Technical Difficulties

Trying to upload more photos of the river....but technology is failing me...stay tuned for more shots of the river.

A Day on the River

It was Saturday and we were invited by the neighbours (who have been so incredibly kind to us and have become the Canadian aunts to the 2 little boys). The boat is more of a raft but with Colombian style and gusto, it blasts music, and has a small BBQ onboard. The views from the river were spectacular and this had to be one of my favourite photos.

In the Trench (La Trinchera)

Well, it all started on Saturday at 10ish, no wait, that is when we were drunk...the morning started much earlier with a 6am wake up and a 7am staff meeting. By 930 all the staff had made it to a farm where the beer was cold and the rum was warm. I remember looking at my watch at 1130 and noticing that i was a bit beyond tipsy. The plates of beef with sides of beef and sauces of beef were off the bbq and served...

More beer, more rum, and half the staff was loaded...and then the dancing started.

We were home by 430 and decided that there was no point in sleeping, and more drinks were in order. By 7 pm we had decided to hit the trench and continue the bender that was started...and boy did we do a good job...the following pics and written snipets tell the tale.

Corrupting Fernando

So this is Fernando, the ethics / religion teacher...hahahahaha...you have to laugh at that one. He didn´t really need too much corruption.

Well, the drinking hat is on and time for a new location. Dee and I packed up the rum and wandered, more like stumbled down the main avenue. We stopped in the drug store to pick up some advil (preparing for the next day) and washed it down with rum and coke mix we carried in the store with us. The pharmacist thought were were nuts, but broke the ice by offering him a drink. We left and made our way to Victorianna where our neighbours were.

3 Chicas

As we stumbled from the Trench with bottle of rum and plastic cups in hand, we hit Victoriana where Dee and I met up with our neighbours. We sat around, drank some more rum, and then hit another club. We were dancing on the bar, behind the bar and near the bar...to tell the truth, the night was a bit of a blur, but oh how my stomach hurt the next day from laughing so hard.

A Night Out on The Town

By the end of the night, and despite the warnings of some of my students, I was determined to try out for a new job....go figure...i had the qualifications--i drink rum and am tall enough to reach the handles.

The Art of Speaking with Your Face

If the Italians speak with their hands, then it can be said that the Colombians, primarily the Constenas, speak with their faces. I am slowly getting the hang of the subtle and not so subtle facial expressions that are used to enhance or even replace the verbal communication.

The Nose Scrunch
It is quite simple really…a quick wrinkle of the nose and an upward nod of the head. At first my inaccurate interpretation was, “What the hell is that smell,” but with some time and context, it really means, “Huh?” or “What?” With a bit more of an exaggerated movement it is more of a, ‘What the fuck are you saying?’

The Single-Shot Eyebrow Lift
Both eyebrows, at the same time, are lifted only once which can mean anything from a “Hey!” or “Gotcha,” or even “How’d you like that mischief?” from my devious students. But once again, the chin is slightly lifted, giving an impression of confidence, even cockiness.

The Double-Shot Eyebrow Lift
Now this should not be confused with the single-shot eyebrow lift as the meanings are very different indeed. The double-shot has both eyebrows being raised at the same time, two or three times. I suppose the closest you can get to a translation would be taken from some North American pop culture with Joey from Friends saying, “How you doin’!”

Most of the double-shot lifts have been received in passing from dirty old men, and the young police officers that stand on the corner of my street, to the bar flies and even the cockier of the older students. But it is all a game; just another way to replace the blatant cat calls or hissing, or even a smack on the ass in passing. And if the truth be told, it is much easier to ignore this look than it is to ignore any of the sounds.

Still new and fresh at the culture, the language, and the non-verbal communication, but slowly I am getting the gist of things. I still don’t talk with my face, but anything can happen over time.

To my friends, a single-shot eyebrow lift to you.

Thunderstorm

Oh how I have missed the cracks and roars of thunder, the flashes of light that illuminate the sky, and the torrential downpours so ubiquitous of the tropics. It has been some time since I have felt the tremendous power gathered and then unleashed upon us mortals, but I got my fix last night with a remarkable performance by Mother Nature.

ACT ONE
The movement of the pale clouds foreshadowed a storm, but the cool breeze that came with dusk was all too pleasurable to even be preoccupied with rain. Sure you could feel rain in the air, but there was no way I was about to wait out the storm before it even began.

ACT TWO
I was towards the end of my walk with Milo, about 2 minutes away from home, when the sky opened up and hurled down rain drops the size of quarters. The drops bounced off my exposed skin and soaked into my linen clothing. Puddles half an inch deep formed within those 20 metres of my return home, but I wasn’t in any hurry. The rain felt great; rejuvenating and invigorating. I took my time, and allowed those 2 minutes to slowly turn into 5. My linen clothes were entirely soaked and they hugged my drenched flesh, but I didn’t care. The dog seemed to enjoy the rain as well, most likely the coolest he has been since our arrival. The deafening sound of the rain pelting off the tin roofs of the parking garage drowned the noise of the traffic, and hushed the crickets and birds.

INTERMISSION
But the rain was only a prelude to the show to come. Faint rumbles could be heard in the distance along with sheet lightning—typical of any ordinary evening, but they started to grow closer to the city.

ACT THREE
A few hours later, I was lulled to sleep from the rain, but awoke to claps of thunder as the storm seemed to hover directly above the city and our apartment. The double lined navy blue curtains couldn’t keep the lightning flashes out, and quickly drew my attention. The circulating air from the ceiling fan diminished and I knew the power was out. There was no way I was going to let this show go unseen. I got out of bed and fumbled down the hallway to the living room, where a small-scale version of a light show was happening as 3 or 4 fireflies flew about zapping their phosphorescent butts. I perched myself on a chair and watched out the window.

ACT FOUR
The lightning flashes were blinding as the entire sky was lit with zig-zagging bolts, some across, some hitting straight down. The thunder grew with intensity and shook the building so much so, you could swear there was a minor earthquake. I tried counting and differentiating between the bolts of lightning and the sounds of thunder, but there was no possible way. They were consecutive and ran into each other…I could only assume that the storm was oh so near, and I continued to watch. The electricity pole across the street was either hit, or had some malfunction as sparks flew from the pole and cascaded onto the street. The gauzy curtains in the living room floated on the wind coming through the windows and seemed to maintain some rhythm to the sounds of thunder. The storm seemed to hush, but just when I believed the climax was over, Mother Nature came back for an encore. The rumbles set off car alarms, it set of the barking and wailing of dogs, it had a child in tears, and it had me even more fascinated. An hour passed. The city and streets were still wrapped in blackness accented only by the brief flashes of white. Another hour passed and the storm drifted to the north, away from the apartment and away from the city.

To Mother Nature, I applaud you. I believe another encore is in the works as the breeze picks up and clouds swirl this evening. May it be equally as good because I doubt there could be better.

Living in THE GHETTO

Since my arrival here in Monteria and to the apartment which I cannot even begin to call home, Dee and I have affectionately given our pad the nickname of “The Ghetto.” It really isn’t the worst place I have stayed in, but then again, those shitty dives were made by choice and I realized the briefness of it. But this is different.

The Ghetto is really a ghetto. Sure we live in the nicest neighbourhood in the city, but the building itself is about 25 years old. Half a decade ago I am sure it was a classy joint, hell I am even sure that some of the suites here still exude that touch of class, but I do believe we have the worst unit of the lot. The concrete floors resemble the tacky slabs that tile airports or elementary school hallways, the concrete walls are chipped, cracked and splotched with a patchwork of putty. Sure, a fresh coat of paint may have freshened up the place, but that is just scratching the surface.

Through the cracks and holes in the walls, a variety of insects find their way into our ghetto; so much so that National Geographic could do a special program on Colombian entomology; colonies of ants take up residence in every nook and cranny, cockroaches are everywhere, but seem to find our ghetto a utopia, mosquitoes large enough to carry away small babies and go into stealth-no-buzzing-mode nibble at your feet and any exposed skin through the nights. Milo chases flies and ants and god knows what else during the day. Iguana’s sneak in through the windowless kitchen and lizards have been caught trying. Geckos roam free, but that I don’t mind. I actually enjoy their croaks and suction cup fingers that allow them to roam around and catch the nasty bugs.

There are no lampshades, just the plain bulbs that jut out from the walls, and most of the fixtures don’t even have bulbs. Electricity is expensive. We choose to sit in the dark and take advantage of the darkness that hides the hideousness of the ghetto lights. Candles are even an expensive option, so like vampires, our eyes sting with any sort of daylight.

The Ghetto is the only apartment building in Monteria, a tropical city that hovers between 28 and 34 degrees daily, without a pool. Instead our backyard is a haven for garbage that is dropped from the apartments above and the lizards.

It is rainy season here, and with a torrential downpour, which occurs on a regular basis, puddles form in the living room. I am not sure if it leaks in from the cracks in the walls or seeps up through the floor. Either way, we come home to pools of water…it is just too bad that we can’t swim in them.

My bed is basically a kid’s bed with the softest mattress you could ever imagine. My feet hang off of the end, and my knees off the edge if I sleep like I normally do. Springs dig into my back and I just don’t seem to get the proper amount of hours of sleep. I can’t hang clothes in my closet, as there is a shelf a foot below the bar, so all my clothes are scattered on hangers around the apartment. I brush and floss my teeth, comb my hair and put on any sort of makeup in the mirror hanging in the living room, as there isn’t a mirror in my bathroom.

I know this may sound like some sort of bitchy rant-like posting and to some extent it is, but maybe it is the lack of sleep that is making me react with more fury than I normally would. I guess it comes down to the fact that I had a bit higher expectations of the place I should be allowed to call home—something that I can’t do at this point in time. I don’t feel settled, I don’t feel comfortable, and I don’t feel at ease in this place. Sure it is a roof over my head; a roof that I don’t have to pay for, but just because someone else pays for it, should I live in pseudo-squalor?
But no matter how destitute this dump is, we fortunately haven’t lost our sense of humour about it, at least not yet.

After a wonderful invitation of using a friend’s house anytime we wanted to whether to hang out, watch TV or movies, or ask the maid to make us a meal, Rodo turned his broken English to the Spanish term, mi casa es su casa.

“Gracias,” I replied. “And mi ghetto es su ghetto.” The comment went over his head, but the fluent English-speaking Colombian in attendance nearly fell off his bar stool. But no matter how many attempts we made to explain what a ghetto was, it just wasn’t translatable.
The humour we have with our place is shared with our friend JP. He made a quick comment of chucking in a grenade to fix it up. Between the fits of laughter and visual imagery of it, both Dee and I agreed that it would be perfect—we could have our own ghetto style air conditioning.
The place is a dive, but like I said earlier, it is a roof over our heads, and as of now that is the one thing that isn’t cracked or damaged and doesn’t leak.

¨It is hilarious, and the sad thing is, there was no exaggeration. But you haven’t even touched on the kitchen or our beautiful sitting room.¨
Dee (after listening to my posting)

NB: The mirror in the bathroom arrived and to my surprise it even has a few shelves constructed in flimsy Barbie-house plastic. A small victory! I will no longer have to do a small trek to get ready.

Vallenato Dancing

Side profile of the outfit and Juan Carlos and I groovin to the accordian tunes typical of this area...

3 Ladies in White

Our outfits were made by the same seamstress, and we were off to the 15th Birthday Party-White Party.

15th Birthday Party

In the middle of last week, a knock came to our door. Deirdre opened the door to see the parents of one of her children standing there with a verbal invitation to a 15th Birthday Party this coming weekend. The invitation was accepted but there was a hitch…everyone had to be dressed totally in white; quite fitting since the family’s last name is Blanca.

The mad rush began for white clothes and white shoes. By the time Thursday has rolled around, I still hadn’t found pants nor had I found a fancy top and began to wonder if a bedsheet with barefeet would work. Having big feet is fine (thanks Dad for those genes), but it is finding shoes to fit those feet that becomes the problem. But with patience and a lot of running around the city, I found a few pairs that would work. The solution I found is to walk into the shoestore, pick out a few styles I like and then just ask for the biggest size. Most of the time I find shoes equivalent to size 8; 2.5 sizes too small.

The pants issue comes down to the style in which one wears the pants. I am still not too keen on looking Colombian with pants painted. I found a few pairs that fit the way I like them, even though they were a few inches too short, the change room clerks all amazed that I preferred the ‘maternity/baggy’ look and would hussle out to find pants that felt 3 sizes too small. I suppose when I feel more Colombian, those pants are always options, but not for now.

I asked around for a seamstress, and time was getting close. One was supposed to come to the apartment on Thursday night, but she didn’t show. So first thing Friday after work we went to a little shop in el centro to get me some clothes. I went with a few simplistic designs in mind, but the designer was trying to convince me to go a bit more avant-garde. Dee and I figure that it is some sort of “Barbie complex” in the fact that they want to dress up their little blonde customer. But with a few stubborn NOs, I got my way, had the measurements taken and told that my outfit would be ready by Saturday at 5. Still cutting it close since the party was at 8pm, but I had no other choice.

Saturday rolled around and no matter how much I tried to sleep in (cause I knew if the party started at 8, it would finish with the sun rise), I couldn’t. Up and ready by 10am and off to hit the city to run around and buy shoes and jewelry for both Dee and I and a birthday card for the birthday girl.

Running from 11 till 4, got the shoes, got the jewelry, got the card and then we hit the place where the designer works. Still no sign of her, and no sign of our clothes. Normally I would be freaking out, but my impatience seems to be fading with time here in Colombia. I figured that since I need to kill some time, the best idea was to go to the corner store, buy some beer and get the party started. While the time passed, Dianna, one of the shop clerks, taught me to dance Colombian style to Reggaeton and then to Vallenato (a typical style of music in the north of the country). It was just another little show for the passer-byers after some bra exposure measurements the previous day.

I grabbed a beer between our dancing lessons and sat on the front steps watching the city go by. I find the solo time when I can just disappear from everyone the most appealing. It is just a sliver of time where I can sit back and observe and sometimes be observed. I smoked, I drank, I smiled at the craziness of Latin America, I turned down coffee, coconut water, lottery tickets and some crazy old man who spoke Spanish with a lisp.

Apparently the shop girls admired my ‘don’t give a fuck’ joie-de-vie by sitting the central part of the city with a beer and a smoke…something that isn’t done by the women in the late afternoon, but will do so in the evening. So be it. 5:30 rolled around, and still no clothes, but it was time to get our hair and makeup done.

Wash, blow-dry, lacquered curls, painted on eyebrows, black-rimmed eye lids—I looked hideous and didn’t know if I would explode in a fit of laughter or a tyrannical fit. Instead I told them that my eyebrows weren’t natural with a pleasant smile. ( I was more afraid of them melting off in the heat and with sweat and creating some black puddle down my cheeks). I hated my hair and hated the Barbie Complex that they had too. The scary thing is, I asked them to do it natural. Apparently that word isn’t in their vocabulary. I looked mean with the dark rimmed eyes, and knew as soon as I got home, that look was being wiped away, or at least softened 10-fold.
7:00 and still no clothes. I was freaking out. I guess I could finally empathize with Cinderella and was waiting for a fairy godmother to clothe me for the party. 7:30 and finally they arrived. Now I could only hope that they would fit. The top was perfect, as well as the pants, but the legs were too long. I was told not to worry, and that they could be fixed on Monday. Dee played the bitch and within 10 minutes the designer arrived to hem the pants.

Done…now all we had to do was go home, tone down my face, get dressed and hit the party. We ended up being an hour late, but that didn’t seem important as everyone arrived late.

We walked into the Golf Club to find the most elegant room. Everything was in white; tablecloths, the chairs and all the guests. It was amazing to see. The only bit of colour was the birthday girl who wore a teal blue dress and the bouquets of flowers on the tables.
We sat down at our table, and the whiskey sessions started along with dance lessons to Vallenato. Luckily, I didn’t need too many and seemed to impress the others at our table that a white girl like me could dance to something so alien to her ears. I didn’t mention my previous lessons but was thankful to Dianna at the seamstress shop for making things less traumatic.

Discussions in broken Spanish about language acquisition ensued along with conversations about the history of music and the paramilitary territory of Monteria from a professor at a local university. I had a flashback or perhaps some insight into what the past must have been like for the wealthy Brits during colonial times. With the destruction and violence in other parts of an occupied land, the Brits stayed in their protected areas and lived a good life…it somehow feels the same way here. Forty years of ‘war’ in this country and yet in this little city life goes on in a normal way. It was weird how things just sort of clicked and I went with the conscious dreaming.

The night ended and I was home by 4AM. I woke with a slight whiskey hangover, knotted hair, and residual makeup that would have been a sure contender for a Tammy Faye look-alike contest. It was a pleasant evening and an experience that I may not have again.