Immigration truths and realities.

I
In every immigrant family like mine there are two histories, the romantic myth and the real account. The romantic myth is told around the overwhelmed table with food from home, with a drink in hand, a hearty laugh, and loud music in the background. It is the stories you grow up hearing about how we came to the United States!! Told with hyperbole, gusto and lots of exclamation points. All the sentences start with: “Remember when?”

That table at la tia’s is not just filled with pasteles, patacones, or tongue. It also has hot dogs and a store bought pie proudly displayed right next to the rest of the strongly spiced fare. The hot dogs with ketchup are for the kids who are americanitos and think the tongue in tomato sauce is stomach turning, not a delicacy to be savored. They also prefer the store bought pie perfectly edged to the arroz con leche that is lumpy and imperfect. As they grow up they don’t question the myths. Their parents also prefer to hide from them the dark side of immigration. It helps to gloss over the anger, the shame, and the sadness of their experiences.

The truth is that leaving your country is not easy. You leave everything you’ve known for a big unknown. You don’t know the language, the customs, the laws, the weather or the geography. For example learning how to get a job involves a whole complicated set of transactions that you must learn from scratch. Add to it finding an apartment, setting up utilities and learning the transportation system. It can be taxing and disconcerting.

In the process you also must learn what and who is sincere. Not to be tricked or bamboozled, no matter how friendly the face. And yet all along you must believe that you made the right decision to leave your country. Just like you trust that the virgin, and the saints you have hanging on the wall, or propped against the windowsill won’t forget you.

My family is not unlike most immigrants’ families; some came over legally, some on student visas, others on tourist visas. All came because they wanted something they could not get back home, safety, opportunity, or an education. How each person became “legal” is complicated. Some have taken a risk of living without papers for years while awaiting an amnesty, or have paid expensive lawyers bills; others yet have married a person with their papers. Some have had all three experiences. Each stage of their lives in the US played out depending on how close they are to becoming “legal”. Some have had close calls with raids, saved by the shouts of the migra ringing down the street. One thing is certain; no matter how difficult the situation none has wanted to return “home”. When a deportation has happened we don’t talk about it. We just send packages full of vitamins, underwear, socks or sometimes the odd fifty-dollar bill.

This silence continues when we don’t mention our truths unless it is in hushed tones. The jobs for little pay, the small and large humiliations, the pains of being confused in a strange city, or how cops scare you. We also don’t talk about the real reasons we came: the political situations, the civil wars, or the disappearances. By the time you made it to that table full of delicious food, the whole family crowded in to a small living room, music and children making noise you don’t want to bring up the truth. You want to talk about the time grandmother made a dress from scraps from the factory and it looked better than anything in a store window. The first time you saw snow, how you finally saved enough money to buy a sofa that is now permanently encased in plastic, or who was your first real American friend. These stories become legends in the family lore told over and over again.

So why bring up the realities? After all you are a survivor who managed to be patient enough to learn how to work within the system, you now have a drivers license, and the kids speak English. So why remember the past, when the future is what is important? And in that moment you become American. It is not the papers kept in plastic sleeves for their protection but how you slowly and surely forget. You unconsciously join in that great American pastime that is forgetting its’ past.

II
The problem is that not all of us can forget at the same rate. Some of us carry the wounds and scars on our faces, and bodies. The anger or frustration that become embedded in the skin, like the ulcers, arthritis, or high blood pressure from working two or three jobs at a time. These jobs are hard back braking labor. Just for a while longer until…you learn English, until…you have saved up some money to for a down payment on your own place…until you try to finish some sort of schooling. Until you get that dream job. An easy office job, because you get to sit all day and do nothing. Until then you do the job nobody wants to do, for a wage nobody wants.

Ask what the minimum wage was any given year and my aunt can remember the exact amount. She has tracked the quarter-by-quarter raise given to her in every job. She has had factory jobs when there were factory jobs, and since then she has waited tables, been a childcare worker, and now she is an elder companion. She has done all these jobs and she has done them well. For thirty years she has worked with her ingles machacao, her broken English and raised two sons. All she has ever done is clean for, clean up, clean after, and clean people. And yet through it all she has never wanted to return “home.” She left such a long time ago and that place is no longer there. It barely exists in her memory. She waited too long waited until…

III
If you are like me you see your relatives at baptisms, weddings or funerals. It is there that you see the gap between those who have managed and those who just barely manage. It is not in their manner or way of dressing but how they stand, how a smile is barely ever on their lips. It can be painful to see those who you love in such pain. And yet they still hold on to the promise of next year one more year. Until…

The contrast of between us is palpable. I have a college degree, I did not have a baby before the age of twenty, I speak English without an accent, and I have never been in jail, All of these experiences make me seem lucky, blessed and destined to not suffer their pains. In their eyes I look like the nice middle class girl who made it. Cops don’t stop me because I look “suspicious”, store-owners hardly ever follow me as I browse in their shop, and I have rarely been called a spic to my face. To these family members my life is golden. What they don’t realize is there is no free ride for an immigrant. Not even me. Everything you have you have worked for. Your inheritance is your work ethic. As a result you work hard but not smart and the world seems to pass you by. Your home is small, full of items from the 99-cent store, and the plumbing isn’t great. While I admit I have many opportunities and advantages, I am no more gringa than they are. I too have the scars of the racist and class based system. More than once I have been passed up for a promotion by someone whiter, younger and less experienced than me. Nobody is off the hook when your last name is Hernandez, Rodriguez or Medina.

At these family reunions the endemic silence of the truth haunts us. Nobody talks about this shadow that has adhered to us. It explains the melancholia, the clinginess, and the grief that can overwhelm that home we have worked so hard for. Hasta en las mejores familias, even in the best of families that risk of immigrating can turn sour. That never really belonging seeps in to your skin, and it becomes easy to fall to the demons. These demons have modern names and faces. They are drugs use, alcoholism, physical abuse, abandonment, and compulsive shopping. And yet we don’t want to leave the US.

One more year, just a little longer while junior finishes school, we save just enough, or the political situation at home calms down. Then maybe we will go back for a visit. Playing tourista by going the beach and bringing all the cousins to eat all they want. Proud off all the empty bottles of beer and Coca Cola strewn as you film it with the new camcorder you bought specially for the trip. You get to be a big shot and showoff the green bills, los dolarsitos. The problem is that one-year slowly becomes ten, twenty or thirty. You might never make it to the beach, and in the meantime your life is more about being here and not there. Until…

IV
We immigrants have made a pact with the American devil. We have exchanged knowing the rhythm of our seasons for a level of comfort. We left behind knowing when it is mango season and how do~Na Ernestina’s tree can perfume the whole block. That if you get sick someone will always be there. Coming by with soup, a joke, and a prayer. We exchange that for knowing that there will not be a military coup, the feared police won’t ask for a mordida, buses always run, the mailman does not steal, water and electricity are always available. We fear the cold and yet we endure it because we have the right to heat. In exchange we have given not just our current labor, but also our future generations.

Our children will have a heavy task not just to “brown” the United States but also make it truly American. It is my hope that the United States does not continue to pretend to be an only child in a large family. Our young new “American” will help to create a larger America that comprises the whole of the continent from Alaska to the Patagonia. That realizes the untapped resource that we all posses. That Europe is not the motherland, but that a true America is one populated by those of us who have tangible roots in the Americas.

We are now a nation that knows what dulce de leche, tortillas, and carne asada are. That uses these words on a daily basis and also knows how to pronounce correctly. So much so that they do not require italics as I write them. As my mother says this is a nation that loves our food but hates us. Immigration reform is about realizing that to have Mexican, Salvadorian, Dominican, or Colombian food, you have to have Mexicans, Salvadorians, Dominicans and Colombians. If you want to have clean houses, well brought up children, and supermarkets stocked you need us as much as we need to have our needs met. True reform will mean that the next time somebody immigrates they won’t have to create myths. The truth will be uncomfortable, disorienting, but not painful, or heartbreaking. Then maybe we can get what we really bargained for: an opportunity. Until then…I hope that congress does the right thing and honors our contributions by letting us emerge from the shadows of being undocumented.

The lady got fat

La Inflacion: Inflation

Nope that fat lady is not I. As much I tempted, I have resist the daily lures of Buñuelos from the corner bakery and Arequipe (that is dulce de leche for you English speakers) and chocolate ice cream from Crepes&Waffles. It has been a miracle that my jeans not only fit, but also I bought the trendy skinny ones and I don’t look like a chorizo.

That fat lady is inflation. And she seems to singing loudly. Prices have gone through the roof. Limes alone have gone up 70% in three months; forget about corn in a country where some people eat arepas three times a day. All government estimates have been rendered useless. The dollar keeps on plummeting to historic lows. People are panicking, and the presidents finance minister makes a quip about that the minimum wage has been set to handle such a precipitous price increase. Forgetting that the wage was adjusted for the whole year and not just the first quarter of the year.

The government is not helped by the scandal in El Choco the state that takes up most of the Pacific coast. Several children die of malnutrition, and more will die if the national government does not intervene health officials tell news outlets. This is one of Colombia’s poorest states with the largest population of Afro-Colombian’s and several important indigenous tribes. It is also one of the most corrupt and underdeveloped.

President Uribe engages in one of his usual great PR campaign moves. He arrives to pat the heads of some of the sad looking kids in a rural community. He promises to get to the bottom of the situation. It seems like this is enough to get the news outlets to focus on something else. That is until it is discovered that supplies of Bienestarina, a food supplement provided to the poorest children in Colombia, has been sold to feed pigs in a large farm. Some bureaucrat in El Choco has sold it to a friend rather than let it be distributed to those in need.

The country is outraged. How can this be happening in a country so rich in resources? What heartless bastard would do such a thing? In the meantime it is discovered that the money given to El Choco for its public health system has gone missing. Not one hospital has received its funds, and they chug along without the basics. No gauze, gloves, or needles. The situation is chaotic, and Uribe pets another kid’s head.

We each should go our separate ways

Te acompaño: I’ll accompany you.

Here is a test that will help you find out how Colombian are you.

Sceanario:
You and a friend arrive at a shopping mall. Both of you have to do some sort of tedious task. Pay a bill, go to the bank, go talk to an official about a complicated matter. It will take you each an hour to resolve your own issue. And the place that each of you have to go to are in opposite parts of the mall.

A) Do you decide to accompany your friend while they do their errand? With the expectation that they will do the same and accompany you to do yours.

B) Do you set up a time to meet in a central place after you both have done your errands?

If you chose A you are Colombian, if you choose B you are a big gringo.

As the big gringa of this blog let me tell you something there is nothing more that Colombian’s fear than loneliness. This fear manifests itself in all its’ forms, from the terror of being single, to the horror of living alone. I know of not one person who actually is plagued with having both horrible conditions of being single and living alone. Any desire to be by yourself is considered at best rude at worst pathologically strange. One more than one occasions my father and Doris have left town and left me alone. Everyone from family, friends, the cleaning lady and the building manager has worried about me becoming lonely. Seeing their departure as a respite of being constantly surrounded by people is not the right answer. Begging people to come over, accepting invitations to stay at their house, arranging nonstop social activities is normal. Now if you know me, you know how social I am. I love a good dinner party, a cocktail hour, a movie date, any excuse to be hangout and interact. Here I am a novice who insists in being in bed by 3am and does not want to party until the sun rises. A quirky girl who likes the idea of being in a quiet house reading all by herself! What a weird gringa.

Easter Week part 2-Procession time!

Monumento de Pascua: An artfully created installation in a church featuring Christ during Easter week.

Easter week becomes rainy and we hole up as the city becomes silent. Unlike most middle class people we do not go out of town. Instead we try to do the few cultural activities available during the holy week. We go to MAMBO, Museum of Modern Art of Bogotá, to see a couple of films. We see Babel and The Queen back to back. I catch up on my Oscar nominated films three months later than usual, both films for the easy on the wallet price of three dollars each. On holy Friday after seeing The Queen, Doris, her daughter Cata and I walk down the carrera septima that has been closed for pedestrian traffic as families walk from one church to another.

On holy Friday the streets reflect the somber tone of the holiday. We enter Iglesia Las Nieves that has always been closed when I have passed by. It has four policemen outside controlling the crowds. The rain soaked carpet at the entrance shows the signs of the wear and tear people have put on it. The inside is divided forcing people to stand in a line to go by El Monumento. The barriers are so well put together that those that attempt to jump the line fail. Doris asks me to say three Our Fathers and ask for a wish. “You’ll be surprised how quickly it will come to you.”

I zone out watching the crowd. The crowd ebbs and flows towards the altar, each person concentrating on their own prayer. Ignoring their neighbors in line they take out their rosary beads, bibles or prayer books. Teenage boys seem to be the most overwhelmed by the intensity of the crowd and yet they perform the same rituals as their mother’s and father’s. I forgot to say the prayer as I try to take in the religious intensity. Doris asks me if I am finished with my prayer. Then she tells me not to say what I wish for, I guess it is like blowing out the candles on your birthday cake, your wish won’t come true if you say it out loud.

We walk out of the church and down further passing by the Celia Cruz impersonator who has a crowd around her. She belts out “La negra tiene tumbao”, Celia’s last big hit, as her cheap blond wig keeps her warm in the drizzle. We bump into families who hold hands five or six at time. They take up half the street walking like this, and we play avoid-stepping-on-people’s feet. Street vendors are few during this holy time, but all the panaderias, cafeterias, and heladerias along seventh avenue are full. We go into Palermo, an old-school teahouse. In the front of this cafeteria their fresh pasta’s and bread’s are the first thing to great you. The dark wood panels make you feel miles away from the hustle and bustle of the street. The uniformed waitresses show us to the dessert case where we each choose a pastry. It feels like we are suddenly back in time to the 1960’s. We talk in hushed tones reflecting the quiet of the place.

Later that night Doris convinces me to go to the procession at the El Senor de los Milagros, which is our local church. Famous for it miraculous Christ it is a popular church in Bogotá. We arrive a bit late and the church is completely full. Doris in her stubbornness manages to find us a spot right in front of the altar. As time passes, people quickly surround us. Thinking we were going to be outside for the seven o’clock procession I am overdressed and start to sweat. The humidity in the air, the incense, the prayers overwhelm me. As the service begins of la siete palabras, I start to feel woozy. The priest intones them as he reminds us all that this sermon is being transmitted live over the Minuto de Dios, the catholic radio station. In between the psalms he reminds listeners that they are a part of a worldwide broadcast, also available on the Internet through the Real Network. This makes me giggle and I fail to keep my giggles to a minimum as I look over and see Cata falling asleep.

The time comes to bring the Christ on the cross that was the centerpiece of El Monumento down. As the priest intones the gospels about Christ’s experience on that first holy Friday, a puff of smoke and the sound of thunder punctuate his words. Slowly and carefully the lifelike plastic Christ is brought down. It requires three priests, two ladders, and a purple chiffon cloth. The purple cloth is used to make the removal of the Christ dignified and avoid any unintentional slapstick. Another priest at the base of the arrangement takes pictures with his digital camera. Some parishioners follow suit and take out their cell phones to capture the moment. Considering the difficulty of the situation it is all perfectly choreographed and quite beautiful. As the Christ is finally lowered in to the sleeping beauty glass coffin awaiting him, the head priest asks us all to let it pass through on its way out to the street. All those who had been sitting in the pews rise as the six priests carry him out. Their robes crushed underneath the heavy glass coffin the smell of the incense waft behind them.

When the parishioners gather outside the head priest on his megaphone asks us all to pray a Hail Mary. The crowd’s voices take over the avenue as we walk behind the coffin. When he reminds us that this prayer is for all the mothers who like Mary have lost their sons and daughters to La Violencia (the ongoing Colombian civil war), the drug business, and kidnappings, it is the first time this particular prayer made sense to me. He reminds us that the pain these women are suffering today due to all of Colombia’s problems is not unlike Mary’s suffering upon seeing her son being taken down off the cross. As we walk the streets the Hail Mary is replaced by Our Father’s, an this image of the suffering of Colombia is stuck with me. How many people tonight won’t go home to find their love one missing to either La Violencia, or the Drug War? Specially, since in the last ten years these two separate conflicts have become intertwined. It makes that two thousand year old story of one man’s violent and unjust death more real to me than ever. If I have ever had a Catholic moment this is it. As it starts to drizzle we leave the procession. In a somber mood the three of us walk quietly to return home. The rain starts in earnest just as we reach the building, and I think about the procession as it continues in the rain.

The next day, it is suddenly sunny and bright. The sky is a deep blue and the white clouds shine against it. Gone is the drizzly and grey weather. We decide to go to the ExpoArtesanias, located in one of the many large parks that make up el parque Simon Bolivar. Now as I mentioned before I am a big fan of Colombian crafts, and ExpoArtesanias is the governmental arm that tries to promote and continue the crafts business. It does an excellent job of innovating and rescuing techniques. They just opened a complex that will serve as a permanent space for their conferences and tradeshows. It is large with seven buildings for booths, a cafeteria, a conference building with office space and a large parking lot. It is located near the children’s museum and the botanical gardens. Making it a spot that is easy to reach, in an area designed for affordable recreation.

Every year they have a large conference and tradeshow in December. It is my favorite tradeshow in the world. You see people from all over Colombia, shivering in the December chill. Colombian music in all its forms are performed live and you see the true diversity of the country. Not the bleach blond, plastic surgery Colombia you see in soap operas.

Not thinking, I arrive sans cash. Not smart, since I quickly become enamored of some of the crafts. Wood work, jewelry, handmade textiles, and of course foods. We quickly realize that this is a fair for handcrafts from the coffee-growing region. Below is a list of some of my favorite artisans who duly impressed me. Their quality, innovation and design sense was extraordinary.

www.salamandracreativa.com- Accesories

plateataller@yahoo.com-Silver hand made jelwery

azuatelar@hotmail.com- Hand loomed scarfs and belts

It was in the food pavilion where we all went a bit wild. With samples galore, and enough cash to splurge we tried a bit of everything. Coffee wine, sweets, chutney’s, hand made ice creams, chips made from different tubers, chocolate covered coffee beans and huge ping-pong sized grapes. My favor stands are the chicharron dietetico with 50% less fat, right next door to the chicharron vegetariano made with soy. The vegetarian pork rind is super delicious and stands head to head with its’ non-vegetarian neighbor.

Across the aisle is the coca products guy. He carries the full gamut of products: coca wine, tea, cola, coca cookies, cream and last but not least marijuana lotion. The lotion is for the aches and pains of arthritis. Now for the uninitiated I am talking coca as in coca leaf. Allowed by law 30 of 1986 and Law 67 of 1993, indigenous tribes are allowed to cultivate and promote the safe use of what they consider to be a sacred plant. The difference between a coca leaf and cocaine is like difference between Paris Hilton and me. We are both women and any semblance ends there. Coca tea is no more “stimulating” than green tea. The sales guy proceeds to tell us the benefit of each of his products, heck it seems that coca leaf will cure anything. By rote memory he starts to go over the benefits of his products. He says it without stopping as if he will forget something if he does not spit it out. So obviously coca does not help if you have memory issues. His voice carries as he repeats: stress, over exertion, depression, menstrual issues, prostate issues, inflammation, pain, incontinency, and a host of intestinal track problems. He seems to want us to have that list of symptoms, so to avoid it all we wisely buy his coca mint tea. Which is not only delicious but slightly relaxing, just the opposite of what you’d expect.

The arepa de choclo stand beckons. They grill up nice and golden as the cheese oozes out making a lovely sizzle sound. After finding out that each arepa will be $3,000 pesos we decide against it. That is officially the most expensive arepa I have ever salivated over. Thanks to bio fuel we can expect these sorts of prices for all of our corn products. I know that a cleaner planet requires sacrifice but this one really hurts.

The next booth has empanadas with reasonable prices and yummy salsa. We each eat three each. After leaving the food pavilion my father decides it is lunchtime. To quote my grandfather it is not a meal unless there is rice and you are sitting down. My father has taken his father’s axiom to heart. He still eats a hamburger with a knife and fork and prefers a formal meal to a sandwich any day.

The food court has all the different regions and their respective cuisines represented: Carne a la llanera, comida costeña, comida valluna, and ajiaco galore. I opt for a fruit salad considering I just ate half of all the samples available and three empanadas. My father orders in the costeño food stand. No surprise since he still misses the food he grew up eating. Twenty-five years out of the country and ten in Bogotá is not going to change his appetite for a good mote de queso. The food court is packed and finding seats is practically impossible. People jockey for the tables and we end up sitting in different tables, as it starts to drizzle.

After consuming all the fried and salty goodness the food court offers we all fall in to a food coma. So we return home to practice the most clichéd of all Latin traditions, la siesta. With that afternoon nap we end our Easter week.

Things to do during Easter week in Bogotá

Sorry but believe it or not I have been a busy girl, I promise to update the blog with lots of adventures soon.

The word of the day: El via crucis: the via crucis, from latin meaning the path that Jesus took, or twelve stations of the cross.

I am not Catholic. That makes me a big weirdo here in Colombia. I am on one side of the family a great-great granddaughter of a Catholic priest, the granddaughter of a Presbyterian, and a Mason. On the other side there are the hidden Jews, and a high level Rosicrucian. I am best summoned up by my best friend Heidi, as a coming from the best Pagan, Jewish, witch stock. There is some Catholic thrown in for good measure, since up until the new constitution of 1982, being Catholic was de jure. There no civil marriages, baptism certificates instead of birth certificates, and 90% of schools were Catholic. But the reality is when you have anti-establishment parents you don’t grow up Catholic. You grow up liberal, secular with a dash of Pagan, Jewish, witchiness.

Having said that I do respect all forms of worship and religious expressions that do not have as a premise ignoring the universal declaration of human rights. A nice secular document that sums up nicely for me how we should behave. It has been five years since I have spent an Easter week in Colombia and I had forgotten the religious frenzy that it elicits. Please take in to account I am calling it Easter week, and not spring break. While they are the same thing in the calendar they are not the same thing in practice.

With my background I always feel like I am on the outside looking in when it comes to religious activities. I might attend a service, be moved, agree, even enjoy the ritual and sermon, but it is not mine. It is not my ritual or my celebration I am simply a guest. I am polite and interested, but I am a guest nonetheless. So this particular week I am not just a Gringa. I am the Pagan, Jewish, witch Gringa in the holiest of all Catholic celebrations.

During Easter week, the Bogotá is quiet as everything shuts down. All public institutions, businesses, and schools close down. Most bogotanos chose to go out of town, to either their hometown, a shrine, or to spend the week somewhere warm. The roads and airports are bogged down. If you stay or come to Bogotá you do so for mainly religious reasons, since all other attractions and institutions are closed. All secular sights are closed, no museums, theaters, or galleries are open. Movie theaters, and a very few restaurants are the rare exception.

Some popular churches expect and will have ten to twenty thousand people in one day. That is just the people who go for a look-see, a confession, or a blessing. It does not count those participating in rituals or masses. The main streets downtown, where the older colonial churches are located, are closed for pedestrian traffic. Crowds walk from one church to another in a combination of what is part ritual, and part local tourism. You see people go from one mass to another, or they plan an all day event at their favorite church. This is a family affair, grandparents, parents, teenagers and children all squeezed in to the church benches. Sandwiches, and drinks are packed up with the baby’s diapers, and grandmother’s shawl.

Monday we decide to go up to Monserrate, the church up on the mountainside over looking the city. I have never been before, in part because for years I have been told it is too dangerous. There are three ways of arriving up 2682 meters feet, the Teleferico, the Funicular or on foot. Or I should say on your knees. It is a common sight to see worshipers of the brown virgin, climb on their knees all 10, 341 feet. It is a way to ask for a favor, pay back a favor, or just show your devotion to the virgin that overlooks/blesses the city. We go up the Teleferico, a small, modern and fast way to zip up the Andes. It is not long before we see the city ahead of us as my ears pop on our way up. As soon as we get out we are pelted by rain. It is our worst nightmare, with a rush of people trying to find a place to hide out. Luckily the rain does not last. And the view of city starts to reveal itself between the clouds. It is breath taking.

The church is not yet filled with the faithful for the holy week. At the top of the altar is the brown fallen Christ. Unlike other churches this Christ is not on a cross, but rather lying on his side he looks out on his believers. It is eleven am, and there is already two people entering on their knees. The most memorable is a young woman accompanied by her mother and sister. She sheds tears as she nears the altar. She manages to compose her self, as she continues on her knees, to the bench where her family waits. She looks serene as she slowly manages to sit down.

The fervor in the church is overwhelming, and we leave. The sun has decided to come out in full force and we walk uphill. Replicas of the brown virgin, and the fallen Christ look out the tightly packed booths. They are mainly religious items, with some crafts thrown in. Photo shopped posters of the fallen Christ next to a Transmilenio bus are popular. Is it an allusion to the fact that the buses can’t run you over? Or that the buses are so safe because the Christ is looking out for us bus riders? I forget to ask about them when my eight year old little brother begins to ask for one of the goat hoofs. At first I think they are plastic replicas of goat hoofs made to look like bottles. No in this country you do just the opposite. You make goats hoofs in to bottles, with a small-carved inscription on the nail bed. “A souvenir of my trip to Monserrate, 2007.”

My first reaction is disgust, but my brother insists. When he quickly realizes I am not going to bend on this, he scampers over to our father. And he gets his goat hoof; now dangling from his belt buckle, as we continue to climb up to the pone air food stalls. The stalls are filled with arepas de choclo, pan de bono, almojabanas, buñuelos, and empanadas. The ladies call out with their lunch menu trying to entice you to enter their stand. One in particular is very large, almost cafeteria style with a view to the mountainside. In a glass counter large sheets of chicharron, roast chickens, and a variety of sausages are displayed. We keep on going down the path to the end where a clearing in the beginning of the forest. A small stand is in amongst the rocks. It sells soft drinks, and chips. This is where the poor who can’t afford the formal food stands gather to eat something. There is trash strewn in one corner of the clearing. My father once again bemoans the lack of discipline in Colombia.

“Why can’t the church require people to have trash containers?” He asks to no one in particular.

We leave the clearing and decide to find out the prices of the two formal restaurants that are located in front of the church. On our way back we pass through the sculpture garden with the Stations of the Cross. Groups of families walk rosary in hand, praying as they come up hill. The sun blares, in a way that it can only do in the Andes. Bright, clear, and at times blinding.

The St. Clair restaurant is perched on the mountain. Its’ wooden gazebo structure is simple but beautiful. We decide to stay and have an amazing meal. Even my brother, who is a picky eater, eats all of his food. Sooner rather than later most eight year-old´s are going to want to run around. And that time comes, I escort my brother in to what ends up being a marathon session of running up and down the hill. I get weird glances as I chase after my brother. They are a combination of: she is too old to be running around like that and we are not being respectful of the sanctuary.

When we decide to leave, we choose to go down the Teleferico. The line is long, and though the attendant keeps on announcing that the Funicular has no line, few budge. After a half an hour wait we go down in less than ten minutes. And we are back down in Bogotá´s rainy streets.

Next Part 2: Rain, libraries and a craft fair.

Part 2-So what can you do in six hour and fifty-six minutes in Bogotá?

Well for starters if you can have the city shut down, there is no traffic. Getting from point A to point B is so much easier without buses weaving about, people crossing in the middle of the street, or the occasional burro pulling a cart. Yes, it is a bad stereotype, but it is true you see zorras-donkeys pulling the informal recycling sector around town. We are still a nation in development.

Bush started his trip with a formal receiving line. The military, politicians and diplomatic staff all dressed in their Sunday best showed up. Bush showed his manners when he did not salute, place his hand on his heart, or acknowledge that the Colombian anthem was playing. Never mind that Uribe had done that when the American anthem was playing. Uribe and his wife both raised their hands to their hearts as “Oh, say! can you see by the dawn's early light” was played by the military band.

After those the formalities were taken care of, they had a nice lunch. Where the television cameras caught, one of Uribe’s sons with a forbidden cell phone in hand. He was also photographed getting smacked by his father for putting his hands in his pockets during the welcoming ceremony.

In the meantime the opposition party had asked people to come out for a peaceful protest at the Plaza de Toros. The plan was a couple of speeches for the cameras and no more. Downtown was closed so any actual march would be impossible. The usual rag tag group of liberals showed up. Tie dye hippies, anti-globalization kids, Chavistas (Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez supporters), a big chunk of them sporting some variation of Che on their t-shirts. Speeches were made, as the riot police proceeded to surround the protesters. Quickly the protesters began to, in good old leftist fashion, start fighting with the police. Rocks started to fall upon the police, who kept pushing the small crowd with their shields. Two hours later a chunk of the downtown not cordoned off by the Colombian military and American security, is destroyed. The best image that summoned up the craziness of the situation is a brick set in to a shattered ATM screen.

The rumor around town is that the “protestors” who started the rock throwing were infiltrated secret police. Thereby giving them a reason to arrest the protestors with the pretext that they were destroying public property, endangering the public safety, and congregating illegally. Once the violence started the cops had a hard time getting it to stop. Which is why that part of town looked like a war broke out. There were 120 arrests of mainly of teenage boys.

On the plus side George and Laura got to take home some lovely souvenirs. They had a great photo op with Juan Valdez, Colombia’s fictional coffee spokesman, and crafts representatives. Bush got the same distinct white hat that Uribe sports, an Aguadeño. During this photo-op was all joshing and manly bonding. The truth behind it all is that Uribe’s sons have set up a business “promote” Colombian handicrafts. And the photo-op was a nice commercial for this business.

I am a longtime fan of Colombian crafts. They are excellent. The people who do this work need and deserve all the promotion they can get. Beautiful things are made in Colombia, by generation after generation of crafts masters. From clothing, to furniture, the way people work with natural materials is amazing. But there is a big difference between promoting this work and taking advantage of the fact your father is president. Up until recently the address and phone number for their private company was the presidential palace (the equivalent to the Whitehouse). It is a nice way to make sure people buy your product. I am not saying that they have political influence. But not to many producers of Sombreros Voltiao, can claim so many prestigious customers. This situation can lend it self as an easy way of hiding any political favors.

So what did Colombia gain from Bush’s visit? Nothing. It did not help the political and social problems of Colombia. It just helped highlight them.

So Bush comes in to town,

Part 1.

I wish my title were the beginning of a joke. But no such luck, President Bush came to Bogotá on a Sunday for exactly six hours and fifty-six minutes. He brought with him Laura and 6,000 people, mainly security and probably a royal food tester. Though the food tester is not confirmed and is probably a rumor. There are lots of rumors, secret escape routes, missiles pointed at Colombia, and more spies on the streets than Bogotános.

Five days before his arrival the city is already tense. You see more police and military on the streets. We live near the National University, historically a hot bed of activism and well known for having the city’s best rock throwers. When there is a protest it usually starts and ends at the university, with rocks flying and cops throwing tear gas. So the Friday before his highness arrives the university unofficially shuts down. As students fail to arrive individual professors cancel classes. As the day goes on you hear rumbling down the street. I quickly come to the conclusion that the biggest danger to Bush is a rock, not a rocket launcher.

Our phone line is suddenly cut, and so is our Internet access. Since our Internet connection is via a cable modem to have the two services cut simultaneously does not make sense. We wonder if we forgot to pay the bills. When we call the phone company the automated recording informs us that there are “repairing” lines in our area, near the U.S. Embassy, and downtown near the presidential palace. So, sorry for the inconvenience.

Testing our connection after a while we can get national web-pages, El Tiempo, and El Heraldo come in fine, New York Times, Yahoo, Google, are blocked. Cable-Net issues an apology via the local news outlets, they are having technical difficulties. Repairs must be made during the weekend. My Colombian paranoia kicks in-the Gringos are cutting off communication! We end up with out service for forty-eight hours, the right amount of time for Bush to arrive and leave.

As a result we decide to spend the weekend at home. I was invited to go out dancing Saturday night but cancel. Twenty-four hours before Bushes arrival there is dry law enforced. No alcohol from 1am Saturday until 1am Sunday. All the clubs would close early, and on Sunday there will be no beer with your lunch. In a town were el carajillo is an everyday afternoon drink you soon realize it is a very boring weekend if you are not planning on throwing rocks.

The city comes to a standstill, you hardly see a soul on the streets. Bush’s welcoming committee consists of a half a dozen people along Kennedy avenue. The avenue named for President Kennedy during his 1961 visit. He went down the avenue with Jackie by his side. A whole neighborhood is named after him. People still remember nostalgically the last great and friendly American president who waved to them from his convertible. OK convertible today is probably not a great idea, but it is friendlier than the decoy motorcade that fools the half of dozen locals hoping to get a glimpse of Bush. When Clinton came to Cartagena, he was pronounced a saint by the locals and his photos were put on altars right next to el niño dios (the christ child, if anybody has image an please send it to me). It didn´t hurt that whole streets and neighborhoods were repaved to have his motorcade pass by. There is a whole bunch of eight and nine year old boys named Clinton running around the coast. And no he did not father them, his warmth and charisma charmed the pants off Cartageneros who are jaded by tourists.

With Bushes visit CNN continuously announces how brave it is for him to come to Colombia. And what a security risk he is taking, the usual bad rap, down to a nice mention of all the rebel and insurgency groups we have. President Uribe and the Colombian army would rather be caught with their pants down with a thirteen year-old boy prostitute than have the wind ruin Bush hairdo. The city feels locked down tight.

As usual the American’s aren’t taking any risks. They proceed to publicly humiliate the Colombian army in plain view of the television cameras. All weapons must be inspected by the FBI, and they line all the Colombian soldiers and one by one take their weapons inspect them and send them on their merry way. They do this to all soldiers, from the presidential guards to generals. I am not a big fan of the Colombian army but instead of having the security check in a tented off area they do it in plain sight. It is as if daddy came home and he needs to make sure you washed behind your ears and he does it in front of all your friends.

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