fun. Knowing Spanish helps, and I don't minimize that. But even Barry, whose Spanish is weaker than mine, just jumps in. It makes me feel more involved to talk with people. We find taxi drivers, tour operators, and hotel staff are easy "targets" (!) And they seem to enjoy it too.
Marino
We are now in San Agustin, a remote town in southern Colombia. Just getting here ws a feat. Eight hours by bus to go 75 miles! The poor gravel road was the main reason, but the bus also had mechanical problems, which slowed us down...like about two hours. Fortunately our driver was also a mechanic. Despite the ride, I’m thrilled we’re here. We went on a jeep tour yesterday and saw the narrows of the Rio Magdalena, two waterfalls, and two sets of archeological ruins set on on beautifully landscaped grassy swaths that the ancients themselves designed.
But one of the best "features" of the tour was our driver, Marino, a cheerful, informative guy who likes working with tourists, and sharing the area he loves. The three Italians on the tour, Barry and I asked him about the guerrillas, his salary ($11/day, and not a taboo subject here), his family life. While gazing at a waterfall, I asked him what he does each day after the tour. "Wash the jeep," he reported. "Everyday? Inside and out?"
"Well, it depends on how wet the road has been that day."
At one point Barry and I were in the jeep waiting for the Italians. Marino had already once sounded the call, his usual, "Bueno, chicos, vamonos," to no avail. He asked us how you get people to come back.
I launched into my speech on credibility, the talk I gave throughout the 90s to professional groups. I said, "You have to get out of the car, walk over to them, speak with authority, and say, 'Guys, time to go.'"
"Or," Barry said, "you can just do this." He reached around Marino, over to the steering wheel, and beeped the horn. All three Italians immediately jumped, turned around and started towards the jeep.
We burst into laughter. "It was him, not me!" protested Marino, a little embarrassed.
But one of the best "features" of the tour was our driver, Marino, a cheerful, informative guy who likes working with tourists, and sharing the area he loves. The three Italians on the tour, Barry and I asked him about the guerrillas, his salary ($11/day, and not a taboo subject here), his family life. While gazing at a waterfall, I asked him what he does each day after the tour. "Wash the jeep," he reported. "Everyday? Inside and out?"
"Well, it depends on how wet the road has been that day."
At one point Barry and I were in the jeep waiting for the Italians. Marino had already once sounded the call, his usual, "Bueno, chicos, vamonos," to no avail. He asked us how you get people to come back.
I launched into my speech on credibility, the talk I gave throughout the 90s to professional groups. I said, "You have to get out of the car, walk over to them, speak with authority, and say, 'Guys, time to go.'"
"Or," Barry said, "you can just do this." He reached around Marino, over to the steering wheel, and beeped the horn. All three Italians immediately jumped, turned around and started towards the jeep.
We burst into laughter. "It was him, not me!" protested Marino, a little embarrassed.
Monday, January 31, 2011
What I See That She Does Not
The noise of traffic. Not just the same din, but every particular beep, the roar of acceleration, the screaming trucks and buses pounding down the streets. The rap music in our hostel. The voices of backpackers paying their bills. The Spanish heard and spoken. Yellow waitress caps. Sweet breaded pastries. Scrambled eggs with onions and tomatoes. Milky coffee. Narrow sidewalks. People walking. Cleavages. Clouds giving way to sunshine. Rain clapping down on rooftops and then gentle as leaves dropping. A baby cries and cries and just as suddenly stops. Raucous voice, cooing voices, plaintive voices. Rust orange and Latin pink and green resurrection green. I wonder what was the last color Arabella was aware of when she took her final breath? Was it red, like the ruby ring Mother gave her in childhood? Was her mind all aswirl and fuzzy those last seconds, or did she have a pointed focus? Was she leaving or arriving? Departing or embarking?
Dusk, night, lights on, lights off. Potted palms. The shock of sewage as it hits the nostrils. Ants, mosquitos, dogs. Ice cream. How can all these things be so alive and real and pungent, yet she is not here to inhale them? Not only is she not here, in those last moments she seemed so ready and willing to let go of them all. How? She left behind so much!
She wouldn't be here in Colombia if she were alive. She'd be in New York City, exposed to the same mix of dogs barking and strewn trash and dawn emerging. But she's not in New York City. How can this be? Over a year later, I still ponder the mystery.
Dusk, night, lights on, lights off. Potted palms. The shock of sewage as it hits the nostrils. Ants, mosquitos, dogs. Ice cream. How can all these things be so alive and real and pungent, yet she is not here to inhale them? Not only is she not here, in those last moments she seemed so ready and willing to let go of them all. How? She left behind so much!
She wouldn't be here in Colombia if she were alive. She'd be in New York City, exposed to the same mix of dogs barking and strewn trash and dawn emerging. But she's not in New York City. How can this be? Over a year later, I still ponder the mystery.
Volcano!
Yesterday was one of the most physically challenging days of my life. We climbed a volcano called Purace, in yet another national park near here. (I'm impressed with the number of national parks Colombia has. Every area we've visited has had a park).
We took the 5:00 a.m. bus from Popayan, got off at 6:30, and walked half an hour up a gravel road to the park headquarters. All national parks in Colombia charge foreigners 19,000 pesos (or about $12) entrance fee, but we learned at the last national park we visited that if we bring our passports and can prove our ages, we are eligible for the senior discount.
The park ranger had climbed the volcano with his father since boyhood, and was enthusiastic. He even walked us five minutes along the trail to get us going. "Have you climbed summits before?" he asked. "Oh yes," we reassured him. "Lots of times!"
Easy words. From the very beginning, I found it hard going. I had forgotten that simple physical reality known as elevation. Popayan is at 1760 meters, the park headquarters where we started at 3350, and the volcano crater at 4760. Translated into feet, Popayan is at 5800', the park headquarters 11,000', and the crater at 15,600'. So we would be almost 10,000' higher than what we were used to.
We were not alone. At 5:30 that morning (two hours before us) a group of 33 from Cali had set off together, and a French couple started more or less with us.
The countryside was gentle and farmlike at the bottom, becoming increasingly steep, desolate and rocky. Sometimes I felt like I was trudging, one foot after the other. We had to rest at various points. It was hard work!
We reached a plateau, the low point of the crater rim, around 11:00 a.m., and then walked around the crater to the high point, watching rocks tumbling down the crater creating balls of dust as they accelerated. We could see vistas from both sides: the crater on one side, and sweeping valleys on the other.
As we started down, three people we had passed earlier reached the crater. One of the women burst into tears and got hugs from everyone. I think she was just overwhelmed by how challenging it had been. I kept thinking of her on the way down, wondering if her ecstacy at reaching the top might have dulled her awareness that descending wouldn't be much easier. It wasn't easier for me-- just a different kind of challenge. The upper stretches of the volcano hike were very steep and slippery. Plus I had developed an altitude headache that didn't fade even back in town, and we both felt nausea, though neither of us got sick.
We had just missed the bus when we got back to the park entrance, but as is our experience in countries like Colombia, you can forage rides this way and that. We got a ride in a van with a huge family (grandparents in the front, parents in the back, children of all ages from a baby to kids to young adults, plus us, all somehow sandwiched in the middle). That got us to a town about 40 minutes from the park, where the father pointed to a guy across the street and said, "He'll give you a ride!" Sure enough, our "pirate" taxista drove up and down the main street of town beeping, busking for passengers, finding two other adults and a kid, and drove us the last hour to Popayan for $3 each (well, that's what we paid, I suspect the locals paid less).
Back at our hostel, I took an ibuprofein, had a shower, then lay in bed wearing Barry's noise-cancelling earphones (well worth their weight here!). Two hours later, I was up for an Italian dinner.
We took the 5:00 a.m. bus from Popayan, got off at 6:30, and walked half an hour up a gravel road to the park headquarters. All national parks in Colombia charge foreigners 19,000 pesos (or about $12) entrance fee, but we learned at the last national park we visited that if we bring our passports and can prove our ages, we are eligible for the senior discount.
The park ranger had climbed the volcano with his father since boyhood, and was enthusiastic. He even walked us five minutes along the trail to get us going. "Have you climbed summits before?" he asked. "Oh yes," we reassured him. "Lots of times!"
Easy words. From the very beginning, I found it hard going. I had forgotten that simple physical reality known as elevation. Popayan is at 1760 meters, the park headquarters where we started at 3350, and the volcano crater at 4760. Translated into feet, Popayan is at 5800', the park headquarters 11,000', and the crater at 15,600'. So we would be almost 10,000' higher than what we were used to.
We were not alone. At 5:30 that morning (two hours before us) a group of 33 from Cali had set off together, and a French couple started more or less with us.
The countryside was gentle and farmlike at the bottom, becoming increasingly steep, desolate and rocky. Sometimes I felt like I was trudging, one foot after the other. We had to rest at various points. It was hard work!
We reached a plateau, the low point of the crater rim, around 11:00 a.m., and then walked around the crater to the high point, watching rocks tumbling down the crater creating balls of dust as they accelerated. We could see vistas from both sides: the crater on one side, and sweeping valleys on the other.
As we started down, three people we had passed earlier reached the crater. One of the women burst into tears and got hugs from everyone. I think she was just overwhelmed by how challenging it had been. I kept thinking of her on the way down, wondering if her ecstacy at reaching the top might have dulled her awareness that descending wouldn't be much easier. It wasn't easier for me-- just a different kind of challenge. The upper stretches of the volcano hike were very steep and slippery. Plus I had developed an altitude headache that didn't fade even back in town, and we both felt nausea, though neither of us got sick.
We had just missed the bus when we got back to the park entrance, but as is our experience in countries like Colombia, you can forage rides this way and that. We got a ride in a van with a huge family (grandparents in the front, parents in the back, children of all ages from a baby to kids to young adults, plus us, all somehow sandwiched in the middle). That got us to a town about 40 minutes from the park, where the father pointed to a guy across the street and said, "He'll give you a ride!" Sure enough, our "pirate" taxista drove up and down the main street of town beeping, busking for passengers, finding two other adults and a kid, and drove us the last hour to Popayan for $3 each (well, that's what we paid, I suspect the locals paid less).
Back at our hostel, I took an ibuprofein, had a shower, then lay in bed wearing Barry's noise-cancelling earphones (well worth their weight here!). Two hours later, I was up for an Italian dinner.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Conversation in a Shop
In Popoyan, as in other Colombian towns, shopping streets seem to be categorized by what they sell. On one block are the shoe stores, on another the fabric shops, on another stationery, on another kitchenware.
I wandered into one of the kitchen shops. Almost immediately I was approached by a salesperson, saying, "A la orden?" (meaning, "At your service.") In general, in Colombia I find customer service to be very good. Someone immediately approaches me, I rarely wait. This is not the case in Mexico, where people often wait patiently for service.
In the kitchen shop, soon after I was approached, I was asked the usual questions:
How long are you in Colombia?
What do you think of Colombia?
Where have you been so far?
Where are you from?
People here are friendly and curious.
I answered all the questions. Then the guy I was talking with called to someone else, telling him to come on over and practice his English with me.
The new guy came over and we chatted for a bit. Then he said, "Which is more polite to say, "Get lost!," or "Beat it!"?
"Neither one is very polite," I* said. "Who would you be saying it to?"
"My uncle," he said, pointing to the first guy who had called him over. I wasn't sure he understood my question, since he and his uncle seemed on friendly terms. "I guess you might use one of those phrases with a very good friend," I said dubiously, thinking about how guys treat each other with a rough banter that women never use.
"But what would be a more polite way of saying it?"
"You might say, 'Please give me some space,'" I said, translating it into Spanish, adding "That's an idiom."
Now I wonder, where did that question come from? I wish I had asked.
People are so open here! Especially in Popoyan, where I suspect few tourists come. I said to Barry last night, "This is the kind of town where a tourist will pounce upon another tourist and say, "You speak English! or, "You're from somewhere!" There's a kind of innocence all over Colombia, but especially here in popayan.
I wandered into one of the kitchen shops. Almost immediately I was approached by a salesperson, saying, "A la orden?" (meaning, "At your service.") In general, in Colombia I find customer service to be very good. Someone immediately approaches me, I rarely wait. This is not the case in Mexico, where people often wait patiently for service.
In the kitchen shop, soon after I was approached, I was asked the usual questions:
How long are you in Colombia?
What do you think of Colombia?
Where have you been so far?
Where are you from?
People here are friendly and curious.
I answered all the questions. Then the guy I was talking with called to someone else, telling him to come on over and practice his English with me.
The new guy came over and we chatted for a bit. Then he said, "Which is more polite to say, "Get lost!," or "Beat it!"?
"Neither one is very polite," I* said. "Who would you be saying it to?"
"My uncle," he said, pointing to the first guy who had called him over. I wasn't sure he understood my question, since he and his uncle seemed on friendly terms. "I guess you might use one of those phrases with a very good friend," I said dubiously, thinking about how guys treat each other with a rough banter that women never use.
"But what would be a more polite way of saying it?"
"You might say, 'Please give me some space,'" I said, translating it into Spanish, adding "That's an idiom."
Now I wonder, where did that question come from? I wish I had asked.
People are so open here! Especially in Popoyan, where I suspect few tourists come. I said to Barry last night, "This is the kind of town where a tourist will pounce upon another tourist and say, "You speak English! or, "You're from somewhere!" There's a kind of innocence all over Colombia, but especially here in popayan.
Noise
So we leapt across the country, from Cartagena in the north, to Popayan in the south, a town that our Lonely Planet guide made sound like a whitewashed romantic village. (I am a bit cynical about the Lonely Planet.) It is true that Popayan's historic district is painted all white, but it is not particularly romantic. It is thronged with people, cars, and motorbikes that scream at you with loud beeps. Streets are narrow, built for horses (which you still see here); sidewalks are even narrower. Colombia does not dedicate large portions of its centros to pedestrians, as Mexico does, and traffic rules.
If there's traffic noise outside, there's usually music inside. So I'm sitting here, even in the hostel where we're staying, wearing Barry's super-duper earphones that block out a lot of noise. It's astonishing, the difference. Noise is the one external stimulus I seem to have no power over; I get so agitated by it. Last night, in our former hotel, I barely slept, between the traffic noise and coffee.
I remember meeting a couple in the Bay Area years ago who told me their dream was to retire somewhere in the calmer, less competitive underdeveloped world, away from high-stress Silicon Valley. "Calmer? Are you kidding?" I said. "Cars without mufflers? Noise? Crowds?"
I asked Barry his engineer's opinion on why there is so much less noise on U.S. streets. "American streets are wider," he said.
"But in Old Town (where we live in Eureka) they're narrow," I argued. Still, we have less traffic in Eureka than we've seen in most Colombian towns, and cars move more slowly. Motorbikes, the poor person's mode of transit, make a lot of noise.
I do not know whether Latinos love sound intrinsically, or have just grown used to it. I do remember a Spanish teacher in Oaxaca years ago telling me that while she went through her daily activities, she had to have some kind of background sound, silence was unbearable. I'm the opposite. I'm probably one of the most a-musical people I know. No wonder this part of the world brings up challenges for me!
If there's traffic noise outside, there's usually music inside. So I'm sitting here, even in the hostel where we're staying, wearing Barry's super-duper earphones that block out a lot of noise. It's astonishing, the difference. Noise is the one external stimulus I seem to have no power over; I get so agitated by it. Last night, in our former hotel, I barely slept, between the traffic noise and coffee.
I remember meeting a couple in the Bay Area years ago who told me their dream was to retire somewhere in the calmer, less competitive underdeveloped world, away from high-stress Silicon Valley. "Calmer? Are you kidding?" I said. "Cars without mufflers? Noise? Crowds?"
I asked Barry his engineer's opinion on why there is so much less noise on U.S. streets. "American streets are wider," he said.
"But in Old Town (where we live in Eureka) they're narrow," I argued. Still, we have less traffic in Eureka than we've seen in most Colombian towns, and cars move more slowly. Motorbikes, the poor person's mode of transit, make a lot of noise.
I do not know whether Latinos love sound intrinsically, or have just grown used to it. I do remember a Spanish teacher in Oaxaca years ago telling me that while she went through her daily activities, she had to have some kind of background sound, silence was unbearable. I'm the opposite. I'm probably one of the most a-musical people I know. No wonder this part of the world brings up challenges for me!
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