Making friends (Cartagena: Aspect 1)

I haven't been able to keep up with this blog as regularly as I would have liked over Christmas break, but it's all for a good reason: I've been traveling a bunch! My itinerary went something like this:

December 18-19: Armenia

December 19-20: Salento and Valle de Cocura

December 20-22: Pereira and Santa Rosa

December 22-24: Manizales

December 24-27: Back in Cali

December 27-January 1: Cartagena

January 1-4: Back in Cali

January 4-7: Pasto

This unfortunately is not what it's like to ride on an Avianca flight.
It's like.... opposite.

I then had a few days rest before my friend Amy came down to visit, which brings us up to now. So as you can see, I've basically been living the dream. My bank account can definitely attest to it. It's looking haggard these days.

I've already written about my trip in the coffee region (all the cities between December 18 and December 24), in which I attempted to live out a Doctor Who inspired fantasy of adventure. I actually still think about that rope bridge, even now, weeks later, and I wonder if I might go back there and try it again. Maybe... If I have time...

This week, however, I'd prefer to write about the magic kismet that happens when you travel alone and why you shouldn't be afraid to do it. Most of the travel I have done, I have done alone. A few times I've attempted to travel with others, and unless I knew them well (several years), it never really worked out. I dislike traveling with others for the same reason I dislike guided tours: I don't like others deciding how my experience should be. When you travel with other people, especially friends or family, it's easy to feel obligated to alter your plans to compromise and really, you should. You should make sure everyone gets to do something they want to do, but like most compromises, it's a bit like spreading the jam on your toast thin. Wonderful for material things like the distribution of wealth, pretty sucky for non-material things like enjoyment.

When you travel alone, you can do exactly what you want to do when you want to do it without feeling pressure from others to divert into plans that you might find useless. We all have different ideas of why we're traveling. For some it's to relax. For others it's to party. And there there are all sorts of ways people like to balance the two. It's rare, I think, for these to match up in perfect sync. I think what keeps people from traveling alone is a fear of loneliness. We're afraid we'll go somewhere unknown and foreign and have no idea what to do, where to go, who to keep company with, and we want the support of another to make us feel safe.

Forget that. You're not safe. You never were. You're going to die.

Eventually.

Or not eventually.

Whatever.

I know, we like to feel safe, and while I recognize how important it is to feel secure from time to time, going to the same places and doing the same things make it hard for new and interesting things to happen. Perhaps one of the most rewarding things that occur is that you meet new people.

You should without a doubt add this to your arsenal
of friend finding techniques while traveling...

In Cartagena, I stayed at a hostel called La Quemada. It was an absolute dump, and it cost about double what I'm used to paying for a hostel. When I arrived late Saturday night, I wasn't sure if I was the only one checked in, but it seemed a pretty fair assumption. It was only on the second day that I met Sandra, a woman from Peru who had come, like me and many others, to spend New Year's Eve in Cartagena. She ended up coming along with me and Jorge, a guy I met on Grindr, to a beach off Cartagena's coast. We spent the day there, and when we got back, two others had arrived: Markus from Austria and Alessandra from Brazil. We all introduced each other, and eventually went out into the night where we met some friends of Sandra's from Holland. In the bars, there was a rotating cast of people from England, Australia, Argentina (though we'll avoid talking about how much of a spoiled brat she acted like...oh wait, oops), Scotland, and various other places. It was a kind of night that I had often had in Spain, where you make friends, even if just for the night, and if you're lucky, like I was, they become friends for much longer.

By the time I had left Cartagena, I had found out that Markus was also planning to go to Pasto and had an extra bed in the hostel he had made reservations at. Since I could only find a hotel that was a bit expensive, I made plans to meet up with him there. But we'll get to that next week.

That Time I Watched Too Much Doctor Who (Coffee Region Trip: Aspect 1)

A few months ago, I decided to finally tackle a show that all my friends seemed to love: Doctor Who. As I watched seven and a half seasons, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to travel with the Doctor, how many milliseconds it would take me to say yes if he asked me, and whether I would end up like this jerk.

His name's Adam too, as it turns out.

But while that asshole caught kicked out for putting a hole in his head (cute), I wondered if I would be more like this girl, who looked out into space and vomited.

Who also was annoying as all fuck...

Because of these deep feelings of inadequacy, I decided to try to make this backpacking trip about showing myself I could maybe, kind of, sort of have what it takes to be a companion.

Challenge #1: The Coffee Amusement Park

So, you know what goes with my fear of heights pretty well? A fear of roller coasters. I've always been pretty chicken shit with roller coasters. After I warmed up riding a cable car (oooh, the horror!), I continued to work my way up by going on the one "high impact" roller coaster that was clustered with all the dinky, children coasters.

Small children ride this?

As you can see, it tilts up in the air. I didn't know that detail before I got on. I figured it was more like a centrifuge and that it was just going to spin around really quick, not really getting far from the ground. So, at first I was fine. No big deal. But then I noticed slowly but surely, the ground inching further and further away, and before I knew it I was the three quarters upside down and reciting the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear.

These people seem
totally fine with it though.
They're probably some sort of death cult.

I also rode some water rides that were exciting but not a big deal and a roller coaster that I kept thinking would take my head off. (Thanks, Caitlin!) But there was one that I hesitated with. It was a giant needle that lifted you to the top and then dropped you a few times. Since it was already on a mountain, when it raises you up and you look out over the trees and at the setting sun, you're pretty high. When I got up there, I almost shit myself. I mean, I kept it together, but you know, like internal shit. But there was really only a few moments to feel much of anything because it soon released and fell. I almost blacked out. Not exactly out of fear but the change in gravity or something was so sudden, it makes you want to pass out. Surprisingly, I didn't die.

Challenge 2: Hike out to the middle of a nature reserve and survive a grumpy old lady

I should have listened...
"En serio señora muy mala onda!"
("Seriously rude lady!")

Okay, so not too extreme. I took the bus from Armenia to Salento, joined a jeep with other people heading to Valle de Cocora, and from there I set out to Acaime Humming Bird sanctuary. I unsuccessfully dodged pits of mud, crossed rickety bridges, and jumped across rushing streams, all going uphill into the mountains. When I got to Acaime, I was greeted by a nice old man and a megabitch of an old lady. I asked to stay the night there. I dropped my backpack off and visited a cloud forest before I decided to come back. I had forgotten to buy food or water before I left Salento and I was running out of energy.

When I got back, a group of backpackers had arrived and decided to stay. The woman showed us the room. There was no hot water, heat or electricity, and "dos velas, nomas!" ("two candles, that's it!"), which she told me and the leader of the other group like some sort of drill sergeant, much to our amusement. She spoke with a strange accent and seemed to be angry about everything. I really should have paid attention to the sign.

I spent the night there, piled under the heavy blankets, but the mountain cold still got in. I didn't sleep too well, and as soon as there was light, I headed back to Salento to take the bus to Pereira. I had successfully dealt with cold, hunger, nature's elements, and one bad-tempered old lady.

Challenge 3a: Ziplining
Later, in Manizales, I went to Los Yarumos, a strange sort of park that looked like what I imagined No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom to be. There were, however, two things worth noticing: a short zipline and a rope bridge. I didn't look at them too long. I handed over some pesos and was all like "take me to the fun stuff!"

Two guys who worked with the park came with me. While they were getting everything ready, I looked over the ledge of the zipline and peered down at all 230 feet of depth. I promptly lost my shit. After they spent a good deal of time  trying to convince me, I spent another eternity at the ledge. They kept telling me nothing would happen, and I said I believed them. And they told me the hardest part was starting off, and I said I believed them. I tested the cords. I let myself feel that they were indeed there to catch me, and after counting to three five or six times, I finally jumped off.

I was freaked out for a second, but I quickly I started to enjoy it. It wasn't much different than being in a swing. But like some cosmic practical joke, the cords started to twist and I began to rotate around, and I looked back at the ledge and the guy standing there with a look that was equal parts fear and helplessness, trying to send some sort of telepathic message for help and being too scared to even make a sound. But before I knew it, I was nearing the crash pad, and bam, I had hit it. The other guy brought out a stool for me to stand on while he unhooked me, and it was over.

It was absolutely exhilarating.

Challenge 4: Rope Bridge
The same, however, probably could not be said of the rope bridge. I had initially thought this would be easier than the ziplining. Stupid Adam. When we arrived at the the bridge, I started off with no problem and a third of the way across. However, when it started to go over the deeper parts of the valley, I froze. "Put your left foot in front of your right foot," the cute guide behind me said. "Okay," I whimpered back. But it was impossible to do this without looking down. The rope wasn't all that thick. I hesitated longer, standing there, seeing eternity stretched out on the other side of that bridge. "You can do this. I've come across here with an eight year old," he said. I'd like to meet that eight year old. He'd make a better companion than me. After my legs started to shake ("You're starting to shake a lot.") and my knees felt really weak, I had to turn around. A regretful decision because I was too scared to make a full turn and walking backwards, though it felt easier, was not exactly low stress.

I felt disappointed with myself, but I tried to forget about it. Later that night, as I was falling asleep, in that space between our world and nod, I saw myself walking across that bridge again, determined to continue, and as I took my next step, my foot slipped and I felt the rope slide along my bare foot and my heart race up my throat and into my mouth. I convulsed in my bed and woke up. Yeah, probably the right choice about that bridge.

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!

Kill yourself.

I've recently come to a realization on my journey to adapt to Colombian culture: I need to kill myself. No, no, no. I don't mean commit physical suicide but instead to commit suicide of the ego. Yeah, I know, so obvious, right? But it's one thing to understand this in words, as an intellectual concept, and another to know it by experiencing it. It’s like how I can tell you that in the vacuum of space no one can hear you scream and you get the idea, but you don't really get it until you're there, in a space suit, faced with an unspeakable horror that’s hungry for some hoomunn in its tum-tum.

Where is the tum-tum on this thing exactly?

Since the madness that was studying for the TCF has stopped, I've slowly been working back into a steady meditation schedule. I knew since I arrived that this was something I had to make time for more than ever, and at first, I did. But as life often gets in the way of life, it fell by the wayside in between the traveling, the four hours a day studying French, and the time consuming efforts of simply being a stranger in a strange land. But now that I've taken that test (and did better than I ever expected!), I'm free, and it’s time for it to become a priority again.

Meditation has always helped keep my mind in order. I have a tendency to overpower myself with my own thoughts: I create arguments in my head, relive memories (both pleasant and unpleasant), and can even sometimes experience psychosomatic pain if I imagine a potential injury too vividly. In short, my imagination is hardcore powerful, yo.

Unspeakable horrors await you in that darkened and forlorn place ...

This has its upsides. A powerful imagination leads itself to creativity and innovation, to storytelling and theatrics, to solutions for problems in life. The downside is that sometimes it can have a life of its own. When I started meditating, it became easier to see thoughts for what they are: They are to the brain as beats are to the heart. They have only as much substance as I give them, and their illusions are broken once you see what’s underneath them.

So what does this all have to do with overcoming culture shock? Well, since I’ve been meditating more, I’ve started to see through some of these recurring thoughts patterns. I’ve realized that a lot of these thoughts come from a place of, dare I say, entitlement. For example, when I’m walking down the street, and a group of people are coming the other way, I expect them to move to one half of the sidewalk so I can pass. This would be considered the well-mannered thing to do in the US. For the record, I think it’s considered the well-mannered thing to do here too, but the social pressure to do it seems a lot less. This desire and my subsequent anger or annoyance (whose severity depending on the day, weather, and whether the other person was cute or not) comes from a place of expecting them to do it, as if it were somehow unequivocally written into the fabric of the universe that people should move to let others pass. But there’s nothing there. There’s nothing that says that people have to or even should move for me. What objective means is there to say that they should move rather than I should wait? It’s nice that people do it, but no one says that they must. (Alternatively, no one says that you must take that exact path every day either.) How are these things decided other than by cultural norms, which ultimately are just patterns that emerged over time? The pattern to move out of the way when someone comes toward you showed a strong winning in the United States. In Colombia, not so much. And that simple is how the arepa de choclo crumbles

.

I’m doing my best to start to see things this way, to realize that what’s conscientious and mannerly to me has little to do with any sort of logic and all to do with the commonly accepted patterns of behavior in the United States. This is an imperfect process. I’m still not there. I still feel a very vivid mix of frustration, anger, and disillusionment when Colombians cancel plans an hour before we’re supposed to meet, show up an hour or two late without phoning or even just don’t show up at all. And believe me, I’d like to. This is probably the single biggest barrier to my making friends here because for me, the disrespect I see this as is nearly intolerable. But here, it’s not disrespectful; it’s normal. It’s how life works. And my choices are to poison myself with anger or take up the opportunity to cut through another layer of ego as I search for my original face.

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.