Vegetarian rumspringa (Aspect 2 of Coffee Region, Cartagena, and Pasto)

I just ate a ham sandwich.

Let that sink in. I'll wait for a second.

Yes, you understood correctly. After twelve years of vegetarianism, I'm back on the meat. Well, temporarily at least. To refresh your memory from a previous post debating this:

1) Food is a major part of the culture in any country, and missing out on something this integral component is something that can't be ignored when a good deal of what one's life is dedicated to is world languages and cultures.

2) Vegetarian food in Cali is hard to come by, and when you do find it, it's often time very expensive. Tofu, for example, is double what it costs in the US, whey is also about double the cost, and while they don't have seitan, they have gluten. However, it isn't a complete protein. Gluten is basically the same as seitan except for it hasn't been marinated in soy sauce which adds in the final missing amino acid. 

I decided to make my trip to the coffee region my vegetarian rumspringa. For those who don't know, rumspringa is when an Amish youth leaves the community to go experience our way of life. At the end of that period, they decide whether to return or not. I made the choice to do this on a trip because there was a lot of shame wrapped up in the idea of eating even a little bit of meat again. It's a source of pride for myself that I don't eat meat, and I was sad to give that up, to part with that piece of my identity. At least while I was traveling, I would have no one to explain it to, no one to look at me to see what my first reactions would be, no pressure to do this any sort of way than how I wanted.

Flash forward to the coffee park where I ask for an arepa filled with chorizo. I ate it and waited. I was afraid that after twelve years, my stomach would launch a full scale coup, and I'd be rushing to a bathroom on the regular. Last thing I wanted was for that to happen during a roller coaster. No one likes a poopy pants. And everyone absolutely hates a poopy pants on a roller coaster. This is universal law.

But as I waited, I didn't notice much of anything. My guess is that because my diet has usually been pretty heavy on dairy, maybe this was close enough for my stomach to still process meat. There is also the fact that I had eaten meat for the sixteen years of my life, but suffice it to say, no bad effects whatsoever.

After I found out that eating meat wouldn't send me into a world of pain, I took full advantage of my rumspringa. "Let's tempt fate," I thought, "let's try to find some meat thing that I absolutely love and would go crazy for, something that would make me think I'm actually missing something because that chorizo arepa was like eh....." So I ate every meat item I could get my traitorous little hands on during that trip.... And nada. Meat, while it can taste good, still can't come close to rivaling vegetarian food in absolute savoriness. There's so much flavor in vegetarian food, and meat is just... there, all lumpy and stupid. Don't get me wrong. There were a few things I did like, but vegetarian or not, they weren't things one should make a habit of eating.

When I went to Cartagena, I tried step two of this grand experiment and didn't eat any meat to contrast, and it was probably the wrong place to try this. Not only is that city hella expensive, it's whole culture is based around seafood. Options were found; I didn't starve, but man, it was difficult without access to a kitchen to cook things for myself. I mean, yes, my hostel had a kitchen, but cooking in it was sure to give me an as of yet unknown disease, probably breeding in its darkened corners and waiting for it's opportunity to go out into the world. I've seen horror movies with plague motifs. I'm not going down that road. NOT TODAY, EBOLA!

After this experiment, the twenty pounds I've lost in the six months I've been here, the prohibitive prices of vegetarian food, and an increasing feeling of exhaustion and weakness, I decided this was the right choice. I won't eat meat at home, and I tend to follow a meal plan and it won't include meat, which means it'll mostly just be out when I'm at restaurants, but there you have it: I'm eating it none the less.

I was once explained that religions can often be broken down into one of two groups: ones that put a premium on time (such as Christianity, with an emphasis on history and potentially impending rapture or apocalypse) and ones that focus on space (such as a good deal of indigenous religions). I prefer the ones that focus on space, which I think Buddhism. It transforms and merges with the culture in which it finds itself. Zen Buddhism in Japan is not the same as it is in the United States, and there's good reasons for that. The Buddha himself wasn't vegetarian. His principle was to eat whatever was placed in his begging bowl. Well, Colombia is putting meat in my begging bowl, and so, it's meat I'll eat. 

Kill the Vegetarian (A Sort of Part Two)

This week's a bit of a continuation of last week's entry and about something I've been thinking about for some time, but have been a bit hesitant to bring up more than a handful of times, normally after some beer and guaro. But today, I'm coming clean.

There's no easy way to say this, Internet, so I'm just going to blurt it out: I'm questioning my vegetarianism. For those of you who don't know, I've been vegetarian for over twelve years. The original impulse was something natural, of feeling that something wasn't right, and over time, I explored that impulse to see what was under it and now have a whole range of reasons ranging from animal rights to world famine to personal health and environmental conversation. Even still, I've never advocated vegetarianism as a one size fits all lifestyle, especially for people with other dietary restrictions or for whom it would otherwise be legitimately unhealthy.

I was vegetarian through my whole time in Spain, despite the instance of many a Spaniard that it wasn't healthy or that "ham isn't meat." (Yeah, okay...) And here in Colombia, I've continued to not eat meat, but some things are throwing a bit of doubt into the mix... For example, last Friday, my department at the university had a big lunch with everyone as an end of the semester celebration, and while some professors were nice enough to talk to the waiter and try to get things sorted out, there was a course or two that I simply had to just skip. While I wasn't very bothered by this—it is my choice not to eat what they want to give me at a meal I'm not paying for—the stares I got were a bit unnerving. They all seemed to say, "Why isn't he eating? What's wrong with him?" I worry that it even comes off a bit snobbish or quasi-anorexic, which is bad when you're trying desperately to integrate into a culture. On one hand, it's like "Man up, Adam! You have principles, and you're standing by them! Who cares what they think?" But it's not just what they think that I care about so much. It's how much I'm missing out on. Food is such a big part of nation's culture, and I'm unable to partake in about eighty percent of it. The question is whether this is worth the life of another animal. Or, perhaps more to the point, what is worth the life of another animal?

Not to mention whether I could actually put that in my mouth.

I'm also a bit nervous about my health. Up till now, my health has not only been sufficient but thriving. There was some time in Spain where that wasn't true, but my dietary knowledge wasn't as good and there's always a general learning curve to locating good vegetarian food in any new place. Yet here in Colombia, it's different. While there are more vegetarians than in Spain, there is not more vegetarian food, especially vegetarian food at an affordable price. I've lost about sixteen pounds since I've moved here. Most of it seems to have been fat, so it's fine for now, but what am I going to do when I want to stop losing weight (which is soon)? It's a struggle to get in the recommended amount of protein for someone who lifts weights without too much fat or carbohydrates along the way. This leaves very few options for food throughout the day, and a diet without variety isn't normally a very good idea. (I should mention that it's higher than what's needed for the average, sedentary person. Most of you eat way more protein than you need.) I've also been sleeping a lot lately, which was the first sign back in Spain that something was not right about my diet, but this could have something to do with the 4:30 am wake up time for those 6 am French classes. Thank goodness I had my last one on Friday.

But the problem of my health is a legitimate one, and at what point has it affected me enough that I should switch? Is it when I can't support more muscle growth and therefore my health, while no longer equal to a meat eater's, is still sufficient to be "okay"? Is it when I sleep too much and lack energy? Is it when a basic metabolic panel comes back lacking in vitamin B or iron? Where is the line? I'm going to make an appointment with a doctor in January to start investigating once I'm back from Christmas break traveling. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to tell me how to run my life and what to eat, now's your free pass to speak your mind. I know some of you are absolutely dying to.

But for this limited time offer..... YOU CAN BE!

The Most Magical Place in Colombia

Colombia is the country with the second most holidays in the world (after Argentina), which means at least once a month, sometimes twice, you get a day off. Additionally, these days almost always fall on Fridays or Mondays, so it's always a long weekend. When they don't, they, depending on where you work, often form a puente, which means bridge, as in we're just going to be build a little bridge of days off into the weekend because we have our priorities straight. This happened when I went to school in Spain as well, and I really think the US should get on this train as soon as possible. But with such consumerist phenomena as Black Friday, I'm not sure that's going to happen anytime soon.

Just cross this magical bridge to the weekend!

As you may have picked up from my past complaints, I'm a bit jaded toward Colombia. For all my complaining, I don't hate it. It has some really nice qualities, but I don't really buy into the magic that I think some of my cohorts do. There's frustrations, culture shock, annoyances, mistreatment, and other unpleasant things, and I keep it all in perspective. Complaining about it is a means for me to get it off my chest, to get past the stage of anger and move on to a place where I can start making peace with the reality of the situation. I don't feel any need to sell you on what a wonderful adventure this all is and how great every moment is supposed to be (according to... someone...); I'd much rather include you in on what's happening, of how difficult it can be adapt sometimes and how effortlessly it happens others. In short, I need to be real with you in order to be truthful to myself. After all, worthwhile adventures are often quite difficult, prone to moments of despair, and not always smiles and cholados. Meanwhile, mmmm cholados. More good Colombian food.

In any case, when I took advantage of this past long weekend to visit a city I had heard a lot about as being a magical, relaxing place called Villa de Leyva, I naturally was probably not the most receptive critic, but with Villa de Leyva, I absolutely fell in love! It's the first place I've been to in Colombia that I was just absolutely enthralled by. Villa de Leyva is not, on paper, a very impressive city. It's small, centered most around a main square, and there's little to see or do once you get a few blocks away from said square. But the scenery, the misty mountains, the colonial architecture, the bungalow style hostel I stayed in, the relaxed atmosphere and the extreme friendly, small-town people, were overwhelmingly delightful.

While I was there, I didn't do much. I met two girls in the hostel who were very friendly, Kati from Germany and Lauren from Texas, and a guy from Bogota and his friend who were in town for a film festival. I ended up seeing one film in the festival, Tierra en la lengua, which was good but very, um, independent. The grandfather protagonist, Don Silvio, however, is very interesting, alternating between comical and disgusting, and the changes in his character as his body betrays him are interesting to watch develop. The ending is sudden but fitting.

I also visited some small museums. My two favorite were one that was based around Antoni Nariño, known for translating The Declaration of the Rights of Man among other political and military feats, and the other was an art museum, where I played one of my favorite games in which I use pictures to free write short stories. Here's the one I liked the most of the two or three I wrote, which at the end, without my intending to, seemed to reflect the changes in the way children view their parents as they grow up.

Click to see a large view.

Beyond the festival and museums, I mostly sat in bars, enjoying the atmosphere, reading more of Cien años de soledad. But it was there that I met friendly, interesting people. One was a table of two older ladies who offered to buy me a coffee after I finished a meal, but I declined, and the other was two Colombian women who had come in from Bogota and wanted to know what I was reading with such interest. We talked for a while, and then I finished my canelazo (something like a Colombian hot toddy), and I went on my way. I hiked in the mountains, pausing in a moment of complete hipsterdom to practice my katakana among the trees. In short, I did nothing of any real consequence, and that's exactly what I wanted.

Throughout my time there, I kept thinking it would be the perfect place for a honeymoon or at least the start of one, and I dreamed of having the money to start a business, probably a small store that required little attention, while I stayed in that town, retreating from the world, translating some good literature and occasionally writing a little something of my own. It wouldn't be a bad life at all.

Culture Wars

"What's your favorite thing about Colombian culture?"

Someone asked me this recently, and I was like a deer caught in headlights. My brain worked overtime to try to come up with something, anything, just a little bit of some positive experience that I could grab a hold of and use.

Fortunately, someone mercifully changed the subject, and I was off the hot seat, but the experience stayed with me, and I kept thinking about it

I started to wonder: Do I in fact like nothing about Colombian culture? Though as soon as I posed myself this question, I felt its lack of truth. If I hated being in Colombia so much, why is it that I have no desire to leave?

Then I tried another line of questioning: What is Colombian culture? I had no idea how to answer that. How does one even begin to define a culture from nothing more than their own subjective experience? Considering the uniqueness of each successive experience in a day, how do I begin to organize them into data sets about which generalizations can be made? And is total objectivity even possible? Are we only able to say something is cultural by comparing it to our own?

For example, if I am in the mall, and people seem to be completely and utterly spatially oblivious, do I chalk that up to:a) Colombian culture?
b) a pan-cultural thing wherein everyone automatically forgets how to walk in malls?
c) a characteristic of Colombian culture that also, by chance, is similar to American culture?
d) or is the vividness of my frustration in these instances causing me to remember those more than all the times that someone actually acted like I existed and let me pass by without saying con permiso three times?

I started to really think about this the more I heard people try to discuss Colombian culture. It seemed that often someone would recount a particular instance and then end it with "Yeah, Colombians are really _____." Because I sometimes wish I were a mentat and can't help to automatically think about sets of premises and a conclusion in terms of what little training I have in logic, I realized that:

1) Ca (Ana is a Colombian.)
2) La (Ana arrives late.)
3) Ca>La (If Ana is Colombian, then Ana arrives late.)
∴ ∀x(Cx>Lx) (Therefore all Colombians arrive late.)

is a total fallacy. A "hasty generalization" to be precise, which is a fitting name.

I think part of the problem is that statements about culture tend to be too narrow. "X culture likes this," "X culture doesn't really eat that," and so on. The problem with these sorts of statements is that they don't leave a lot of room for an individual's manifestation of a particular cultural characteristic. It takes a lot more work, time, and compassion, but I think there's a way to rephrase these thoughts in a way that are not only free of judgement but allow them to maintain their truth as each individual in that culture expresses them in a certain way.

The problem with this is that it takes significant time to gather a lot of data and effort to think through it without falling prey to some sort of mental bias. And patience and work are things that humans are often adverse to. We'd much prefer to leave it as something simple and move on to the next thing. But I've come to penetrate Colombian culture, among other things, and this is my strategy.

Yeah, sorry...

It's something I'd recommend even within the United States, with all our different cultures trying to coexist peacefully and, truthfully, not doing to great of a job at it. This is how the capacity for empathy is built, little by little, and this is how I'll be able to one day not be so frustrated by all sorts of little things here. In fact, even just yesterday, I caught myself thinking, as I walked down Calle 5 from the mall to my home, "Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I am getting used to this after all."

So what is my favorite thing about Colombian culture? Maybe it's ability, more so than other cultures I've experienced, to challenge me to think about myself, to realize that perhaps I wasn't as open-minded and free-thinking as I used to believe I was, and it's gift of an opportunity to push those bounds a little farther.

Oh, and the food. I mean, an aborrajado with a jugo de mora en leche.... ♥...

Das poop

So remember when I said cultural adaptation tends to come from the little things that you don't expect rather than big ones that you can foresee? It's the little changes to your daily life that attack your sense of normality and make you really feel out of place. Things you take for granted. Like grilled cheese, ziplock bags, or pooping.

Yeah. You heard me. Pooping.

Allow me to explain.

For the first few days, I lived in blissful ignorance of how to properly poop here in Colombia, and I continued to do what I've always done: Feel nature's beeper buzz, go to the bathroom, [details deleted for a somewhat family friendly audience], grab a wad of toilet paper, clean myself, throw the toilet paper in the toilet (hence it's name), and then flush. This is not how you do it here in Colombia.

During orientation, I was informed that I've been doing it all wrong. And not just wrong like "they're all going to laugh at you," but I could have possibly clogged up some pipes, which is never a pleasant affair. The water pipes here in Colombia are not as wide as back home, and that gives the toilet paper a hard time when it goes through them. As it turns out, this little trashcan that I had never noticed before by all the toilets in every bathroom, public or private, is for that very purpose.

You put the toilet paper in the trash can.
(But I don't recommend drinking them both up.)

When I found this out, I was embarrassed. First because of the cultural and practical faux-pas, but then later when it came to actually doing it, to put my dirty toilet paper in the trash for all to see. I mean, it's like private. It's so private that it normally stays in my body where no one can see until it's ready and then I go in a small room by myself where no one can see it, and then dispose of it as fast as possible. I mean, not even I see too much of it. I also didn't want to broadcast to the world exactly how efficient or inefficient my digestive system was working. Let's suffice it to say that some days it ain't cute.

Will today be the day
it happens to me?

Perhaps related to this, many bathrooms don't have toilet paper in them. Or so I've been told. I haven't experienced this personally, but every time I'm in a new bathroom and don't think of this possibility till mid-act, fear pierces my heart, time stops, and I stick my hand into the dispenser wondering if this'll be the day that my number is up. Fortunately, so far, I've been okay. What I have experienced a lot of bathrooms not having are toilet seats. Yeah, toilet seats. In the US, when a toilet didn't have a seat, it normally was a bar, and I think the idea was that it was only supposed to be used for doing number one, and doing number two was discouraged, but here, I don't think that can be the case because... 1) There's toilet paper and 2) It's literally like every public restroom everywhere. I mean, is it a germ situation? Is it cheaper? Did one guy do it in an attempt to be avant garde and edgy, and everyone followed because toilet seats "weren't cool anymore"? I don't know. I also don't know what the typical Colombian does in lieu of not having a toilet seat. Squat? Perch? I'll spare telling you my personal solution. Maybe I'll start a survey and get back to you.

However, because to be human is to be adaptable, I'm already pretty used to all of this. So much so that when I had to visit the United States for my step-father's funeral, I kept hesitating over the garbage with my tissue before realizing I could put it in toilet and flush it. In fact, I overcame all embarrassment from the toilet paper-in-the-trash thing pretty quickly. Now it's just routine, which I suppose is ideal. I fold it over and then no one's embarrassed, no one has see it, and no one has to deal with a clogged toilet. Y vivimos felices y comimos perdices.

Adapting to a new country is a bitch

Every time you go to a new country, there's always a pesky period of adaptation you have to go through, and Colombia is no different. This period of adaptation is generally characterized by everything going wrong. I mean, EVERYTHING. A secondary characteristic, which may just be a symptom of the first, is that you feel completely out of place and you notice (whether it's actually there or not) a strange look in everyone's eye. You feel like an alien. And not the cute, gray kind, but the kind that like has five eyes, three mouths, some other identified appendage, and no manners whatsoever. The kind of alien where you don't even know where to look at when you're conversing. Some full blown H.P. Lovecraft, Azathoth shit.

It's great for self-esteem, let me tell you.

In order to show you how a day can go from normal to disaster without even trying, allow me to recount to you my last Wednesday, in which I tried to obtain my Colombian ID. It's called a cédula de extranjería, and when you have a long term visa, you're required to apply for one by your fifteenth day in the country or face the consequences which can be anywhere from a fine to deportation. This little nugget becomes important later.

I had intended to wake up at six a.m. just to be safe, but as we all make horrible decisions when we haven't gotten enough sleep, I decided to sleep in until nine. I got up, got dressed, had a short breakfast to try to make up some time, and I was out the door and onto Colombia's main public transportation system, the MIO.

I had never gone to the Migración office before, and I was in a bit of a rush, so I jumped on a bus I was pretty sure would take me there. To make sure, I decided to ask the girl sitting next to me what bus we were on: "¿Cuál es el número de este autobús?" Her response: "No hablo inglés."

Rude.

"No te hablo en inglés. Te estoy hablando en español. ¿Cuál es el número de este autobús?"

"E21."

"....Gracias."

You know, shit like that really pisses me off. Same as when you ask someone to repeat themselves once, and they either start speaking to you in English or they pass you off to their English-speaking co-worker. Like, really? We're in a bar. There's music blaring, and my asking you to repeat yourself has nothing to do with how you might need to speak up but everything to do with that I can't speak a language I've studied for well over a decade. Okay then...

Anyway, it was clear early on it was going to be that kind of day.

I got off two stops early to stop at the bank. I enter what I think is the right bank to pay for my cédula, and I'm told I actually need to go to the sister branch, two blocks down. So I do. As I walk up to the door, in some twist of tragicomedic kismet, I watch them shut the door and turn the lock as they look me right in the eye.

I basically freaked out, which looked something like this.

Click here to see
why Ingress is pretty awesome.

It turns out banks close here from 11:30 to 2:00. Yeah, you read that right. Two and a half hours. It was then that I started to worry about not getting to Migración in time. And that day was the deadline for my cédula. But I tried to keep cool. I played Ingress.

In the course of my wanderings, I discovered a supplement store, and as it was about one thirty at this point, I decided to go in, buy some better tasting whey than they were selling at my local supermarket, and then be on my way to the bank. Not so simple. It turns out they keep all the products in some other location and only keep display cases out. So when I finally decided on some overpriced whey, the guy left to go get it from this mystery storage center. I'm not sure what time he came back because at 2:45, I said I absolutely had to go, and I did.

When I got to the bank, I passed through the line twice because I didn't realize I needed to fill out a form. When I paid, I dashed down the street toward Migración. But when I got there, it was nowhere to be found. After asking about three different people, I found it hidden behind a series of other buildings. I also found it closed. The next day was a holiday. My deadline would be passed. I sat down and cried on the sidewalk. It had been a horrible day.

Epilogue
When I finally went back on Friday, they said I'd have to pay a fine. We went through the process of fingerprinting, registering everything, and they told me the website I can check to see when it's ready. They never asked for the money.