Cartagena: the walled city

One of many fun statues in old town, Cartagena

Cartagena has inspired locals and travelers alike for centuries. It’s been well preserved and continues to enchant with its narrow allies and mosaic of mainly three-story buildings built through the various eras of architecture. One must brave the heat; midday it gets up to the 90s and is mercilessly balmy, with few options for seeking relief of the natural (shade) or manmade (AC) variety. The beach is banal, if any beach with smooth sand, gentle and warm waves, and throngs of happy people can be described that way. Though the constant march of walking vendors can get a little tiresome, it’s also pretty awesome to be able to get almost anything without having to move (and clearly I’m talking about food, not jewelry or chucharias—knick knacks—and such). Fruit salad, arepas, empanadas, a full lunch of fried fish, rice, patacones (smashed green plantains made into a patty and fried), gooey things with coconut and sesame seeds that I don’t recognize. . . .the options are endless. So endless that I’m often too overwhelmed to get beyond my staple of mango (but even then I have to choose green or ripe!! With salt? Lime? Honey? Picante? Condensed milk?). So banal, but still fun. The Colombians describe these beaches as “ugly”, but you have to understand that it’s a relative comparison to the other, super stunning beaches that Colombia has to offer. So take it with a grain of (sea) salt. And maybe some sand for good measure.

Rough on the eyes, I know

I fell under Cartagena’s spell not so much during the day, but at night. One night Camilo and I managed to pry two chairs and a couple beers away from the workers playing chess on the beach and enjoyed the cool night’s breeze, almost full moon, and the sound of the waves. I’m pretty sure that I could happily sit in that same spot every night for the rest of my life and never get tired of the sweet smell of the beach and the air caressing my hair. But, the next night we moved down to the old city, where the old walls have been converted into a bar (Café del Mar), where you can sit either in open air bar, which we did on Tuesday, and enjoy the 6000 peso (USD 3) beers, or climb up onto the walls themselves (which we did on Wednesday) and grab a drink from the guys passing by with coolers and containers of all sorts of foods and drinks (there a beer will run you more like USD 1). There’s a lighthouse out in the distance that we stare at for a while, wondering in the way that restless nomads do what the view is like from there (and if there, would we be wondering about the view from Café del Mar).

One of Camilo’s roommates is an Argentinian, and she’s on tour with 7 female friends from Argentina. They swoop into the scene, dressed to the nines, with a bottle of aguardiente (similar to Sambuca and the national liquor of choice), speaking the polished Castesssshhhhano that Argentinians do, and get the party started. We head off to check out some of the local dance clubs (remember that it’s a Wednesday night at 10:30PM)—I feel like a bit of an ugly duckling next to these glammed up girls in my flip flops and jeans, but music is a democratizing force. The dance floor welcomes anyone who has ganas de bailar. I have been taking advantage of the opportunity to get some free dance lessons from the locals and before long am “spinning like a top,” per Camilo (that is a compliment; I asked for clarification). When dizzy and tired from a workout to cumbia, reggaeton, salsa, merengue and techno, we are asked to leave at closing time, we retreat to the city walls to enjoy music blasting from a cell phone by the light of the moon. The sun is practically rising by the time we finally head back to Boca Grande, where I’ve now officially been invited into the circle of trust and am staying with Camilo’s family in a two-bedroom (three if you include the living room) apartment (we are nine heads!). While cramped, it was actually a lot of fun—having enjoyed many beach trips with my cousins all piled into bunk beds, it was fun to see what another family’s version was like. My favorite details: everyone (including me) took a siesta in the afternoon (which enabled the late night!) and we had oatmeal (in cups and crackers to dip in it) for dinner. I tried to explain grits to them; they looked pretty skeptical about cornmeal being boiled and resembling oatmeal in any way. Obviously my Spanish is not perfect yet.  I guess I'll have to stick around a bit longer. . . .

View from outside the walls at dusk

There are a lot of Cartagena’s “musts” that I didn’t do. I didn’t actually ever make it into the castle. Nor did I visit the house of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Or the mud pit that lies outside of the city that someone at my hotel in Bogota recommended, or the nearby beaches of Isla Blanca and Varu that the Colombians rave about. To be honest, Bogota had a vibe that I liked much more, despite being less flipflop friendly. Bogota felt like a place to live; Cartagena a place where all were there to visit de paseo and party hard. But Cartagena marked an inflection point, and the beginning of an adventure worth telling with all the salacious details that made it so fun. So stay tuned. . . .

How to speak Colombian, and other tidbits

To sound convincingly Colombian, one must use the term "marica" frequently (roughly translates into "dude" in its usage).  Example, "Hola, marica!" or "Marica, vamos a la playa."  If you are a gringa, you can get a good laugh out of folks by using it to open and close a sentence: Marica, tengo hambre, marica.  Using terms like "Chimba" (adj; meaning REALLY good or bad), bacana (cool), and chevere (also cool) and adding super in front of adjectives for emphasis will also help.
I should note that "marica" in other countries is a bit of insult, so this is really a guide for how to speak in Colombia only.

Couple quick updates:
1.  I am swinging in a hammock while writing this post.
2.  I've slept in a hammock the past 4 nights.
3.  Every shower I've taken in the last week has been using a bucket (my hair looks GREAT)
4.  Colombia continues to be more and more fun.  There's a saying here that "the only risk in coming to Colombia is never leaving."  I agree!

None shall pass, marica!

Summaries of Cartagena and Gujira forthcoming.  I've been out camping in the middle of the desert/beach and didn't take my computer with me, so I have some catching up to do.

"Family" "Vacation" in Cartagena

Sunday afternoon, I arrived in Cartagena, a city of about 1 million people that is the main tourist destination for wealthy Colombians and most international tourists. Its main attraction is the well preserved colonial architecture that’s contained in its charming old town area. But, as it’s popular and now is high season, it’s a bit of a scene. I arrived sans reservations (not highly recommended strategy in Lonely Planet, but what else is new), and asked at the tourist desk if it was possible arrange a short-term homestay. I was eager to follow up on the knowledge I’d gained of Colombian families from the movie El Paseo last week and force more conversation in Spanish. No such luck; I was handed a map and told to go to the neighborhood of Getsemani. Lonely Planet suggested this area too as most of the hostels are there, but Sandra from Hotel Platypus had written down a place she liked that was further out on the peninsula on Boca Grande. Decisions, decisions. I decide that since everyone on my flight is going to Getsemani, I might as well split a cab with someone. I see a guy with a giant backpack getting into a cab, so I say, “Are you going to Getsemani?” He stares at me hard and says, “No, I’m going to Boca Grande.” “Oh, alright. Want to split a cab? Me too.” Still staring at me, he sort of nods, and given that I’ve pretty much already jumped in, he has little choice. I didn’t consider that this being Colombia, there might be stories of women pretending to be working solo and slipping drugs to guys in taxis and stealing all their money. Instead, I just think the guy’s a little strange calling his mom every 5 minutes to give her an update about our location. Always nice to learn what vibes you really give off!

Turns out Camilo is here for a week of family vacation, and intends to use the time to tell his parents that he’s not moving home as anticipated, but rather staying in Bogota and hoping to head to Spain for school. He’s quit his job, recently broken up with a girlfriend, and a little disillusioned with the world. What better time to meet a gringa loca blowing through Colombia? He invites me to join his family as they go sightseeing that evening. The sociologist in me jumps at the offer.

Shoe-da, coulda, woulda

So I go from a party of one to a fiesta of nine Sunday afternoon. We fill two cabs to get down to the “zapatos”, a sculpture of two shoes that is a symbol of Cartagena. Camilo’s dad has his camera bag around his neck and is barking out orders for different permutations of the family to pose. I manage to wrestle to camera away from him for a few shots so that he too can pose. We then take a detour into a mall for a bit to escape the heat. Three-year-old Ana spies a booth selling watches and convinces her dad to buy her one with hello kitty on it. We then walk over to the castle, the largest that the Spanish built in Latin America, but don’t actually pay to go in, instead just take our pictures in front of it. Camilo’s family insists that I get in for several of the photos. I’m convinced that when they look at them in five years, they’ll have no recollection of who the blondie is. There are shots from the bay of me in between Camilo and his dad, others of me with his sisters, and then full family shots. And of course, they are all on facebook now. I can’t help drawing comparisons to El Paseo and laughing to myself (not really sure how to translate “inside joke”, so I don’t try).

Aren't we cute?  In front of the castle

After a long walk through the cobbled streets of the old part of town and dinner, they drop me off at my hotel. I’d greeted them all with handshakes that afternoon, but now feel we’ve worked out way up to the obligatory kiss on the cheek, so I do the rounds. They say, See you tomorrow! And leave me standing there, still slightly surprised at how quickly I’ve been adopted into the family. Only Ana maintains her suspicions.

Yesterday after a run and some fresh juice, I call la familia to see what we’re doing. My calls go unanswered! I am hurt; I thought we had a truly special connection. So I set off for old town on my own, to see the plazas in the day and potentially pay the entrance fee to the castle. The heat is amazing; I am sweating buckets within a few minutes and find myself ducking into designer stores here and there to get a break. Around lunch time I arrive in leafy Bolizar Plaza. I had noticed a lot of people in the area eating lunch out of Styrofoam boxes, and saw guys with plastic bags full of them that looked like they were selling them, and now I see the cart where they all originate. I wander over to get a better look at what they’ve got. A professor of history is getting his lunch at the moment, explains the offerings to me, and invites me to dine with him in the park (to explore the old city, he says, one must bring their plazaporte (passport in Spanish is passaporte.  Well done, sir)). He’s been living in Cartagena for thirty years and has written two books on the city, including one, I later find out, that has “scientific proof” for the existence of ghosts. He takes me through the gold museum for a very thorough understanding of the cultures of local indigenous groups, and then we take a walk through the old town. I learn that three American presidents and Condoleeza Rice have been to Cartagenas, see where Marlo Brandon smoked marijuana when they were filming “Burn!” in 1969, and where Bill Gates stayed, as well a more about the history; the waves go parallel to the coast in front of the old city walls because there are underwater walls built to wreck attacking ships, how during the inquisition a woman could be killed for speaking to a man other than her husband after dark, unless she had bars on her window which protected her chastity (you can imagine the faces I’m making at this point), and a lot about the architecture from different periods. “Prof” (as many greeted my companion on the street) and I spent about three hours together, stopping twice to buy plastic shot glasses full of tinto (strong black coffee) from guys that kept it in a thermos on a cart, and then I decided to peel off. But I have to wonder, does this happen in the U.S.? Do we adopt strangers spontaneously and show them around? Here people are anxiously for me to like, see, and understand Cartagena, and are willing to invest their own time in ensuring that my experience is positive. It’s not what I expected, but it’s certainly been a nice window into the lives of various Colombians, which I certainly find fun and rewarding.

Again, it’s these types of interactions that also point out the holes in my Spanish. I don’t have the little words that evidently form the basis of my extremely evolved and sophisticated modes of communication and humor: weird, awkward, riiiiight, really(?). Also 100% of the jokes that I made on Sunday went unrecognized (even when I introduced what I was saying by saying, there is a joke about that. . . ). Ouch. (another word I don’t have). Yesterday, when I eventually DID make contact with the family and joined them for an evening stroll around the harbor and lagoon, I tried harder. Camilo had outed me by telling them all that I’d seen El Paseo and thought it resembled their family (not exactly a compliment, as you can imagine). Luckily, they took that in stride and as a result insisted that we take even MORE pictures together. My favorite is one where we’re all standing on little pier in the lagoon and I’m in the middle with my arms outstretched in front and a super excited expression on my face. They said if I come back next year I can even stay in the apartment with them. So for all that I want to milk the situation for humor, they are unbelievably warm and a lot of fun to spend time with after a few days of solitude.

She only looks cute and innocent!

Ana, meanwhile, insisted that we weren’t friends. But on the walk, we passed an amusement party and she really wanted to go in. Camilo said, Ana, I want to go to, but it costs money and I don’t have any. She’s quiet for a second and then says, “Maria, have you seen my hello kitty watch?” I admire it. Meanwhile, she turns to Camilo and whispers, “does Maria have money?” Sneaky, especially for such a young age! I felt so used. If only I could make a joke about it. . . .

Back to the beach--don't hate the playa, hate the game (playa=beach in Espanol :)

Bogota: en resumen con carino

First, I want to give a big shout out to June Erlick’s book, Una Gringa in Bogota. I read it the week before I came down here and it was fantastic. She’s reflective and analytical without being long-winded and does a fantastic job keeping you at her side while she walks around the city doing ordinary things. Her stories offer insight the Colombian culture and Bogotan way of life, with her own perspectives, but she manages to avoid the Eat. Pray. Love. annoying factor.

So for sure my experience is framed by her book, which is best summed up as a 30-something year love affair with the country and in particular the capital city. She writes with the tenderness that only comes with a mature and deep affection cultivated over a number of years and having survived many changes. Mine is more of a blind date, three day weekend sort of romance at the moment, but certainly find Bogota to be a place that I wouldn’t mind investing in a longer-term relationship with. Thus, take my reflections below with a grain of salt, as they haven’t had time for much testing during my parachute in.

Up on top of old Mont Serrate

My first surprise was how walkable Bogota is. There are sidewalks everywhere and the crowds and traffic fairly peaceful, except at rush hour. Colombians are really all colors, and I feel pretty anonymous as I walk around, although I’ve been told that I’m fairly tall for a woman and my eyes, when I take off my sunglasses are a dead giveaway. Nonetheless, for the most part I can spend the day wandering while attracting only minimal attention. And there are plenty of fun spots to wander through. The city is huge—you don’t sense it when you’re in the old town (called La Candelaria as historically candles were made here), but once you head up to the top of Mont Serrate and take a look around, you see that it’s managed to creep up the surrounding hills as far as the eye can see. Skyscrapers are popping up, announcing the emerging growth in the financial and commerce sectors, and surrounding these upcoming districts are high-end apartment complexes and artsy restaurants. There are lots of these pockets hidden all over the place; instead of having a “Soho” or a “South End”, there are instead dozens of little places that you have to find, so wandering is quite rewarding in that way. For example, my first morning I headed over to the planetarium and the “Moorish” style Plaza de Toros. Up above it I noticed apartment complexes that I would later learn were designed by greatly admired Colombian architect Rogelio Salmona and greatly coveted. Walking still further up the hill, I stumbled on an area called La Macarena, which has become a bohemian hideout, with independent coffee shops and hippy hangouts. A friend took me uptown yesterday (which was a great chance to learn the bus routes—again, incredibly effective and simple compared to those that exist in many other cities worldwide), and showed me around Usaquen, a “town that was eaten by Bogota”. The old buildings have been preserved but filled with designer stores and cool restaurants; it is really amazing that you can walk through these narrow cobbled streets, passing stands with traditional Colombian crafts and fabrics, and then step into one of these beautiful buildings and be in proper Mercado with farmers selling fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen before (Lulo? Curuba? Yet to find a translation, but they are delicious!).

View of Catedral Primada from my perch (outdoor seating at El Corral) at the Gabriel Garcia Marquez Culture Center

I’ve been impressed with the importance placed on courtesy here. I’ve yet to see a rude interactions (although I stand corrected on my initial impression that there was no honking; Friday rush hour is cacophonous from the 3rd floor. . . . ), and I’ve watched the police telling a homeless man he has to move, disorganized queues to get on the bus, and shop owners with competing customers to see if I can’t catch one of them slipping up. They are courteous with me but usually not overtly friendly; I really have to make the first move and be pretty proactive if I want to break the ice. But, in the cases where I’ve been able to, it’s been quite rewarding. There is fresh fruit for sale on every street corner—green and ripe mango, pineapple, papaya, and bananas are the staples, as well as orange juice that they make to order. The going rate for a big cup of sliced and peeled mango (with honey or the works: lime, salt, and spice) is about 50 cents, so I have essentially alternated between dipping into bakeries for a steaming cup of café con leche and a tasty snack (corn arepas with queso are a favorite; empanadas are good too) and mango on the street. Just two blocks from my hotel, I found a fruit stand run by a very friendly couple. They are full of questions about the U.S., immigration policy, cold weather, the availability of tropical fruits, and all sorts of other things. I’ve gotten into the habit of heading there mid-morning to spend an hour or so just watching them work, meeting their regular customers, asking questions about their life and business, and getting an occasional bite of pineapple slipped my way (they are mainly amused by my constant sounds of delight at how incredibly sweet it is). It’s a privilege to have this kind of time, to do what some would call ethnography of a common space (Sidewalk style; a great read on Greenwich Village in NYC). It’s certainly stretching the bounds of my Spanish, but in a very healthy way. It was stretched another way when I was enticed out into the Bogota bar scene; there are a lot of universities in my area so I went dancing to one of them with a friend of a friend. Being coached in salsa, cumbia, and merengue in Spanish over the blaring music—you certainly don’t get that at most language schools.

Trying new fruit juices with Andres and Monica (who is taking the picture) at an upscale foodcourt in Zona Rosa.  Note that we're bundled up!

There’s more to tell, but the city beckons. I am leaving tomorrow for Cartagena; excited for the beach and warm weather, but more than a little sad to leave the city to which I’ve quickly grown attached. I’ll be excited to swing back through in another week or so. The abnormal amounts of rain have left some of the main highways impassable, so I may end up doing more of a hub and spoke model of travel (utilizing cheap airlines, at times) than my planned circular path. The joys of unplanned and constantly evolving travel.

“You lock it up.” “No, YOU lock it up.” OR “The Application of Random Walk Theory”

Before setting off for exploring Bogota yesterday morning, I stopped by the front desk to put my valuables in one of their safe boxes. The receptionist, Sandra, informed me that they did not provide locks. She suggested that I head up the street to where she though that there was a ferreteria (iron foundry/store) to buy a candado (lock). I was expecting her to send me to the equivalent of a CVS, but a ferreteria worked too. So I headed out the door, walked a few blocks, and poked my head into a small convenience store to ask, donde esta la ferreria? The response: it will not be open until the 11th, when the owner gets back from vacation.


Great. I had not thought about Christmas vacation as an obstacle to obtaining a cantado, but surely there must be other ferreterias that are open? The store owner furrowed his brow deeply, and then said that I should try the llaveria (key store. . .essentially if you add "ia" to the end of a noun, you get a store that sells that). Once I reached the top of the path and climbed up the hill, I should ask for Don Alvaro. Muchos gracias, Senor, and off I went. I climbed up the hill, which at 2,100m elevation is a bit difficult. At the top, I found myself on a switchback of a highway, no stores in sight. So I asked the guy who happened to be walking by, carrying a bucket of cement, if he knew where the llaveria was. He did, and asked if I wanted him to accompany me (Eres muy linda was the explanation for the offer). “I hope that’s not necessary,” I replied, although when 30 minutes later I was still looking for the blasted llaveria, I began to wonder if I should have accepted. He sent me back down the hill, and the next guy I asked, sent me down another hill, to the plaza. I made the mistake of cutting through a cobbled alleyway and found three bulldogs running at me. Luckily they were muzzled and their owner called them off, but it certainly got my heart racing.

After getting directions three more times, I found the plaza! I asked a security guard for the llaveria. He looks at me like I’m crazy. You want to buy keys?! No, I want to buy a candado. Fine, then. Walk down the hill to the stoplight (one of my favorite words: semaforo), and it’s there. So I ambled along, tasting success in my mouth, and find the llaveria tucked into the first floor of an apartment building. I walked in and the guard asks, what are you here for? The llaveria. It’s closed. What time does it open? The 19th of January. What?! Even locksmiths get a month of vacation?! Forgetting to make my words slightly politer than my thoughts, I blurted out: but I need a lock today! He says, that’s great, but that won’t make the llaveria open. Fair enough. So then I ask him what he suggests. Walk two blocks to the left and then ask someone else (i.e. don’t make it my problem). Lovely. I walked two blocks over and find myself in the book district. All the stores sell books (i.e. they are librerias). I’m waved onward, and find myself in a bustling commercial district, although one that seems to be heavily occupied by cell phone accessory stores. And nothing else, except for the seemingly ubiquitous laminating centers (because clearly if you could pick anything to have on every corner, it’d be laminating services). A woman working at a restaurant tries to lure me in with a fixed deal for arrepas and chocolate. Tasty except that I’m still full from breakfast. I ask her where to go and she points me to the corner store. And there, right out front, next to the nail clippers and key chains, is a display of padlocks. Of every size and brand you can imagine. I don’t even bargain with the guy I’m so happy to finally find them. Of course, now, having wandered in a huge circle-ish thing, I have no idea where I am. I’ve yet to figure out that Bogota is laid out in an extremely logical fashion—the carreras run north-south and the calles run east-west and they are numbered (so my hotel is Cr. 3 Cl. 16, then #26 on the block). So I ambled onward, trying not to look too lost, and wove my way through the refrigerator district, the flat screen tv district, the optical care district, and eventually ended up back at the little park in front of my hotel.

Catedral Primada in Plaza de Bolivar, Bogota

I had managed to spend just shy of two hours on the mission that was supposed to happen PRIOR to my adventure. I’d been able to have dozens of conversations with locals, learned new vocabulary, and certainly attempted (and succeeded) an activity that on my travel acuity scale (i.e. how much do you really experience the place you travel to) certainly bumped me up a few notches. I walk back into the reception and Sandra smiles and says, “Oh. You’re back so soon!” Perspective is everything.  During my quest, I couldn't help but think how much more difficult this would and will be in Dhaka, as here I have the benefit of knowing the local language.  And, now have a grid system to rely on to navigate.  So, trying to think about anything I need laminated so I can get that done while I'm here....

New year, new places, new promises

Buenos dias!

I have landed in Bogota, and the only thing standing between me and a huge glass of fresh guava juice is the resolution that I made on the plane ride down: that the first words of the day should belong to me and be dedicated to what’s on my mind. Since reading Rachel Simmons’ Odd Girl Out last fall, I’ve been thinking a lot about direct communication and the difficulty that many women I know (myself emphatically included) have in attempting or achieving it. For myself, I feel like the precursor is actually being honest with myself, eliminating the seeming kaleidoscope effect that occurs somewhere between conceiving an idea and fully expressing it. I lose track of the clarity of idea in formulating how to communicate it.

So, 2011 is a year of honesty—with myself, with friends and family, and with the world more generally. I’m inspire by the courage of a few to face the world with an open and transparent face and hope to incorporate some of their approach into my own. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose. Anyone who has suggestions on metrics to hold myself to this (first words of the day is a process measure vs. outcome, and only ensures honesty from 7:30-8AM at best), those would be most appreciated. Hoping that public commitment helps too.
What I know about Bogota so far: I’ve met two people, and they were both named Carlos. So I’m now assuming that all Bogotanos are named Carlos (that sounds just plain silly, there's a crusade against news on bogus trends for a reason). Today I’m planning to explore the downtown area and assuming that the elevation isn’t killing me, climb Mont Serrate to see the cathedral that’s decked out for Dia de los Reyes (Three kings’ day) tomorrow.
My stomach, which has never had a problem with vocal honesty, is sending me over to the breakfast table.