Downtown Bogota, Colombia. Taken on January 28th, 2013.

Sony RX1, JPEG SOOC

Inspired by A Little Cameo’s hunt for a home in Bogotá, I thought I’d share this piece I wrote for See Colombia Travel a little while back about my own house-hunting experiences. Good luck!

***

Finding an apartment in Bogotá, a city of more than 9 million people, is no mean feat. The first month you might find yourself living in a hostel, then a share house in the Candelaria and then an apartment with other fellow travellers and friendly locals. But finding an apartment that you can call your own is not without some challenges.

Living in Bogotá, a city that is fast-paced, with busy traffic, and bustling streets, it is important to find a sanctuary you can call your own, a place of respite away from the busy city.

Online:
If you are looking to share an apartment in Bogotá with one or two other people, then the Facebook page Bogotá Short Term Rentals is a good place to start. Every day there are people posting ads about rooms for rent. Usually rent includes internet and all utilities and, depending on the area you want to live in, can cost anywhere between $150 and $400 (or more) a month. If you are looking for your own apartment then there are websites like Fincaraíz.com.co, which is your general property search website. Just pop in the suburb you are looking to live in, your price range and other details to help you search for your perfect home.

On Foot:
A great way to get in quick on an apartment is to walk around the suburbs you want to live in and look for the red “Se Arrienda” signs posted on apartment windows. You can call the dueño/a directly and set up a time to look at the place. This is a great way to get in quick because often the signs are up before they’re posted online, and some are not posted online at all. Also, you can get a feel for the neighbourhood and the building before you commit to taking a sticky beak at the place.

On Paper:
Now, this is where things can get tricky. You’ve found your perfect apartment, you’re ready to sign on the dotted line. Sometimes this is fairly easy, you show your proof of identity, proof of income and give it directly to the dueño/a and bob’s your nana, you have an apartment. Other times it is a lot more formalised and you need a bunch of information including proof of employment, collateral, bank details and more. It really depends on the person you’re dealing with. Talk to them and know exactly what they need so you can get in quick and snap up your Bogotá apartment.

What to look for in an apartment:
Good vibes: You want to walk into the place and feel instantly comfortable. Not feeling it? Go with your gut.

Nice neighbours: While you might not see your neighbours all that much, it does come in handy to have nice ones. Neighbours with adorable pets, all the better.

Location: You want to make sure you are in a neighbourhood that you feel comfortable in. Are you close to public transport? Do you feel comfortable walking around at night? Are you close to the local supermarket? Get to know the people around the area, the fruit store owner, your portero – you’ll start feeling like a local in no time!

Other things you have to think about:
So you’ve got the keys, you’re ready to move in, now what? Don’t forget you’re going to have to hook up the electricity, you can do this through the dueño/a and then internet and TV. Don’t forget you’re also going to need to furnish your new place, so if you’ve been living out of a backpack for the last month or so, this is going to mean a trip to Falabella or Homecenter for some brand spanking new homewares, exciting! You can also find great pieces for your new home on Craigslist.

Now you’re ready to go, enjoy your new place, get cozy and have fun living in Colombia!

Street photo in Bogota, Colombia

Sony RX100, B&W JPEGS SOOC.

leche en polvo y líquida, atún en agua, café, margarina, harina pan, harina de trigo, aceite de maíz y papel toilet.

Taken at Lake of Suesca in Cucunuba, Cundinamarca. January 19th, 2013.

Nikon D800 + Nikon 28-300mm VR

Appetizers

Freshly Roasted Mixed Nuts covered in a honey glaze with a dash of spices (can you guess… cayenne was among them?)
Fruit Tray, very popular, I cannot even find the plate they were served on!
Jennifer’s Awesome Hummus served with some of that lovely Ciabatta Bread from the Taller del Pan.
Baby Corn and Asparagus spears in a Vinagerette Marinade.

Entrée

Mushrooms stuffed with bacon, shrimp, and gorgonzola cheese, topped with fresh shredded parmesan and sweet paprika.
Spinach and arugula salad with hard boiled eggs, parmesan cheese, and baby corn and asparagus tips, in a honey Dijon dressing.
Chicken breast wraps stuffed with prosciutto, blue cheese, marinated roasted red peppers, topped with marinated sun dried tomatoes, and finished with a fresh basil cream sauce.

Dessert

Pineapple Upside Down Cake.

And for entertainment, Diego brought his guitar and played a wide variety of Classic Latin music!  Check out this video!

Tio Diego

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]]> http://emotionallyscargentinad.wordpress.com/2013/05/19/cracking-colombia/ Sun, 19 May 2013 16:33:18 +0000 niallwmoore http://emotionallyscargentinad.wordpress.com/2013/05/19/cracking-colombia/ Colombia is a funny one, hard to pin down. Like with a lot of people I’ve spoken to out here it’s unquestionably my favourite country so far on this trip and like them I’m struggling to say exactly why, so I’ll pick at it. Its people are the most sophisticated I’ve come across since Argentina, but there’s a certain machismo there that reminds me of Brazil. The difference I suppose is that Brazilians enjoy life with carnal relish, Colombians tend to view it behind a sinister grin, dancing salsa and telling macabre jokes like tomorrow might end on a geurilla’s whim. Such is the culture, a relic of a pervasive atmosphere of danger that has largely dispersed in the last decade, at least in the places I’d dare tread. All that’s relative to other South American countries of course, I’m well aware by now that Dorothy ain’t in Europe, but if there was ever a country in need of a major PR revamp it would be Colombia. Much has changed since the days of Pablo Escobar, rampant narcos and almost daily city bombings – that stuff which prompted a frantic phone call from my Mum when I updated her of my itinerary. The drug war has largely moved to the countryside in handily well-demarcated zones, leaving behind vibrant cities and a paradisaical cornucopia for some young backpacker (hey, that’s me!) to explore.

Good morning Leticia. Starting Colombia as I mean to finish.

Besides one night in sweaty Leticia, ten hours up the Amazon by speed boat, Bogota was to be my first satisfying mouthful of Colombia. I was to leave hungry for a few reasons. Firstly, my hostel was empty, deader than a church on Tuedays. On the staffs’ advice I was not to walk around after dark alone in the city’s most touristy and heavily policed district, nor could I safely hail any old taxi. On first impression I’d thought the hostel would be my kind of place when I walked in to Baduizm caressing the bar, but besides two fellow Brits whose company I revelled in for a few easy hours, my only companion was a fat Spanish guy who made himself very hard to love. His mix of lazy beard and invasive B.O. were only the entrance music to this guy’s main event, a committed policy of resisting even the most essential small talk in both English and Spanish, my Spanish at least – he and the local receptionist were reet pals.

He’s lucky I didn’t get my loyal and obedient followers to rough him up, or at least give him a good scrub.

I spent a couple of days walking around the city, popping in to museums and generally trying to force myself to enjoy the place. It was my first solo city after all, and I started to think I might be doing something wrong. You can’t force fun though, especially when the key ingredients are missing. So I got some ice-cream, and sat calmly smoking a cigarette on my last night there behind the metal gate that separated my hostel from the road. There I was, thinking about Surinam’s historical social struggles and counting pi to two decimal places, when a blood-curdling scream wrecked my focus. Next thing I know what sounded like an air raid siren went off and a load of blokes ran right past my face, chasing up the street some scallywag who’d just helped himself to a woman’s purse. Deciding to leave the next day wasn’t difficult.

But I can’t leave my account of Bogota on such a low now can I. There was one saving grace: a beautiful ‘export quality’ coffee I had one morning. Not since London had I tasted anything so flavoursome. That’s rather sad really, isn’t it; not for want of trying but finding a good cup of joe in South America is like settling an argument in Brazil without resorting to violence. All the good stuff goes abroad. Colombia isn’t exceptional in feeding itself by feeding the world, be that through coffee, fruit, or cocaine. We’ll talk more about that last one in Medellin, to where I took a night bus that left me feeling antsy. I’d done a quick google, and chosen to go with the company Bolivariano as they apparently make the appropriate payments to gangs of highway banditos with a penchant for hijacking tourist buses, allowing them to pass unmolested. This I guess explains why the coach had emergency sirens on its roof, the big poser. It doesn’t explain why everyone’s faces were captured on video just before we set off. I think I’m happier not knowing in what potential outcome that particular footage might be useful.

I arrived on a beautiful morning in Medellin, eager to explore. Travelling around to different neighbourhoods was easy on the pristine metro system, every station playing reggae. From the cable cars I caught a view over the city, which is nestled much like Cusco in between a gathering of valleys, dappled grey from cloud shadows in the afternoon sun. If that sounds a bit wishy washy it’s because of the mood the metro put me in. More than once, in Spanish and English, they announced over the tannoy, “Smiling is good for the soul. There is always a reason to smile. Smiling is also part of the metro culture”, which made me laugh as I looked around at the other people in my carriage, faces firmly fixed in a commuter’s grimace. This was only a little taste of irony compared to what I then found in the Modern Art Museum. It wasn’t so much the ‘toilet seats suspended from a bike chain to represent the human condition’ mode of modern art, but more three rooms documenting the political artwork that Colombian feeling had been poured in to in recent decades. I was struck mostly by the overwhelming anti-USA feeling these photos and cartoons depicted. Classic American iconography – the dollar bill, famous brands – were all depicted in scenes identifying the States as the seat of an economic empire plundering this continent.

The Colombians certainly see themselves as a battered people, under seige from within and without. Either that or U2 just got on stage.

This stuff isn’t just consigned to the annals of recent history. You may have heard of Plan Colombia, an initiative bringing the Colombian and US authorities together in a concerted effort to stem the flow of cocaine through South America and to help end years of bitter conflict between left and right wing elements here. It goes a lot deeper than that, read up on it if you want, it’s interesting. The point is that while it sounds like a bloomin’ good idea, the Plan’s execution is sloppy. Dusting coca crops with poison has more than a whiff of Agent-Orange-in-Vietnam about it. Not only is coca leaf, unrefined, an American import (the Coca Cola Company buys hundreds of tons of the stuff every year from the Andes region, an exemption to US law), but locals can’t help but notice that their other, legal crops are being killed too, as are they themselves, thanks to this blunt dumping of toxic herbicides.

Much of this would gain deeper resonance a couple of weeks later when I read Che Guevara’s The Motorcycle Diaries, which, apart from thrilling me with descriptions sixty years previous of places I’d just been, showed how and why this beardy Marxist grew in to the man who would go on to liberate Cuba. The sad fact is that I’ve seen evidence everywhere to suggest that the subjugation, exploitation and racial prejudice against the continent’s Indigenous communities, as noted by Che in the 1950s, hasn’t changed much. They’re still the butt of America’s Imperialist joke, toiling at an intolerable level of subsistence.

Things get confusing now as I’m about to have a gander at the man who many people see as the heart of Colombia’s problems. I don’t disagree, I just can’t help but admire his cojones. I’m talking about Pablo Escobar, who was the focus of a tour I took around the city. This guy typified ‘larger than life’, an almost mythical character, who for many around the world is the first name that comes to mind when you think of Colombia, much to the disgust of the locals. Consider: at the height of his power in the 1980s, when Colombia was controlling the flow and distribution of the majority of the world’s concaine supply, 80% of that was in the hands of Pablo’s Medellin Cartel. At one point, despite not finishing school, Pablo sat for several months as Colombia’s second-highest ranking congressman. That was only until one shrewd (i.e. suicidal) rival politician pointed out that all of Escobar’s cash came from drugs and he was outed. That politician died very soon afterwards. His bravado extended so far as to offer to pay all of Colombia’s national debt, $10 billion, in return for a small parcel of Colombian land which he could turn into his own sovereign state, where (surprise!) drugs would be legal. He was a celebrated philanthropist too, funding civic buildings, sports grounds and social projects to ingratiate himself with the people. He had his standards; Escobar reportedly never once tried his own product, though would spend the majority of his waking hours stoned. Seems like he and my second cousin have been to the same school of drug peddling (note rule four in particular)…

Yet in all of this was the bloody underbelly, one which our guide was quick to point out as ultimately being thanks to the American and European markets for cocaine. Indirectly, yuppies hoovering up a gram in a NY bar were responsible for swathes of Sicarios, teenage assassins, killing rival narcos for the more than reasonable price of $30 a head. Bloody bargain.

La virgen de los sicarios – ‘Our lady of the assassins’. A shrine to the Virgin Mary that was very popular with Escobar’s mob back in the day. Despite being cold hearted killers, they were deeply Catholic, and a famous anecdote sees one assassin pay a troubled elderly matron $100 to, essentially, ‘stop weeping and sod off, you’re blocking my view’.

Think cartel wars, daily city bombings and hundreds of thousands of bodies, innocent or otherwise. No doubt he was an enigmatic and often fantastical figure, but his legacy is one that Colombia still suffers under the weight of. Don’t do drugs kids, or Pedro gets it.

Okay enough of the preaching. What else was Medellin about? A buzzing nightlife, salsa lessons and finally hobnobbing with other human beings, Colombians and backpackers alike. I left there with a spring in my step, one of my left feet skewed ever more slightly to the right and increasing confidence in my broken Spanish, aided in part by Aguardiente, the national spirit.

Next came Santa Marta, a nice enough town but more importantly a good base for making your way in to Tyrona national park, where I’d finally catch a glimpse of something I’d been aching to see for months: The Caribbean. I got stuck there for a while. Even before heading to the beach my hostel in Santa Marta provided enough entertainment to keep me busy, and enough Anglophone people to ruin my attempts at brushing up on Spanish. One Irish barman, another a Londoner, a host of Aussies and an old Scottish guy called Val, who seemed to have taken up semi-permanent residence there, was a welcome crowd. Val was funny. Orginally from Glasgow and now in his sixties, he was taking time out from work to hang out in South America. He’d wake early, walk around town with a spliff in the morning (for Val, he doth not drink, the big Scottish heretic) then come back to the hostel, waving around the machete he’d picked up in some remote nook and otherwise sitting there providing wisdom, whilst slowly rubbing iodine in to the bite he’d sustained wrestling with a stray dog. He didn’t want to get it seen to. Thinking about it he might actually be dead by now, but he seemed prepared for that rabid eventuality.

Finally to the beach for a couple of days, my relaxing disrupted only by an awful night’s sleep in a hammock where I got chewed to bits by mosquitos (woke up with a knee and elbow all red and scaly where they’d been resting against the mosquito net. After a solid week thus afflicted I was starting to wish Che Guevara hadn’t died. I could’ve used his expertise in leprosy), and a brief flurry of excitement watching four brave sailors take on the waves. On an inflatable bed.

Cuba’s that way lads.

My last stop on Colombian soil was to be the charming colonial Old Town of Cartagena, and a reunion with Paula and Nats, the Irish girls who’d given my time in Bolivia such a green tinge. It was a great end to a journey which had been all too brief. Colombia is an incredible country, and I’d seen not nearly enough of it having time to hit only a few of the recommended must-sees and staying in the places I did visit for only a fraction of the time I would’ve liked. Good excuse to come back. Cartagena is blurry. There were a few big nights out, cotching with friends both former and fresh, and a castle. The castle was fun.

Shit yeah cowboy.

One thing that struck me in Cartagena was just how often I’d seen really odd couples, made up of one part gringo and one part South American. They’re a prevalent but odd phenomenon. Having found each other on the internet (invariably on the gringo’s initiative), they meet up to travel together for a few weeks, rutting once or twice in unholy union and then saying goodbye, each back to their homeland. (N.B. – man or woman, the local is often the looker of the pair.) So why do it? A free trip? Gifts? The sex? I imagine the latter is the impetus for the Europeans and Northern Americans but still it seems strange to me. From those I’d spoken too – and that’s another odd thing, they’re very open about it – neither partner is under any illusion that this is going to lead to marriage and a green card. I suppose it’s just a lonely heart’s club, but with more complaints about the heat.

A final bye bye to Paula and Natalia, and then on to ‘the big one’ – a five day sailing trip to Panama via the San Blas Islands, marooned in the middle of a clear blue sea. I’m going to let pictures do the talking for a bit.

How was your Monday?

Mine was really boring.

Man vs. crustacean. GET IN MY BELLY.

Pictures better than the postcards.

The San Blas. Where chillers refine chilling. I drank a lot of rum on a boat, got some serious tanning in, and molested a starfish. The only time I exerted myself was to gather enough energy to raise my right hand, and slap reality back to where I wasn’t. Here, in one of the few places on earth where it’s impossible to take a bad photo, I spent a heavenly few days with the rest of the people on my boat. Our captain and first mate were cool as cucumbers,  the former finding plenty of time to get high and do nothing having guided us safely across the open sea for two days. I was a bit put out when I found out that of the ten passangers only one other wasn’t there as a couple, but for the most part everyone was sociable and relaxed, the only real bores being – drum roll please – ‘the French couple’. The guy literally (and I really mean literally. I’m not doing that stupid thing that people do. That drives me mad. Don’t you just literally hate it when people do that?) didn’t utter a word for the entire trip. Helped himself to more than his share of the lobster though. We were all very unimpressed. It’s a hard life.

That ended way too quickly. Even though the bubble burst, I didn’t quite feel like I’d been thrown back to reality, for my next destinatin was to be Panama City. I was taken aback by just how modern it is. Though still deeply troubled (my tourist map had a line drawn across it that we were told to just not cross, night or day), the place smacks of American money. It’s not cheap there by any standard, especially South American, but that cash flows through the country, not in to it. An imposing array of modern skyscrapers draws the downtown vista, but the impoverished are still left wanting, re-emphasising (as if I needed to be told again) just how far the gulf between North and Latin America is, even though the former has their fingers in all the bountiful pies; in the less developed areas, the only things rising more than a floor or two above street level are the McDonald’s arches. Oh yeah and then there was the Panama Canal. Very impressive. For a canal.

I apologise if this post is a tad anti-American, I’m just calling it like I sees it. I’m really looking forward to getting to the States, I know it’ll be an incredible place if not a bit, well, mean. But before all of that I’m heading in to Mexico where once again I’ll be the short half of a terrible twosome as Simon and I join forces. I’ve loved travelling alone, it’s a different experience entirely. You approach the whole adventure anew. As this blog post probably shows, a lot more thinking goes down as you really take stock of the places you’re in, undistracted by readily supplied company. I’ll say this though, it’s incredible the amount of inane and repetitive conversation you get in to travelling solo: where you from? Where you going? What do you do? At points I really missed talking about every day stuff, feeling comfortable enough to freely and unfairly pass judgement on people, places and pretense (out loud I mean, without looking strange[r]). I have met new people I can slip in to that stance with; some give it up easily, others you have to tease it out of, but many don’t have the capacity for random, personal chatting. Everyone needs a Robin to their Batman. See you in Cancun.

Taken with Sony RX100. edited in LR4 with Nik presets.

Pechi no pudo sacarse de la cabeza el horror que había visto en Puerto Arturo. Ya había sido demasiado que el mundo se les hubiese acabado justo bajo sus pies, como para que ahora un aguacero les cayera encima. Había estado allá, al empezar la noche, luego de haberse visto con el ruso trastornado ese de Demyan Fedorov.

Había mucho que hacer. El ejército había enviado carpas para que los damnificados pasaran la noche, pero al paso que iban las cosas no sería una sola noche la que pasarían allí. La gobernación había enviado cajas de alimentos no perecederos, pero en medio de la tragedia, a nadie le importó el orden y muchos se quedaron sin comida, mientras que otros que ni siquiera eran del barrio había salido de allí con dos o tres cajas. Se necesitaba organización, control sobre la situación y así se lo hizo saber Pechi a todos los damnificados con los que había hablado esa noche.

Estaba tratando de hacer un censo entre los afectados, cuando se encontró con Cristian. Había estado allí un par de horas, intentando convencer a su mamá que dejara el barrio y se fuera a vivir con él a Venecia, con muy poco éxito. Ya habían terminado de armar las carpas y aún así quedó gente sin donde pasar la noche.  Fue entonces cuando a Pechi se le ocurrió una idea. Luis Manuel Jaraba le había dado su número de teléfono cuando intentaba convencerlo de partir ganancias en “El Mototaxi Express”, pero ahora lo necesitaba para otra cosa.

15 minutos después los dos colegios cercanos a Puerto Arturo abrieron sus puertas a los damnificados por el derrumbe. La policía había traído colchones, lamparas de mano y grandes botellas de agua, que los habitantes del barrio aprovecharon de inmediato. En un cuaderno, que nunca supo a ciencia cierta de donde salió, Pechi había hecho un censo rudimentario de los damnificados de la tragedia. Había estado tan ocupado que no había visto la hora. Era casi medianoche.

El lugar ya estaba en completa calma, cuando Cristian lo convenció a regañadientes de que fuera a descansar a su casa y le dejara el cuaderno con la lista de los damnificados. Pechi salió de Puerto Arturo, pero no con rumbo a su casa en Majagual. Tenía algo muy serio que hablar con Ludis Espinosa.

La encontró dormida. Se sentó en la dura silla de plástica, mirando como los relámpagos danzaban en la ventana. El reloj de su celular había marcado la una de la mañana, cuando ella empezó a abrir los ojos.

-¿Cuánto llevas allí?- preguntó la viuda de Mansur.

-Como una hora.

Ludis miró su precioso reloj de pulso y cerró los ojos un momento.

-Sólo hay una razón para que estés aquí tan tarde.

-Estaba preocupado por usted.

-No me mientas, Pedro, yo estoy perfectamente. Estás aquí en busca de respuestas ¿verdad? Ese maldito te buscó.

-Me estuvo llamando toda la noche, tratando de convencerme de que me fuera con él a Rusia, supuestamente a reclamar lo que es mio. Le dije que no podía hacer eso, que aún no confiaba en él y luego me dijo que era un estúpido ingrato… que si no confiaba en él, mucho menos debía confiar en usted… ¿Qué relación tiene usted con ese tipo?

-Es una historia muy larga de contar, Pechi.

-¿No cree que merezco saber la verdad?

Ludis cambió su expresión altiva y arrogante por otra más humilde. Por primera vez, Pechi vio la edad reflejada en el rostro de la mujer y notó un cansancio en su mirada que lo hizo compadecerse de ella.

-¿Recuerdas la noche que te quedaste a dormir en la casa? ¿La noche que regresaste de Bogotá?- dijo Ludis, mientras Pechi asentía con la cabeza- esa fue la primera vez que te vi, ya había escuchado hablar de ti, el héroe que había capturado a Marcelo Guevara, pero aquella fue la primera vez que vi tu rostro y me asusté tanto, Pedro, eras idéntico a él, a Nikolay.

-Entonces ¿Ese tal Nikolay de verdad era mi papá, como dice Fedorov?- dijo Pechi intentando no llorar.

-Tendrías que haberlo visto, Pedro, era exacto a ti. Nunca se me va a olvidar su rostro, yo lo vi morir, desangrado. Todo fue culpa de mi estupidez y la de Demyan. Y por supuesto la del tipo ese que le disparó.

-Mi mamá nunca me había hablado de él.

-No se que razones habrá tenido para no hablarte sobre tu padre… de lo que no hay duda es que eres su hijo.

-¿Por qué no me habló de esto antes?

-Pensé que era algo que debías hablar con tu madre, no conmigo. Me dijiste que vendría para tu matrimonio con Laura, pensé que esa sería la oportunidad perfecta para poner las cosas en orden.

-Entonces… todo lo que usted hizo por mí, no lo hizo porque confiara en mi, sólo lo hizo porque sentía culpa.

-Pedro, yo no…

-Sólo me utilizó para calmar su conciencia… ese tal Fedorov tenía razón, no puedo confiar en usted.

Pechi se levantó de la silla, mientras el cielo crujía en el exterior.

-Pedro, espera, ¡Pedro!- gritó Ludis desde su cama, pero Pechi cerró la puerta y caminó en dirección a la salida, donde ya no la escuchó más.

Cuando Fedorov le había dicho que era hijo de un ingeniero ruso, muerto hacía años, Pechi lo tomó muy a la ligera, porque creía que todo era una mentira, o quizás una confusión un tanto graciosa. Después de todo ¿Qué podría tener que ver su madre, la misma que lo cuidó desde pequeñito, la misma a la que un miserable violó en varias ocasiones, la misma que lo esperaba con un plato de sopa de hueso en sus días como mototaxi, con gente que venía del otro lado del mundo?

Pero Ludis le había confirmado todo. Toda su vida había sido una mentira. Pechi salió de la clínica y apoyado en una pared, se agachó a liberar el nudo que tenía atravesado en la garganta. Tenía que hablar con su madre, tenía que aclarar todo. El cielo se iluminó nuevamente y un nuevo crujido se escuchó, tan fuerte que el tejado de la clínica alcanzó a vibrar por un par de segundos.

Ya se había levantado del piso, y se estaba terminado de secar las lágrimas con el dorso de su mano, cuando sonó su celular. La pantalla indicó de donde provenía la llamada. “Laura”, pero Pechi sabía que no era Laura quien estaba del otro lado de la linea.

-¿Pechi?

-¿Dónde está Laura, maldito?

-Relájate, sólo quiero hablar contigo un rato y te juro por Dios que si todo sale bien, vas a estar con Laura antes de que amanezca.

-¿Qué es lo que quieres?

-Quiero que vengas solo al puente frente a la UPES, y cuando digo solo lo digo en serio, si llegas con alguien, no volverás a ver a Laura ¿me entendiste? SOLO. Tienes media hora.

Pechi no era tan estúpido como para creer que aquello no era una trampa de Javi, pero no tenía opción. Pechi corrió como loco buscando un mototaxi o un taxi, pero la ciudad estaba vacía. Llegó a la Plaza de Majagual, luego al monumento de Las Vacas, pero no encontró a nadie que lo llevara. Javi le había dado media hora, sólo le quedaba ir corriendo hasta allá. Tan rápido como pudo corrió por toda la Avenida Luis Carlos Galán. Ni siquiera había llegado a la Avenida Ocala cuando sintió que le faltaba el aliento, así que no le quedó más remedio que caminar. Habían pasado 20 minutos desde que recibió la llamada de Javi, tenía que llegar a tiempo. Estaba a pensar en que nunca más volvería a ver a Laura, cuando una motocicleta se detuvo justo a su lado.

-¿Jefe?

Pechi trató de reconocer al muchacho que conducía la moto. Tenía un lado de la frente cubierto con un esparadrapo. Lo reconoció. Era el mismo muchacho al que había llevado a la clínica hacía dos días. Era Cesar Romero.

-¿Cesar? Pero ¿Ya estás bien?

-Bien, Jefe ¿Por qué anda a pie y así de sudado?¿Va para alguna parte?

-Sí, para la UPES.

-¿A esta hora?

-Sí, a esta hora, Cesar.

-Súbase, Jefe, yo le doy el chance hasta allá.

Pechi se subió agradecido de no tener que recorrer a pie la distancia que faltaba.

-Esta moto es de un hermano mio, me la prestó para que hiciera carreras en la noche, pero no hay nada, Jefe.

-Es muy peligroso, yo creo que no debiste haber salido.

-Bueno, Dios sabe por qué hace sus cosas… si no hubiese salido, no le hubiese podido dar el chance.

Cesar tomó la Avenida Ocala y luego la troncal, que estaba igual de solitaria. El cielo seguía iluminándose y rugiendo como un león hambriento.

-¿Hasta la propia UPES, Jefe?- preguntó Cesar

-Déjame por aquí- le pidió Pechi, bajándose de la moto- yo sigo a pie ¿Cuánto te debo?

-No me debe nada, Jefe, Anderson y Mario me dijeron que usted me había llevado a la clínica. Yo soy quien le debe a usted.

-Cuando todo esto se arregle, espero verte por el negocio.

-Claro que sí, Jefe.

Cesar dio media vuelta y regresó a Sincelejo, justo en el momento en que empezaba a llover. Pechi caminó por toda la orilla de la carretera, y pudo avistar del otro lado un motocicleta. Una motocicleta gris, de las más económicas y se preguntó por qué Javier Luna andaría en una de esas, la última vez que lo había visto manejaba una camioneta gris.

Javi le hizo una señal con los dedos, para que subiera al puente. Pechi subió la rampa con desgano, viendo como Javi hacía lo mismo en la rampa opuesta. Llegaron a la cima al mismo tiempo y caminaron el uno hacia el otro.

Javi llevaba puestos unos jeans, una camiseta blanca y encima una chaqueta ligera de color negro. Excepto por la chaqueta, estaba vestido igual que Pechi en ese momento. La lluvia empezaba a caer con más fuerza, mientras el cielo seguía rugiendo.

-Bienvenido, Pechi- dijo Javi, gritando para hacerse oír en medio del rumor incesante de la lluvia.

-¿Dónde está Laura?- dijo Pechi, haciendo lo mismo.

-Te lo diré cuando terminemos de…. hablar.

-No tengo nada que hablar contigo, dime donde está Laura.

-¿O si no qué? Pensé que eramos amigos Pechi.

-Tú no eres amigo de nadie.

Javi empezó a reír, pero no era una risa común y corriente, empezó a reír a carcajadas, mientras se apoyaba en la baranda del puente.

-Tienes razón, Pechi, yo no tengo amigos, pero tengo a Laura.

-¿Dónde está, malparido?

-¿Quieres saber donde está? La dejé desnuda, en mi cama, luego de hacerle el amor toda la noche… no sabes como disfruté haciéndola mía.

A Pechi se le subió la sangre a la cabeza y corrió hacia donde estaba Javi. Lo sujetó por la cintura y lo arrojó al piso. Lo golpeó dos veces en el rostro, pero este le propinó un rodillazo en el estomago, para luego empujarlo con ambos pies. Pechi cayó con fuerza en la baranda, mientras veía como un tracto-camión pasaba por debajo de la estructura. Recordó que Nane le había dicho que Aarón Paternina y su hijo habían muerto aplastados en su propio carro, por uno de esos vehículos monstruosos y no quería imaginar que pasaría si caía del puente, frente a uno de ellos.

Javi se levantó y empezó a rodear a Pechi, quien se puso en una posición defensiva.

-¿Me tienes miedo Pechi?

-Tú lo único que inspiras es lástima. ¿Crees que Laura no me dijo todo lo que le suplicaste para que  le dieras una oportunidad? Pero ella no te quiere…. ella me quiere a mi.

Esta vez fue Javi quien se abalanzó contra Pechi, lanzó dos puñetazos, pero este los detuvo con sus antebrazos, luego de darle una patada a su oponente en el estomago. Javi era demasiado rápido, lanzaba sus golpes a una velocidad a la que Pechi sólo podía detener algunos de su golpes. Los otros terminaban en su rostro y en sus brazos y dolían, dolían mucho.

En ese momento sintió el teléfono vibrando en su bolsillo, pero no le prestó atención. Javi iba a matarlo si se distraía. Le lanzó varios golpes, intentado atacar, pero Javi no sólo los detuvo sino que se los regresó todos. Al final le dobló el brazo y se colocó detrás suyo oprimiéndole el cuello.

-Que débil eres, Pechi, no te mereces a Laura… no te imaginas todo lo que gritó mientras la hacía mía… imagínate la escena, Pechi. Ella conmigo en una cama, dándomelo todo, todo.

El brazo de Javi le oprimía el cuello con fuerza. No se podía soltar. Tal vez Javi tenía razón, era demasiado débil y no merecía a Laura.

-No te mereces a Laura, sólo eres un perdedor, nunca dejarás de ser el mototaxi pobretón que salió del cerro miserable ese que yo hice pedazos esta mañana, porque fui yo, Pechi, fui yo el que destruyó ese cerro, fue mi plan… fue mi idea… no tienes idea de como gocé viendo como todas esas casa se caían… viendo toda esa gente morir… allí era donde debías estar y morirte junto con toda esa basura de gente. Me voy a llevar a Laura, lejos de ti, muy lejos y la haré mia cada noche, así se resista como lo hizo hoy, así me suplique para que me detenga.

Era más de lo que Pechi podía soportar, con lágrimas en los ojos al escuchar lo que había hecho Javi, se apoyó de sus pies y se impulsó hacia atrás. Javi se golpeó contra la baranda de hierro y tuvo que moverse rápido para no caer. Era la distracción que Pechi necesitaba. Le propinó un puñetazo en el rostro con todas su fuerzas, luego otro y otro y otro. Hasta que tuvo ambas manos llenas de sangre. Javi no se defendió, al contrario, se arrojó al suelo para que Pechi lo siguiera golpeando uno y otra vez. Sonreía. Algo andaba mal.

Javi estaba completamente derrotado debajo de él. Y sonreía. El teléfono volvió a vibrar en sus bolsillos y no tuvo que contestar para saber que había caído en la trampa de su oponente. Sacó el teléfono, había varios correos de voz.

Pechi, soy yo, Laura… estoy en la Clínica Santa Mónica, tengo tantas cosas que hablar contigo… no te preocupes, estoy bien, sólo necesito verte… te amo, Pechi, te amo, ojalá puedas venir pronto. ¿Por qué no contestas? Bueno, te dejo porque me prestaron un minutico nada más. Ven pronto.

Pechi dejó caer el teléfono, que se hizo pedazos en la carretera 5 metros más abajo. Javi sonreía.

-Tu no tienes a Laura- dijo Pechi levantándose y dejando a Javi en el piso-Tu querías, que, que…

-Que inteligente eres, Pechi, me descubriste… ya estoy aburrido- dijo Javi levantándose del piso, apoyándose en la baranda para sostenerse, estaba llorando- me he convertido en un monstruo, en un criminal, en un asesino… peor que los que me tuvieron encerrado en esa cabaña de la que tú me sacaste. La mujer que amo, me desprecia… cometí tantos errores, tantos… sólo quería saber si al igual que yo eras capaz de todo por ella.

-Eso es absurdo.

-Absurdo es que me haya aliado con unos criminales, que terminaron haciéndole daño a la única persona que he amado en mi vida… absurdo es que haya mandado a asesinar al único amigo que he tenido en toda mi vida ¿No es eso absurdo? ¿No es absurdo que por culpa mía tanta gente haya muerto hoy? No sabes lo arrepentido que estoy…

-Javi, tienes que entregarte…

-No, yo no merezco la cárcel, Pechi- dijo Javi subiéndose a la baranda- merezco lo mismo que le hice al Casallas, al Fa, a Maykol, a Manimal y a Yessid ¿Te acuerdas de ellos? Yo sí, todos los días… porque allí está, la culpa, carcomiendome, destruyendome por dentro, cada día más.

-¿Qué estás haciendo Javi? Bájate de ahí, tú no…

-Dile a Laura que la amo con todas las fuerzas de mi alma- dijo Javi antes de impulsarse hacia atrás con elegancia, justo en el momento en que escuchó a un enorme camión transitar por debajo del puente.

Clearly then, Maduro has personal information on voters from at least the last two elections which are supposedly carried out as a secret ballot. Maduro has lied about the election being a secret ballot and is condemned from his own lips. He did not tell people the truth about the health of Chavez and may well have lied about a lot of other things. The admission itself can be seen as a breach of Venezuelan constitutional law because of its effect on future elections which will be discredited until this mess is cleared up. Chavez ensured he had a grip of the CNE, responsible for the conduct of elections, and sanctioned  systematic voter intimidation through the introduction of the Tascon/Maisanta list in 2004.

Incompetence, lies and deceit are so far the hallmarks of a hapless president thrashing around looking for excuses to problems he helped create.

Maduro is a dead duck and Cabello won’t stand by for long; neither will the people.

So, let’s get to the slang…

“Dar papaya”

This phrase is extremely common in Colombia. I am not sure how this phrase first began, and it has always seemed a bit strange to me. Literally, “dar papaya” means “to give papaya.” However, when you hear someone say, “no des papaya,” they are not telling you to “not give someone papaya.” They are actually telling you to be careful—to not set yourself up or make yourself an easy target. Most often, you will hear this when people want to warn you about theft. For instance, leaving money out on your desk at work while you go to the W.C. would be “dando papaya.” Or, if you are going to the downtown areas of Barranquilla, using your brand new iPhone 5 while in the street markets would be “dando papaya.” In both cases, you are setting yourself up for something to be taken from you—you are making yourself an obvious target.

image from: learnmorethanspanish.com

image from: espanol-ilustrado.blogspot.com

Estar “Pa’ las que sea” / ”Para las que sea”

Another very common expression in Colombia is “pa’ las que sea.” This phrase is very similar to saying, “I am up for whatever” in English. Normally, this phrase is used with the verb “estar” and goes something like, “Estoy pa’ las que sea” (“pa” is a shortened and more common way of saying “para,” especially in coastal areas of Colombia). For instance, if you are with a group of friends and someone asks if anyone would like to go for ice cream in Crepes and Waffles and take a walk through Chapinero, you might would say, “Sí, estoy pa’ las que sea.” Another way to use it would be if a friend called and told you they were bored and looking for something to do—you could say, “Pues, estoy pa’ las que sea,” meaning you are up for whatever your friend proposes.

“Pa’ las que sea” can also be used to mean “through thick and thin” or “through whatever may come.” For instance, you might tell your significant other “Estaré contigo pa’ las que sea,” meaning you will be with him/her through whatever. Or, you might use it with a friend—especially if that friend is going through a difficult situation. You might say, “Sabes que puedes contar conmigo pa’ las que sea” to remind them that they can count on you for whatever they might need.

“Quibo!”

In “Must-Know Colombian Slangs: Part I,” I talked about the Colombian expression “buenas,” as a way of greeting people. “Quibo” is used in a similar manner. I’ve been told that “Quibo” developed out of the combination of the words “Qué” and “hubo,” which used together form the question, “Qué hubo?”—translated to: “What’s happened/happening?” I am not sure if that explanation is true, but it certainly makes sense considering people use it to greet in way that implies both a “hello” and a “how are you?” all at once. It’s worth mentioning that “Quibo” is extremely informal and you wouldn’t want to use it in any formal situation.

image from: www.imagenes-fb.com

Paige M. Poole

About the author:

Paige M. Poole is an Alabamian and traveler at heart who has settled, for now, in Barranquilla, Colombia, and earns her living as an English professor at the Instituto de Idiomas (Language Institute) at la Universidad del Norte (University of the North). When not teaching English, she enjoys blogging, traveling, relaxing on the beach, and spending time with her partner and two cats, Milo and Sophie.  You can see more of Paige’s traveling experiences in her personal blog www.trotamunda.wordpress.com

Related articles

• Must-Know Colombian Slangs: Part I (www.uncovercolombia.com)
• Should I travel to Colombia? (www.uncovercolombia.com)
• Colombian social media campaign wants you to stop misspelling their country’s name (washingtonpost.com)
• Anthony Bourdain Travels to Colombia – CNN (iwilltravelblog.com)

Weighing in in Chinchina.

Coffee pricing anywhere along the line is pretty much guesswork, but comparing numbers up and down the production chain and from place to place gets even more dicey.

The reason that all coffee pricing is pretty much guess work is that most of it is loosely based on a convoluted supply/demand market mechanism and the rest of it is set in circumstances where people don’t even know their operating costs.

There’s also a lot of morphing between units and currencies, making things even more convoluted. I have a personal aversion to putting everything into dollars, because the shock-and-awe tactics of “people who live on a dollar a day!” are too over/misused. Here I’m putting things into dollars so that they mean something to you, but I’m also including indicators so that you have actual points of reference for how much that amount is worth in a local context. Listo?

Determining what coffee is worth depends on the form it’s in and the place in which it’s in that form. For example, a cup of coffee.

Tintico y buñuelo

A 4oz cup of “tinto” costs 500 Colombian pesos, roughly $0.25 (tha buñuelo is another $0.50). Minutes on your cell phone cost between 100-200 pesos and for 6000 pesos you can get a full lunch.

A cup of brewed coffee in New York can cost anywhere from $0.75 to $4. That’s 1400-8000 pesos.

Fresh roasted.

A pound of roasted whole bean coffee can cost between $6-18 dollars in the US. Here in Colombia roasted whole bean coffee is only recently being sold per pound and runs around 10,000 pesos.

Shake sorting green beans

A pound of this green (Arabica) coffee is the global crux of every other coffee price that comes before or after it. The price at which a pound of green coffee is traded determines the money the growers/processers make and can thus pay their employees. It determines how much it costs for roasters to buy to then sell to consumers. And the price per pound for this green Arabica coffee has nothing to do with coffee.

It is no way connected to the cost of production any of the 50+ countries where coffee is grown. It has to with how many people are buying and selling contracts for coffee, but because you can just sell one contract to buy another one and never actually any up with any coffee, just a rotation of contract trades, it then also has to with how many people think (speculate) that other people will be buying or selling coffee. And how much. And exactly when how many people will buy how much.

As of 16:59 EST Friday May 17, 2013, a pound of green Arabica coffee was trading at $1.37.  If I’d written this post on Wednesday, I’d be telling you $1.43. The New York price per pound is then what local coffee coops/middle men plug into a magic formula to determine what they pay for the coffee in parchment that they then turn into green coffee for export.

Not all coffee is created equal.

On the other hand, a pound of this green Panamanian Geisha can be worth upwards of $100/lb. Last year’s top Panamanian Geisha auction price was $ 90.25/lb, with the record breaker in 2010 at $170/lb. The 2013 auction takes place in a few weeks.

“Direct Trade” sales aim to pad traditionally low market prices by offering a “market plus X” for the exceptional coffees they buy. Some even sidestep the market altogether, by buying coffee at a fixed price based on the cost of production. But because most coffee farms aren’t selling “direct trade” and aren’t run like businesses, a surprising number of farmers don’t know the cost per kilo of growing coffee.

With Friday’s market price- which holds through the weekend- 125 kilos of coffee in parchment is worth 500,000 pesos ($272.50)- more or less. The price could different depending on the factor. In parchment it’s worth 4,000 pesos ($2.18). For 4,000 pesos you can get a kilo of potatoes (800), two empanadas (1000), a pack of 5 arepas (1000), and at least 30 minutes of internet (1200).

My Cedral pickin’s (don’t worry; I sorted those sneaky green ones out later!)

These cherries are Costa Rican, making them worth between 800-1500 colones per cajuela (1 ft square, roughly 13 kilos) to the picker who picked them. That’s between $1.60-$3 per cajuela, meaning between $0.12 and $0.23 per kilo. A top notch picker can pick upwards of 30 cajuelas per day, so at 5 days a week that’s 150 cajuelas, or between 120,000-225,000 colones a week. A beer costs 1000 colones, I got a cheap duffle for 7,000, and local bus fares are around 500, with long distance rides at around 8,000 or 10,000.

Coffee gold.

These cherries are Panamanian geisha, and they’re worth a daily wage far above per volume/weight payouts. Some pickers even sign a contract for the season.

End o’ the harvest in Chichina.

These cherries are Colombian, so they’re worth between 380-500 pesos per kilo, which is roughly $0.21-$0.27 per kilo. It’s the end of the harvest and Colombian pickers are picking about 120 kilos per day, for 45,600-60,000 pesos a day, for 228,000-300,000 pesos a week.  A soda costs 2,000 pesos, a beer 1400, a pack of cigarettes 2000, and the all-important jumbo batteries for the portable radio, 2000 for a pack of 2.

Let’s review! These are the current average (mode) prices per kilo of Colombian coffee in all its different forms.

Kind of like the integrity of Juan Valdez, what coffee’s worth really depends on whom you ask.

We spent a full day on Monday going to various inspections we had lined up and also traipsing around the general area we are looking to live in looking for Se Arriendo signs that indicate a vacant apartment. Renting an apartment in Bogotá is not easy because of all the requirements you need to meet, and I’m sure I’ll write a post about the house-hunting process sometime soon. We had a couple more inspections on Tuesday and Wednesday and currently have our application in for a fabulous apartment very close to my work. We have our fingers crossed everything goes through fine and that we can move in next week!

On Tuesday I started my new job and I already love it. It’s going to be interesting, challenging and I get to work with a great bunch of professionals in a bilingual office environment. I also have an office window that looks out over Bogotá with a most incredible view, so you can be sure I’ll be taking regular ‘rest your eyes and look into the distance away from the computer screen’ exercises.

Last night on the bus back to the hostel where I’m staying until we get an apartment I was on the receiving end of lovely piece of Bogotano kindness. Buses are notoriously jam-packed and if you end up standing in the aisle, you have to hold on with two hands firmly gripping the rails in a white knuckle embrace so as not to be flung around like a bowling ball as the driver brakes and swerves at high speeds. The girl standing next to me, who wasn’t tall enough to reach the ceiling rails, slipped into the newly vacated seat directly in front of her (but not before hovering over the seat for just a minute in a Bogotá idiosyncrasy I had read about on Banana Skin Flip Flops and Sarepa). I moved a step down the bus to where she had been standing and she obviously saw that my oversized shoulder bag was heavy, awkward and in serious danger of smacking her in the head, so she said “Te ayudo?” (can I help you?) motioning to take my bag for me. So I handed over my bag which she nursed on her knee until I got off. I had seen the exact same kindness the day before by a girl sitting next to me taking the unwieldy backpack of a guy standing in the aisle and resting it on her knee and the day before that when a man gave up his seat for a pregnant woman and she returned the favour by minding his bag for him.

This small gesture is surprising because it is where famous Colombian hospitality and Bogotano politeness meets an ingrained mistrust of others and wins. Mi novio keeps telling me to be careful on the buses because they have a reputation for thefts, and here I am handing over my bag with all my important papers and valuables to a perfect stranger to mind for me. I have seen and heard of many examples of Colombian’s mistrust in others, right up to not trusting family members, although I think that is mostly about not trusting anyone with your money. But I love that regardless, people are lovely and helpful and kind. It makes me love this city a little bit more.

This week has passed by in such a blur that I’ve had to pinch myself that yes, I am in Bogotá and yes, life is great.

From February to July 2011, a study group for a possible Japan-Colombia EPA was held by Japan External Trade Organization (JETRO). The report of this study was issued in  August 2011.

The study concluded  that a  comprehensive, high-level EPA between Japan and Colombia would contribute to bringing about significant benefits, which would further strengthen the economic relationship between the two countries. Such an EPA would be beneficial to foster further economic integration between the two countries. The Joint Study Group recommended that the governments of both countries to launch a negotiation for an EPA ‘as soon as possible’.

Japan and Colombia Launch EPA Talks

The Joint Study concluded that an EPA would foster further economic integration between Japan and Colombia.

On Monday the 17th of December 2012, Japan and Colombia held their 1st round of EPA talks in Tokyo. For the EPA talks, the Japanese side was represented by Jun Yokota, ambassador in charge of economic diplomacy at the Foreign Ministry. On the other side, Javier Gamboa was Colombia’s chief negotiator.

Yokota was very positive about the first round talks and quoted the joint study where both countries have a mutual, complementary and economic relationship. Javier Gamboa stated that Japan is the ‘key’ to being close to the Asia-Pacific region. Both sides are confident that such an agreement will create a win-win situation.

The second round of negotiations for the Economic Partnership Agreement between Japan and Colombia will be held in Cali, Colombia from May 20, 2013. In this round of negotiations, issues in the areas of Trade in Goods, Trade in Services, Rules of Origin, Custom Procedures, Intellectual Property, Competition, Cooperation and Improvement of Business Environment are scheduled to be discussed.

Summary of Japan-Colombia Relations

-Between 2001-2010, Colombian exports to Japan registered an upward trend and increased to an average annual rate of 13.4%. In 2010, this amounted to US$ 511 million – highest historical value in the country.

-According to JETRO and MOF, Japan exported $1.438 billion worth of products to Colombia and imported $528 million worth of goods from the Latin American country in 2011. Japan’s main export items are autos and auto parts.

-Around 90% of Colombian exports to Japan focus on products of agriculture and agribusiness. Coffee exports have done very well. Other products include organic bananas, ornamental fish, canned mangoes, palm oil and potatoes.

-As regards investment, there was a growth in FDI where it reached US$ 35.2 million, between 2002 and the second quarter of 2011. Japan became the 3rd greatest Asian investor in the country, after Australia and South Korea.

-There was an increase of Japanese travelers to Colombia. In 2010, it grew 26% over 2009, reaching 6,284 visitors. Between January and September 2011, this figure has increased by another 9%.

]]> http://wingsarewide.wordpress.com/2013/05/18/falling-in-love-with-cartagena/ Sat, 18 May 2013 21:42:36 +0000 sarahharte http://wingsarewide.wordpress.com/2013/05/18/falling-in-love-with-cartagena/ “He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” 

- Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

I fell in love with Cartagena. My introduction to South America, after an amazing two and a half months in Central America, did not disappoint.

Cartagena is such a beautiful, romantic city. You feel like you’re stepping inside the pages of Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ simply walking around the old town.

El Portal de los Dulces, on Plaza de los Coches, is an arched walkway lined with sweet vendors selling all sorts of delicious, sticky confectionery. It’s also famous for being the most likely location for El Portal de los Escribanos, the fictional place mentioned in Love in the Time of Cholera where Fermina Daza finally meets her suitor Florentino Ariza and heartbreakingly “instead of the commotion of love, she felt the abyss of disenchantment.”

I spent most of my time strolling around with my camera and taking it all in; the refreshing shade of the leafy Plaza de Bolivar, the striking architecture, cobbled squares lined with horse drawn carriages, the streets of brightly painted buildings, beautiful women selling fruit dressed in colourful flowing skirts.

And at night, they seriously know how to party! I stayed in Hostel Mamallena just across from Media Luna, another quite popular hostel, and the night I arrived there was a huge street party. People were flooding out of the bars, dancing, drinking rum and there was a live salsa band blaring latin beats into the early hours.  It was SO MUCH FUN. I also spotted some Colombian surgically enhanced bums, which are something of a phenomenon here!

Food wise, there are plenty of options, ranging from budget to blow-out. I (obviously) opted for budget, choosing to eat in some local eateries and take advantage of the great value ‘menu del dia’, which usually consists of soup, a main course (meat, rice, vegetables, salad) and a juice. I also grabbed a bite to eat from a street food vendor just up from the hostel, and tasted my first arepa – this is a Colombian delicacy, a cornmeal patty fried with butter and filled with cheese. Yum! They have them everywhere here and you can get various fillings like egg, chicken, meat, and lots more. The arepa I had in Cartegena is definitely up there on the list of the best in Colombia. Que rico!

Cartagena airport is about a ten/fifteen minute taxi ride away from Mamallena hostel (5000 COP) and an 8 bed dorm room in Mamallena’s hostel Cartagena costs 23,000 COP per night including breakfast of pancakes and coffee. 

¿Sabías que la mente es un arma poderosa? Es capaz de hacernos enfermar, incluso hacer que una mujer tenga síntomas de embarazo (embarazo psicológico).

Dividamos el concepto “mente” en  dos:

• Mente carnal
• Mente espiritual

La mente carnal es aquella que está regida por nuestras emociones, sentimientos, dudas, angustias etc., cuando alguien es regido por este tipo de mente tiende a ver una realidad distorsionada ya que estas son presentadas por circunstancias adversas y tiende a nublar la voz de Dios y la respuesta a estas circunstancias.

También este tipo de mente es aquella que esta entregada a los placeres de la carne y es la que al nacer obtenemos por herencia.

No solo dentro de “la mente carnal” habrá cosas malas, también en ellas se encuentra necesidades básicas de los seres humanos como comer y dormir.

La mente espiritual es aquella en la que el Espíritu Santo tiene dominio  absoluto, en otras palabras “El hombre que es dominado por el espíritu camina según el espíritu”, y cuando Dios toma el dominio de nuestra mente es cuando comenzamos a hacer lo que a EL le agrada y viene un cambio de pensamiento si antes pensaba con la mente carnal ahora lo hago con la mente espiritual.

Cuando dejamos que el Espíritu de Dios domine nuestra mente se observan resultados mejor conocidos como “frutos”

“Más el fruto del Espíritu es gozo, paz, paciencia, benignidad, bondad, fe, mansedumbre, templanza, contra tales cosas no hay ley”. Gálatas 5:22-23 Biblia de las américas 1997

También si antes pensaba en mi propio bien (mente carnal) ahora pienso en servir como Jesús lo hizo cuando camino sobre esta tierra:

“Así como el Hijo del Hombre no vino para ser servido, sino para servir y para dar su vida en rescate por muchos”. Mateo 20:28 Biblia de las américas 1997

“Jesús entonces les dijo otra vez: Paz a vosotros; como el Padre me ha enviado, así también yo os envío”. Juan 20:21 Biblia de las américas 1997

Cuando tenemos una mente espiritual buscamos llevar la palabra de Dios a todos aquellos que lo necesitan:

“Y les dijo: Id por todo el mundo y predicad el evangelio a toda criatura”. Marcos 16:15 Biblia de las américas 1997

Cuando el Espíritu de Dios toma dominio en nuestra mente, nuestro corazón se encuentra sometido a EL de igual forma, recordemos que todo pensamiento nace del corazón y por eso este se ve sometido ante el Espíritu:

“Así que cambia la actitud de tu corazón y deja de ser terco”. Deuteronomio 10:16 NTV

“El Señor tu Dios cambiará tu corazón  y el de tus descendientes, para que lo ames con todo el corazón y con toda el alma, y para que tengas vida”. Deuteronomio 30:6 NTV

En toda la biblia la palabra “corazón” aparece unas 873 veces mientras que la palabra “corazones” aparece unas 88 veces, al referirse al corazón en su mayoría la biblia lo hace en mención a sentimientos, pensamientos, el hombre interno y en algunas pocas realmente se refiere al órgano vital del ser humano (2Re 9:24; Éx 28:30.)

Entonces al tener una mente espiritual todo nuestro ser queda rendido ante Dios, cada pensamiento, acción, palabra está ligada a Dios, y las circunstancias que ante nuestra mente “carnal” se tornaban imposibles, comienzan a verse como oportunidades para que Dios se manifieste y trate con nuestras vidas para poder ser forjados según el carácter de Jesús.

Seguir con mentalidad carnal o cambiarla a una mentalidad espiritual y dejarle el dominio a Dios de nuestras vidas es cuestión de decidir, Dios no va a cambiar tu mente si no quieres pero si se lo permites entonces el pondrá en ti su forma de ver las cosas (visión) y aun sus pensamientos serán revelados, pero es necesario pasar tiempo con Dios y leer su palabra solo así podremos alimentarnos de las cosas espirituales para que la mentalidad carnal mengue diariamente, tu decides!

Song by me, you can download in soundcloud, bellow the video is the link.

What drew Jorge to this particular side of town was the prices of rent. He found a place for a bargain and quickly moved and got a job teaching English. While teaching English he quickly became popular with his students with his stories about growing up in Texas and not being permitted to speak English in his own house. Jorge also had a wide range of Spanish vocabulary seldom heard in South America as well as a few words like ¨gallino¨ which were pretty rarely spoken in Colombia. The reason Jorge had gotten such a good deal on his room in Santa Fe was because the water had been turned off to the apartment several weeks prior. Therefore, each morning Jorge would climb the stairs to the upstairs apartment and fill buckets of water that would be used by him during the day to bathe, wash dishes and to cook his meals.  Jorge seemed to be having a pretty tough year. Shortly after I had met him he was fired from his teaching job. The weird part about his getting fired was the fact that the girl who turned him into the boss for being late had asked to borrow money from Jorge a few days prior because she hadn’t correctly balanced the register at the school. The more I got to know Jorge the more I wanted him to help me translate my first book, “Single Abroad: Confessions of a Boyish Man” from English to Spanish. It seemed every time I got in contact with him over the phone he was busy trying to find someone who owed him money or waiting in line at a super market buying more rope to hang up his laundry.  Finally after a few more weeks the email finally came when he hit rock bottom. This email was in response to an email I had sent him of a school which was looking for English teachers. I thought the school must be a great place to work just based on its name, “Con Ingles.” It seemed to me to be a great place for people wanting to learn how the underworld of English ran.

BRIAN THANK YOU VERY MUCH !! MAN, I AM DOWN AND OUT …I HAVE BEEN TRANSLATING  FOR THIS AMERICAN GUY ,THEN HAD TO FORCE MY SELF TO GO WASH ALL MY CLOTHES THEN DRY THEM TOOK FOREVER !! BUT I HAVEN´T DONE ANY OF THE STUFF I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO …I TOTALLY APPOLOGIZE THAT I HAVE NOT GOTTEN BACK TO YOU…DUE TO NOT HAVING MINUTES (ON MY CELL PHONE)…. LOOK SO YOU WON´T THINK I AM B.S.ING YOU MAY I GO SPEND THE NIGHT AT YOUR APARTMENT ON THURSDAY AND THEN WE CAN GET SOMETHING DONE ON YOUR BOOK ..I DO WANT TO TRANSLATE YOUR BOOK AND ALL..BUT I AM BROKE ! NOT EVEN BUS FARE..SO I WALK TO CANDELARIA…I NEED A GOOD PAYING JOB…..CALL ME…

Most of his emails started with some sort of provocative statement at the beginning, therefore getting his reader’s interest and therefore making them more likely to respond to his emails. I pretty much gave up trying to make sense of the emails past the point of him being in trouble and needing some help. I learned that however fascinating his stories might be I had to wean myself off his drama and go out and find someone else who might better be able to help me with the translation.  I had also compiled a list of questions I wanted to ask him about his life in Colombia that probably would never be answered.

Last weekend, my Gringo friends and I decided to venture to the mountain pueblo of Salamina. Located about two hours north of Manizales in the Caldas department, this town is anything but a tourist destination. The road to Salamina, which is, at certain points, unpaved, twists and winds its way through the Colombian jungle as an adventure unto itself. But as we came around the last bumpy turn of the drive and this beautiful little colonial town came into view upon a hilltop, I knew it would be worth the ride.

Salamina was the original capitol of the Caldas region, and, as such, likes to brag about its well-preserved colonial architecture and authentic vibe. My amigos and I got to experience this vibe firsthand at our “boutique” hotel, a completely renovated and refurbished colonial home named after the owner’s grandmother, Lola Garcia. La Casa de Lola Garcia, with its exquisitely decorated rooms, flowering courtyard, abundant juices, resident cat-friend and incredibly gracious owner totally made our trip.

Mauricio, as our host was called, led us on a hike through a virtually uninhabited (except by cows) valley of wax palms (the tallest palm trees in the world, which apparently originate right there in Salamina) and treated us to a picnic of hot coffee, bunuelos and fruit. There, in the silence of the mountains, surrounded by pristine natural beauty, I had one of those, “Is this really my life?” kind of moments that I’ve been able to experience more and more of since moving to Colombia. It doesn’t get much better than this. Family and friends, please get here so I can share this with you.

Are you happy there this time?

Last year I was enjoying life as always, but I wasn’t in love with Bogotá, and things just didn’t feel right.  This year I’m happy here.

Last year, hanging out with hitmen and army units for work was depressing.  This year, hanging out with smiling Colombians and eccentric expats is great.

Last year, working for a TV network (and a very challenging project) was stressful.  This year, well, I start working as a teacher in 3 days, so we’ll see.

Last year, living in a wealthy neighborhood, life was comfy and safe (and had great pricey Asian-fusion food!), but it was bland.  This year I’m living in the Candelaria.

The Candelaria is the historic district of Bogotá.  Think: Latin American edginess + European cobblestoniness + San Francisco hilliness + San Francisco homelessness + San Francisco funkiness.

I’m digging it.  It’s walkable, filled with students and young professionals and travelers, has random activities and art popping up on every corner, and offers me a plethora of food/drink options.

Last year I was bitter at the food options in Bogotá (fried and little flavor).

This year: daily binges of savory Argentinian empanadas, Colombian coffee, Swiss curry pastries, organic garden-grown daily dishes, and meats marinated in tangy sauces made from local fruits like uchuva and lulo.

And it’s cheap.

Like this, for $4.00:

Quinoa salad with Amazon chilis, squash soup, salmon, fresh-squeezed juices from fruits you’ve never heard of, yam, coconut desserts…

I love these streets.

A month ago, I moved back to Colombia.

You, my friend, are asking questions:

Why Colombia again?   Last year, while spending far too much time with police and criminals and almost dying a few times, I met a lovely girl who I learned I can’t live without.  So I’ve come back here to be with her.  I realized in the last couple of bizarre, vagabond years of my life that I need to pursue what makes me happy, not what makes me normal.

She does.

Is this permanent? Dunno.  Could be.  Could not.  Lu finishes her Masters in a year, and then we’ll make a decision if we want to stay in Bogotá, or give SF or Dublin or Berlin or Seoul or maybe southwest Antarctica a shot. The problem with Lu is that she is as weird and curious and full of wanderlust as me — so it will be a while until we settle into true normality.

more answers in next post…