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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
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!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The World Is Getting Fatter
I've been surprised by the number of heavy people I've seen since we arrived in Colombia. I'm used to it in the USA, England (where we visit semi-regularly, because Barry's family lives there) and Mexico (which has one of the highest diabetes rates in the world), but I did not expect it here. But many many folks we see, both Colombians and tourists, are overweight. As the book title says, "the world is getting fatter."
I was especially surprised a couple of weeks ago, when we met two Swedish women in their twenties. The Swedes I've met during my traveling career seemed to always come with lithe, fashion-magazine bodies. In my mind, it was part of the Swede "package." But these two (though they had the blonde hair, true to the package) were as pudgy as everyone else.
Last night an Argentine family arrived at our hotel. Both the parents and the husband's cousins were heavy.
Like Mexicxo, Colombia excels in fried street food. I haven't sampled much of it because most of it is meat-based. But it sure looks delectable in that fatty, greasy (yum!) way. But Mexica and I assume, Colombia has always offered fried food from street vewndors, so just the existence of it doesn't make the case for greater obesity. In Mexico, the growing overweight of the population is much discussed in the media, and in fact, Mexico City has just embarked on a bicycle-rental program. I have not seen any such concern in the press here.
At least it's not just a problem in the States.
I was especially surprised a couple of weeks ago, when we met two Swedish women in their twenties. The Swedes I've met during my traveling career seemed to always come with lithe, fashion-magazine bodies. In my mind, it was part of the Swede "package." But these two (though they had the blonde hair, true to the package) were as pudgy as everyone else.
Last night an Argentine family arrived at our hotel. Both the parents and the husband's cousins were heavy.
Like Mexicxo, Colombia excels in fried street food. I haven't sampled much of it because most of it is meat-based. But it sure looks delectable in that fatty, greasy (yum!) way. But Mexica and I assume, Colombia has always offered fried food from street vewndors, so just the existence of it doesn't make the case for greater obesity. In Mexico, the growing overweight of the population is much discussed in the media, and in fact, Mexico City has just embarked on a bicycle-rental program. I have not seen any such concern in the press here.
At least it's not just a problem in the States.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Cartagena
We had heard Cartagena was the most beautiful city in the Americas. So of course, we came. The drive from the bus station to the city did not make it look extraordinary. But after we settled in, we started walking around, and sure enough, it is beautiful, and very reminscent of New Orleans. Pastel-colored buildings (paint colors softer than Mexico), balconies with trellises, narrow streets, old buildings, courtyards, tiny walkways that appear out of nowhere. Plus, of course, the old city walls that we had to walk on.
The city has the same faded beauty I remember from New Orleans. Each corner offer a zillion photo opportunities. Lovely.
One of the things we notice, all over Caribbean Colombia, is the increase in black people. But what´s also noticeable is the ease between races. We had read in our guidebook that there is very little racism in Colombia, and I pick up on that physically. It's wonderful to be in a community where I don't sense hostility.
Yesterday Barry suggested we eat lunch at an Indian restaurant he had spotted. Indian? I was pumped. One thing we have not seen anywhere in Colombia is ethnically diverse restaurants. So we walked from one end of Old Town to the other looking for it, headed down a little corridor off the street to the restaurant, and sat down at a patio table, only to discover it was a restaurant called ¨"Caribe de las Indias," a play on Cartagena's name. Nothing to do with East India! Instead it was same old: rice, a patch of lettuce, and fish. And a Club de Colombia beer that we split, and mango juice. (Not too shabby, even if it wasn't aloe gobi!)
The city has the same faded beauty I remember from New Orleans. Each corner offer a zillion photo opportunities. Lovely.
One of the things we notice, all over Caribbean Colombia, is the increase in black people. But what´s also noticeable is the ease between races. We had read in our guidebook that there is very little racism in Colombia, and I pick up on that physically. It's wonderful to be in a community where I don't sense hostility.
Yesterday Barry suggested we eat lunch at an Indian restaurant he had spotted. Indian? I was pumped. One thing we have not seen anywhere in Colombia is ethnically diverse restaurants. So we walked from one end of Old Town to the other looking for it, headed down a little corridor off the street to the restaurant, and sat down at a patio table, only to discover it was a restaurant called ¨"Caribe de las Indias," a play on Cartagena's name. Nothing to do with East India! Instead it was same old: rice, a patch of lettuce, and fish. And a Club de Colombia beer that we split, and mango juice. (Not too shabby, even if it wasn't aloe gobi!)
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Fantasy of Stopping
So I mentioned in my last post that I told Barry I was ready to stop.
After several weeks of traveling on buses and shopping for hotels, just stopping for awhile sounds idyllic. My fantasy is this: Barry and I find a comfortable, pretty town, with a simple place to base ourselves. Maybe it's a hotel room with kitchen facilities. Maybe it's a studio apartment. We take walks, we swim, we write, I shop for food and cook, we meet folks, we invite them over for a drink or a meal.
It sounds cozy. It sounds comfortable. It sounds like Eureka!
I miss our cozy apartment in Eureka. Enjoying our late-afternoon glass of wine, looking out at our neighbor apartments. Dipping down to the hot tub once, twice, or several times a day. Cooking up one of my one-pot stews, while Barry watches the Simpsons, three yards away. (Funny. I love our life in Mexico, but right now it's the coziness of our life and home in Old Town that call me). We are at the midway point of our trip. We've been in Colombia for three weeks, and we have another three weeks to go. My mind doesn't absorb this information easily. Three weeks? I think. What on earth will we do all that time?
I know what we'll do. More of the same, pretty much, and the same is good. It's just that at a certain point, my mind rebels. What is all this for? I ask myself. What's the point? What good is it doing anyone? Remind me again, why am I in Colombia?
It was your decision, I tell myself (sternly). You can't blame Barry (God, how I'd love to!) An old drama, blaming him because I'm in some country and I forget why I'm there. But in this case. I chose the country and I chose the dates. Damn!
I always go through this. It's nothing new. And oddly, though I say I want to stop, I'm often the first of us to say, "Let's move on."
The only remedy is to take the next step, whatever that is. Right now the next step is to wake Barry, who is in our dark room and won't wake by himself, and doesn't like to sleep late.
OK, that's what I'll do. Go wake him, make us coffee, go to the store for yogurt, come back, we'll have breakfast, then stroll around Cartagena (which reminded me last night strongly of New Orleans, where I went to college), and surrender to the day.
After several weeks of traveling on buses and shopping for hotels, just stopping for awhile sounds idyllic. My fantasy is this: Barry and I find a comfortable, pretty town, with a simple place to base ourselves. Maybe it's a hotel room with kitchen facilities. Maybe it's a studio apartment. We take walks, we swim, we write, I shop for food and cook, we meet folks, we invite them over for a drink or a meal.
It sounds cozy. It sounds comfortable. It sounds like Eureka!
I miss our cozy apartment in Eureka. Enjoying our late-afternoon glass of wine, looking out at our neighbor apartments. Dipping down to the hot tub once, twice, or several times a day. Cooking up one of my one-pot stews, while Barry watches the Simpsons, three yards away. (Funny. I love our life in Mexico, but right now it's the coziness of our life and home in Old Town that call me). We are at the midway point of our trip. We've been in Colombia for three weeks, and we have another three weeks to go. My mind doesn't absorb this information easily. Three weeks? I think. What on earth will we do all that time?
I know what we'll do. More of the same, pretty much, and the same is good. It's just that at a certain point, my mind rebels. What is all this for? I ask myself. What's the point? What good is it doing anyone? Remind me again, why am I in Colombia?
It was your decision, I tell myself (sternly). You can't blame Barry (God, how I'd love to!) An old drama, blaming him because I'm in some country and I forget why I'm there. But in this case. I chose the country and I chose the dates. Damn!
I always go through this. It's nothing new. And oddly, though I say I want to stop, I'm often the first of us to say, "Let's move on."
The only remedy is to take the next step, whatever that is. Right now the next step is to wake Barry, who is in our dark room and won't wake by himself, and doesn't like to sleep late.
OK, that's what I'll do. Go wake him, make us coffee, go to the store for yogurt, come back, we'll have breakfast, then stroll around Cartagena (which reminded me last night strongly of New Orleans, where I went to college), and surrender to the day.
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