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.
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