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.

next: so what can you do in Bogotá in six hours and fifty-six minutes?

One seventies slight mullet anyone?

Next time instead of a 4-dollar haircut I should get a ten dollar one.

Word of the day: El Peluquero: The hairdresser

My father is fastidious when it comes to personal grooming. Everything must tailored to fit and be ironed, shirt, t-shirt, and jeans. Yes, even jeans must have a nice crease down the middle. Needless to say I don’t exactly have the same standards. I can dress up with the best of them, but it is not a daily occurrence. Add to it the fact that I am mainly working from home and you have me no make-up, jeans and t-shirt everyday. But my father’s meticulousness is an, ni hora, ni fecha en el calendario, and 24/7 ongoing searches for what is wrong with me. It is once again my hair turn. Once again because several different things take their turn with what is wrong with me. They are: my hair, my skin, my choice of clothing, my choice of shoes, the fact that my shoes are not shined, that I am too heavy or too thin.

So his tune go get a haircut has been getting louder and louder. He offers to pay for it, to recommend a place, and finally to do it himself. So I accept to go to the local hairdresser, two blocks away. Most Colombian women before going to the hairdresser, doctor, or corner store dress up, put on makeup and heels. I am,let us not forget a Gringa, so I put on my daily uniform. T-shirt, jeans, flats and off I go.

The very gay hairdresser, Gabriel from Medellin, took one look at me, and said silently to himself, one mullet coming up! In his very cute decorated jeans, and tight t-shirt he proceeded to tell me that my hair is really dry. Oh and! Do you realize you have lots of white hairs? I told him I thought they weren’t that many and that they made me look distinguished. Distinguished was probably the wrong word, a tad too butch. It did not matter that I told him that I was growing my hair out, or that I just wanted a trim. One mullet on the double!

Hair salons are institutions in Colombia. They can be as elaborate as museums, or little hole in the walls but they are always busy. They are full of women, cutting, dying, plucking, shaping, straightening, curling, and their hair on a weekly basis. I have heard of women who would rather cheat on their husbands than their hairdresser.

After Gabriel finished with the mullet, I tried not to scream. I silently was stewing, when he started to brush the hairs off my face. I told him not to bother that I was going home to shower. That night I had an event and I would be dressing up and putting on makeup. With his well-manicured eyebrow rose- “You put on make up?

“Yes, why?”

“Oh I thought you didn’t put any on” giggle!

The man just met me, I just walked off the street! How would he know?

“Well you just don’t seem like the type.”

That is when I understood that in this increasing Barbiefication of Colombian women, a girl like me is a lesbian. And she deserves a mullet.

Adendum: After reading this post my sister confirms that she too has had ¨boyish¨ haircuts despite her specific instructions. She never could understand why until she read this post. She agrees that unless you are a girly girl, you don´t get a ¨feminine¨ haircut or treatment.

My Current Top Ten Things in Bogotá

Word of the day: EL Puente: Literally a bridge, also a long weekend.

1) Transmilenio

2) The museums of El Banco de la Republica

3) Cine-Bar La Hacienda Santa Barbara

4) The Botanical Gardens

5) Colombian Artists

6) Paloquemao

7) La Candelaria

8) Restaurants

9) MAMBO

10) Chapinero

Surprise! He is Colombian

Word of the day: Cachaco.

So trying to find some links to include in this blog and I came across Wikipedia’s list of Colombian-American Actors. A couple of names jump out at me. The first name to catch my eye is John Leguizamo. But I knew he was Colombian before he was willing to admit to it. He tried passing for Puertoriqueño for the longest time, all his press releases highlighting his “roots”. As always I have an advantage. My mother’s gay friend ex-boyfriend is John’s Mother’s hairdresser. Three snaps to hairdressers who always get the scoop! As a result I also know he speaks fluent Spanglish; he is a bit on the short side, funny, and genial.

Adriana Cataño? That is a bit of a surprise I thought she was Cuban. She is a second string Novela actress that Univision has occasionally in their afternoon Novelas. Her latest work is staring in a reggeaton video. If anybody knows the artist let me know.

Further down the list, Mo Rocca. Mr. Daily Show Correspondent, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, and VH1 commentator!? He is that sexy classic nerd, glasses, close cropped hair, and always well attired. That man loves a good bowtie. Since John Stewart has said jokingly that he only hires Jews, I assumed that Mo was maybe Sephardim. Maybe Mo is a Colombian Jew? We do have a rather important Jewish community. Well no. It turns out he has Colombian mother, and Italian father. His real name is Maurice Alberto Rocca.

Then in a flash it all makes sense:

• The outfits
• The form of speech
• The intense but polite manner
• His quiet way of getting to the punch line

Add a ruana (a poncho) on that boy and you have an old-school Cachaco. Translating Cachaco is not so easy. So let me start with the old-school part first since it is easier to explain. It is hard to find today on the streets one of those dignified old men. Their son’s have adapted to the warmer climate (if you don’t believe in climate change come and spend a winter in Bogota, no more frost here), free trade, and cell phones. To make things worse jeans have become Colombia’s new uniform. These changes have made high-class Cachaco men a dying breed. A prime example: ex- president Alfonso Lopez Michelsen. He still is still alive and kicking in his well-tailored suits. He wouldn’t miss tea at four-o’clock in his library, or his whiskey at the club at six-o’clock. Su merced.

So now to translate the Cachaco part, cultural translations always miss a bit. So be patient with me here. To some it is just a word to describe people from the interior of the country mainly those from the Cundiboyancense region. Which includes Bogotá, Tunja and Zipaquira. To others a slightly derogatory word, a regional denominator they would prefer not is used. They dislike this moniker, and Mo Rocca persona is the perfect example of why. It implies a certain type of nerdyness, a bookish lisping man, with a British inflection to his Spanish. One who prefers bow ties, with his custom made tailored worsted wool suit. He is the guy who would prefer classical music with a dash of a Porro to dancing a Vallenato and a Cumbia. He is in one sense a stuffed shirt. To others a Bogotano, with good education, and manners is the archetype of what all men should be.

If you had told me that you could use this archetype/stereotype to your advantage. Create a whole persona around and launch a successful media career. I would have answered no. You got to applaud Mo for using the archetype/stereotype to his advantage while not giving away its’ proper cultural context. He does it in a way that is funny, entertaining as well as informative.His Harvard degree shines in his work the way Lopez Michelsen Georgetown degree shines in his storied career. Considering how often Colombian’s are vilified it is nice to see one our own use his culture to his advantage. To American eyes he is an eccentric nerd, with strange speech patterns to this gringa-Colombiana he is upholding a fine tradition. As a result I have decided to give El Doctor Rocca, my first ever Colombian Spirit award.

“If you offer to bribe a policeman you have to pay him.” My father, my uncle, and my father’s girlfriend.

Word of the day: La Mordida: Literally a bite, or the bribe you paid an official.

A lunar eclipse, a Chinese meal, and a skirmish with the police, all part of a typical Saturday night? After a lovely Chinese dinner with all the family in one of the zona rosa finest restaurant I get invited to go out dancing to celebrate a friends birthday. We go to a cheesy but posh club a couple of blocks away. Cheesy because it plays nothing but the best romantic ballads of yesteryear, and posh because if you don’t look right you can’t get in. I don’t look right but the birthday boy (BB) has pull and they make an exception for this gringa. Nerdy glasses and overgrown curly hair is not the look this club strives for.

On the blank concrete floors Colombia’s beauty queens and their boyfriends dance the night away to the interspersed sounds of Paulina Rubio, Chayanne, Joe Arroyo, Diomedes Diaz, and Techno. Midway through the night one of the owners gets up on the bar that is the center of the whole club. He swears he is in NY, London, or Rome. A couple of songs later the rest of the bar crew joins him. All seven boys strut their stuff to Joe Cocker, an odd choice, but it works for them. I blink and off come the shirts. The men in the club are suddenly tense, the women stunned but elated. The gay boy in front of me tries to muffle his squeals and I laugh. Now if the tallest of them would just turn around enough for me to wink at him. But no cigar he is to busy flirting with the women who have gathered at his feet. Oh and I do not look like the first runner up in one of the country´s many beauty contests. An example in this link.

Time to close, the shirts come back on, the lights are turned on, and we all vacate the building in a haze of cigarette smoke, drunkenness, and confusion. Where to next? After locating the BB stuffing himself with potato chips he bought off a street vendor, we decided to keep on going. The next club is a couple of blocks away, pass the whiskey bottle and get in the car. Five women, one gay man and the BB driving, pass the whiskey bottle! BB drives fast, cranking up the music as I sit up front with another of the girls. We turn a corner and so does the police. The police pickup truck with six officer stops in front of us and demands we stop and get out. “I don’t want to call my father from jail!” I scream internally. American style, I get out ID in hand I step next to the car expecting to be checked out. My friends instead all gather around the cops and proceed to flirt with the police. Cleavage out, sexy kitten voice they try to charm the cops. BB instead gathers his ID, and storms off towards the truck. He just as hurriedly returns and yells at us to get in the fucking car! I jump in first, and end sitting right behind BB as he drives off. Everyone screams and it is hard to tell who is saying what.

“Take a photo of the cops license plate!”

“Don’t let them shake you down!”

“Park the car in a parking lot they can’t do shit if you park it now!”

“Shut up, I am going to pay them off”

“200,000 pesos! ($220) What? You can’t give them that much!”

“I don’t want to call my father from jail!” has become my mantra and I chant it repeatedly inwardly.

BB follows the cops down one block to an ATM. He goes up to the door of the bank and it does not open. He tells the cops, and he gets back in the car. The cops pull an illegal U turn on the street expecting us to do the same. Suddenly without warning BB runs, he says nothing to us, he just starts accelerating towards the freeway. The yelling in the car starts once we realize what he is doing. My mantra becomes louder in my head along with if “I die it has been a good life”. This second thought becomes louder once I realize I don’t have a seat belt on, and he has to make a hard right to get on the freeway. At the speed we are going I don’t think we are going to make it. Neither does anybody else based upon the volume of the screams.

We luckily make the right turn, only to quickly realize that there is a police drunk driving checkpoint ahead near the entrance. The screaming intensifies, and suddenly out of nowhere one voice becomes louder than the others screams.

“Park the car and turn off the lights!”

And BB does just that, stopping right in front of a building’s garage door. We all crouch down as the Police pickup truck whizzes by us and gets on the freeway. We scream elated and slightly scared. BB quick maneuver saved us from having two sets of cops stop us and point their M-16´s at us. The police do not take kindly to bribery shirking.

The Costeña (A woman from the Caribbean coast of Colombia) is sitting up front yells at us to calm down! She is going to ask the night watchman to let us park the car in the garage of the building we are in front of. She rings the doorbell, cleavage out, accent pronounced; she takes out a 10,000-peso bill (five dollars). He agrees to let us park a half an hour. We walk to the nearby park where we are going to wait until the checkpoint is moved. Except half of our party keeps on going past the park. “Hey where are you guys going?”

“The club! It is this way!”

Well to make this long story short, we wait out the checkpoint, and end up at the club until five am. And my new mantra becomes what my father, my uncle, and my father’s girlfriend say repeatedly chastising me.

“If you offer to bribe a policeman you have to pay him.”

“Better to be a drug dealer than a murderer for hire”- Yesica talking about Catalina´s brothers career choice

Word of the day: Sin Tetas No hay Paraiso- Without tits there is no paradise.

Last years Novela (soap opera) mega hit has been Sin Tetas No hay Paraiso. A bit of a surprise since most Novelas in Latin-America are sugar coated romance tales, with impossibly cheesy storylines. Sin Tetas No hay Paraiso is look in to the drug world from the point of view of a poor girl from Periera. Armed with nothing but her good looks and ambition she sets off to improve her breast size and in the process her fortune. Looking to attract a traqueto (a high ranking mafia drug lord) she gets a used breast implants, and proceeds to prostitute herself up the ladder of traqueto importance. Until she is lucky enough to land one who is willing to marry her. Add to the story a rape, an illegal abortion (Well there is no such thing as a legal abortion in Colombia), her brother becoming a murderer for hire, her mother running off with her only true love, and her marriage to a short, bald and unattractive man. And you have a mega hit.

“The only thing school is good for is to make the owners of schools rich.”

Sin Tetas, as it is commonly called, exposes every level of corruption from the government officials to US embassy officials, systematically as the story unfolds. It doesn’t try to be a morality tale in the traditional Novela sense, heavy handed and moralistic, but rather shows consequences for the decisions that all the characters make. It is so well done that I could write about each chapter of how the story unfolds, showing the reality of many Colombians stuck in a underclass that is not allowed to advance to the middle class. It is shot not in the most attractive areas of Colombia but rather the real neighborhoods in which working class people live. With actors that truly represent the racial and ethnic diversity Colombia has, it is the most realistic Novela I have seen. Oh did I mention it has nudity?

“Americans have a lifelong taste (for cocaine), and we have a lifelong business”

Sin Tetas, reveals chapter by chapter how Colombia has suffered due to the worlds nasty coke habit। Yep, the easy money that is shelled out every night by your friend with a taste for blow is destroying Colombia. It might sound a bit heavy handed but I can assure you that while we have always had a difficult and violent civil war, you add hundreds of millions of dollars and you can only make worse. Your drug problem has become a whole countries And it is contributing to the degradation of a whole country. I know it sounds heavy handed and preachy but you experience certain things long enough and you come to that conclusion.

“How do you spell that?” Funeral flowers salesperson.

Word of the day: Arreglo funebre-Funeral flower arrangement.

So the news comes at 10:00am. Don Adriano has died of sudden respiratory failure. He was 65 years old, diabetic man of working stock, with a generous heart. Arrangements are made and by 6:30pm we are in front of his body praying the rosary. I should say his wife, daughter, granddaughters, sisters, nieces, and general woman folk pray. I am not Catholic and though I am wearing a dress, I am slightly butch in these matters so I stand outside the chapel with the men as they smoke. Doris’s and my father’s artist friends arrive and being equally irreligious we go to the coffee shop around the corner.

Earlier I had gone to the funeral flower seller per my father’s request for a floral arrangement. In this area with several chapels, and a church the funeral floral business is booming. In a city known for having whole neighborhoods dedicated to one industry, (the computer neighborhood, the shoes street, the architects corner) it should not be a surprise to me that there is a whole neighborhood dedicated to the death business. The florists are open until 10pm and they have steady customers until closing time. They had new arrangements coming out as quickly as they are taken away to the several chapels within walking distance. These arrangements are large wreaths, or floral “cups”. Though the cups have at least three-dozen flowers. On each of the arrangements your name is draped across in honor of the dead. Deldelp is not a name commonly heard in Colombia either. So I settle for brevity's sake for Mr. Medina and Children. “What no Mrs.?” Asked the owner of the shop, trying to explain my father’s complicated love life would be a bit much, so no Mrs.

From this day on there will be a long series of masses, more than I am willing or wanting to go to. So I am lucky enough to have my plane tickets ready to go to Carnival. So here is a list of the masses I have missed.

1. The nine days of rosary.
2. The funeral mass
3. The mass held at his favorite church
4. The mass held at his second favorite church
5. The mass held in his honor in his hometown
6. The mass held in his honor by his sisters
7. The mass held in his honor by his favorite niece

“We have to be patient”-Emergency room doctor

Word of the day: “Tramitologia”-To have all the paperwork signed and approved by hospital and health insurance officials so that you can get the care your medical condition requires.

So here is the countdown:

One open heart-surgery- my uncle

One emergency hospitalization due to a drug interaction-my uncle

One diabetic coma-My father’s girlfriend’s father (say that fast three times)-Don Adriano

One cytology- my uncle

One tracheotomy- Don Adriano

One prostate surgery- my uncle

One death- Don Adriano

Time lapse: three weeks

This is the reason I did not start the blog as soon as I arrived as planned. I instead got a crash course in emergency medicine Colombian style. Now I have always believed based upon my own experience that medicine in Colombia is good if not better than in the US. Here doctors actually listen to you, spend the time to get to know you and become family confidants. They find ways to treat you the best way possible with the least cost without making you feel like a number. Then again I have always-paid cash, and did not have to deal with insurance payments.

So it should not be a surprise that all over the world over insurance companies are shits. Add to it the Colombian sense of paranoia and you have a system that requires your whole afternoon for a simple appointment. You have so many checks and balances that the ping pong you have to do across the vast hospitals burns all the calories ingested in your arepa binge in the morning. All designed so that no one cheats the system.

First the doctors order, then the insurance verification of the doctors order, next the hospitals verification of the doctors order, a insurance approval of the doctors order, the doctors appointment is confirmed, the insurance confirms the doctors appointment, the hospital confirms both prior insurance and doctors separate confimals (sp?) and then adds its’ own. That is just for the appointment, if you need a bed, a surgery, or special care you must start from zero. All the while you go from office to office keeping a positive attitude, a polite manner, and infinite patience. Hoping that the next step will be resolved right away as you wait in line after line, watching the clock making sure you arrive before lunch or closing time. Knowing that your loved one is waiting ill in a room for the paperwork to get done as to get the treatment they need. It is needless to say stressful, crazy-making and frustrating.

Oh and did I mention that during the tramitologia you are accompanied by every family member who is not waiting with the sick person. You walk up and down stairs with a posee of minimum five per ill person. So every office, hallway and waiting room is filled to the brim with people waiting. The tension, the hushed tones, the cries, all the bloody waiting!

“Don’t Buy anything before you come!”-my mother

Word of the day:

Carrefour- A French conglomerate that has successfully set up shop in Colombia.

Once upon a time you had to bring everything when you came on a trip to Colombia. Shampoo, check, bug spray, check, sunscreen, check! You came knowing that if you forgot certain “necessities” you would have to buy a twice as expensive less refined version if you could find them. Add to that the spices, perfumes, toys and watches that you would bring as gifts. Suitcases would be filled to the brim, with every sales item that you had collected all year round. I packed my bags in this same fashion in January. Instead of being praised my father upon my arrival was upset. “Why did you bring all these things?” he said half mockingly. “Um..excuse me?” I replied confused.

A little trip to Carrefour explained why my Costco buys of tea, sunscreen, and vitamins were unnecessary. In this free-trade world you can now buy all those products, and nationally made products that are just as good if not better than imported ones.

The biggest shocker was the selection of tea. Teas from China, Japan, India, fruit tea from Germany, English style, Asian style, all laid out one next to another. Not in a specialty store in the ritzy part of town. In an ordinary Carrefour in a middle class part of town. This much tea in a coffee nation. Tea in a nation that treats it as if it were medicine, and non-coffee drinkers as freaks. Tea in the same aisle as coffee, and sugar, an everyday item.

Colombian consumption habits have changed. Right along with the quality of its´ home made products. On Colombian jeans alone I could write an ode, the fit, the comfort, the look. Did I mention that my hips and ass actually fit in Colombian jeans without problem? Americanino I love you! With your sexy Italian design and your made in Colombia label. You make Gap “Curvy” jeans look like they are made for fourteen year old girl who just started menstruating. Not for this real woman with curves. Add to it great shoes, shirts, underwear, and I could have had a wardrobe at half the price of Ross or Marshall without the defects. I rarely say this but I should have listened to my mother.

Gringa in Colombia

Colombia is a complex country. I will try to write about this lovely and challenging country knowing that my experience cannot capture all the juxtapositions this country has. Colombia has very different and yet geographically close regions. It has the Caribbean, the Pacific Ocean, the Andes, the Plains, the Amazon, and the peaks and valleys in between. With more regionalisms and accents than The UK, it is a miracle we can understand each other. Add to it the nasty business of the 40 year old civil war, the drug war, and you have a country that manages to year after year to not loose its’ hope. In the worst of times this is a country with a general fear that blankets all of your movements. What taxi you get in, what bank you got to, who overheard your political commentary, all of it leads to a paranoia that is endemic. In the best of times, you find the best mockery of the “situation”, a sense of irony without sarcasm, and a desire to enjoy the best of what you have.

Colombia is a country that has as part of its’ elementary school curriculum the doctrine that we are, the perfect combination of the Spanish, African, and Native-Americans. Yet consistently ignores Afro-Colombian and the Indigenous tribes realities. A country that has made whiskey, el whiskisito, the national drink. Yep this is the contradictory and lovely place that I will try to write about.