Back in the U.S of A

And boy does it suck. No offense USA, but i've become quite accustomed to the Colombian way of life: mainly, surfing or windsurfing during the day and/or relaxing and drinking/playing soccer/watching soccer or bad spanish television during the evening.

I've been on American soil for only about 30 minutes but i can see a difference everywhere. People are rude here or completely full of themselves (read: smug customs dude who thought he was awesome). Get a life, clown. Just because you carry a gun and "screen" people coming into the U.S., that does not mean that you are the shit.

I'm also back in the land of fat people. Looking around the terminal at Ft. Lauderdale international, i estimate that 50 percent of the people here have a weight problem. Not that I really care anyhow, it's just a different look from the people with which I've spent the last month of my life.

Delayed flight again as well (thanks Spirit Airlines for giving yourself a good view in my eyes).

I'll wrap up this whole blog thing in the next few days but I wanted to give a shout to anyone who is still reading this thing. I got a little lazy towards the end but i appreciate you guys sticking around. Hope to talk to all my friends soon.

Back in Chicago wednesday evening.

Rights? What the hell are they?

Police, as I think I've said before, are everywhere here in Colombia. They ride around on motorcycles in pairs, on little golf carts or walk the streets with their nightsticks and revolvers. If something really horrible is happening they bring out the paddy wagon, which is just a Volkswagen van.

Yesterday morning, I had my first run in with Colombian law enforcement.

My cousin had to work early yesterday morning and, since he works at his brother's watersports school on the beach, i decided to join him. His house is about 1/2 a mile to 3/4 of mile away from the school and it's basically a walk down the beach.

We left at about 8:15 in the morning at started walking down the beach. Ahead of us, we noticed two police officers riding the beach on their motorcycle. As we continued to walk, we saw the motorcycle stop in front of us.

Coming from the states, i think to myself, "hey, i've done nothing wrong so these police officers can't do a damn thing to me." WRONG.

Before the cop even asked for my ID, I was getting frisked and my cousins bag was being searched. WTF? After this guy grabbed my junk and the other guy tore through every part of my cousins bag (including the battery compartment of his camera) the cops checked our ID's and waved us on our way.

We must have looked like a couple of bad seeds. At least that's what I thought. But apparently, things like this happen all the time. And not for any real reason.

My cousin told me that cops are always looking for people doing bad things. But not to clean up the streets. These police are just trying to make a buck. If they happen to find anything on your person, you can get out of it with the right (read: large) bribe.

So be warned if you're ever in Colombia: you have no rights when it comes to the police searching you on the street.

Only one week left

I'm back in Cartagena for my final week in Colombia. It's good to be back across the street from the ocean and to have the ability to swim in the sea whenever I please.

I've absolutely loved every minute here (in every city i've visited) and there really are only a few reasons I want to come home; mainly to see members of my family and friends that I care about.

This trip has been one of the most amazing journeys of my entire life. Before this trip, the only foreign country i've seen has been Canada. I've never been to Europe. I've never even been to Mexico. But, now i can say that I've spent 1/12 of a year in South America.

Here are some thoughts:

• If you like milk in the United States, you'll probably dislike it here. Instead of refrigerating milk, it's sold warm here. And it's much sweeter then milk in the States. kind of like they add frosted flakes to the mix before they package it. I dislike it.
• Even though it's near the Equator, Bogota is COLD. In the summer months (there's no seasons down here) 60-ish degrees is the high and, most of the five days i was there, it was cloudy and/or rainy. Pack for the weather and you won't be cold.
• Salt water is not the best thing to drink, even if it's by accident.
• When you live in a climate that is 80-90 degrees each day (ie. Cartagena) with a ton of humidity, there is no need for hot water from the tap or in the shower. Your cold shower is your air conditioning.
• I asked my mother this question the second we stepped of the plane in Bucaramanga: Why in the world have you live the majority of your life in a place as ugly as Detroit when you grew up in a place so gorgeous? Bucaramanga is at the foot of the Andes mountains. The view from the top is AMAZING. And to look up at the mountains from the city is an absolutely glorious site. The one crazy thing: as you drive up the mountain, the population becomes poorer and poorer. The poorest people in Bucaramanga have the best views. Completely backwards from how people in the United States think.
• It takes a little getting used to but down here, you don't flush your toilet paper down the toilet. This may also be the reason why public bathrooms smell horribly. It's also smart to carry around a pocket sized package of Kleenex because there's either a.) no toilet paper in public restrooms or b.) you have to purchase toilet paper and it's never enough to get you completely clean. The Bogota airport is the exception to both those rules. Also, you often have to pay (~1000 pesos or $.50) to use public restrooms.
• I need to learn more Spanish before i come here again. I thought to myself before i came down here "brain, you haven't spoke or thought about Spanish in more then 10 years. But, you were a good Spanish student in high school so it should all just come back to you." It didn't. Although i can understand 80 percent of what people say, I still talk like a seven-year-old. That's why it was so easy to talk with my cousin, Santi.
• When buying things off the street, make sure you are with someone who speaks Spanish and can barter. If vendors know that you can't speak Spanish or think you are an American, they will rip you off.

More to come. Going out on the town for a bit.

God, I love Golf.

I was lucky enough earlier this week to be able to play golf in one of the most beautiful locales i've ever played golf. Beneath the shadow of the Andes mountains lies Club Campestre; one, if not the only, country club in Bucaramanga with a golf course.

The grass wasn't as manicured and nice as a country club in the States would be and it definitely wasn't as hard as the at the country club where I used to work. But, it was nice. Real nice.

There was only one perplexing thing about the golf course: Not a single riding golf cart. If you wanted to play a round on the golf course, you had to do it on your own two feet and not four wheeled vehicle.

And, you can't carry your own clubs. No matter how old you are or how young you are, you had to use a caddie. Honestly, I saw an older gentleman who was walking the course with the assistance of his cane (his caddie looked like he was about as old as he was) and a girl who couldn't have been more eight-years-old both with a caddies.

Things like this would not fly in the States. I know that I may be making a horrible generalization about people in the States, but, kids in the U.S. would never be able to use a caddie for various reasons and the majority of older people tend to use motorized golf carts. I guess they've earned this right and privilege.

Now I've caddied for my fair share of people, including hundreds of times for myself, but I've never taken a caddie along for a round. I wish this fate on no one. (Well, not so much, because after the first few holes i found my rhythm. I even scored pars on the final three holes).

My caddie was one of the most knowledgeable caddies I've ever seen. He knew yardages without even checking posted yardage markers, picked my clubs for me each time I took a shot and even instructed me on my swing at different times throughout the round. He read all my putts for me and, if I hadn't been wearing a skirt while I was putting all day, I would've made 70 percent of my putts.

He was also a bit older then me. In the States, unless you work to become a professional caddie, caddies are usually younger kids and early aged college kids who are just looking to work a good paying summer job. But for people like Dario (that was my caddies name) and the rest of the caddies here, this is their profession. This is what they do. This is how they support themselves.

I also have to assume that they have a love for the game of golf as well and they surely seem to enjoy themselves as much as I remember enjoying myself when i was a caddie. But, because of their lack of money, they don't have the opportunity to move any higher then just being someone's caddie.

Dario could probably work as a teaching professional in the United States. When I was duffing 60 yard chip shots, he grabbed the club and ball and showed me exactly what I was doing wrong. He knocked his ball within 10 feet of the pin. He had a real pure swing.

He also knew exactly where I needed hit the ball every time i stepped up to the tee and corrected my aiming when I was aimed incorrectly.

The caddie uniform was completely a completely different entity then it's American counterpart as well. It consisted of long pants, long sleeve shirts and a required caddie hat that many of the caddies wore over a different cap. I felt bad that i was wearing shorts because it was really balmy out. Every caddie's shirt had padded shoulder pads, their first names embroidered on the front left pocket and their full name on a patch on the back their uniform. The shirts also were apparently sponsored by the local super market and Aero Repulica because they also had patches for both.

The most interesting thing about the uniform was the list of six values on the right sleeve. I can't remember them all off the top of my head but two i do remember were honesty and service. We as caddies never had a list of values we were supposed to abide by. I think I remember learning about some values at caddie classes when i was twelve-years-old but after caddie classes ended and you started working, you forget about creeds and such and just start working.

The best thing was, the caddies seemed to abide to all these values. It was really a neat thing.

It's unlucky that people here don't have the chances like people in the States. Hell, the current assistant golf professional at the country club where I used to work used to work in the bag room when I was a young caddie. He had a vision and spent hours practicing his game to get to that point and now is probably the best golfer I know personally. Keep swinging, Colombian loopers.

Also, kids in the States who work as caddies, be VERY happy with how much money you make. I'm not going to comment on how much caddies here make but trust me. You make really good money. And, be happy that people still enjoy taking caddies when they play golf because one day. Your caddie master always threatened you with this but you all know it may come true one day: be courteous to the people you caddie for because one day, you all may be replaced by golf carts.

(Caddying was my favorite summer job that I ever had. Can you tell?)

La Comida

As many of you may or may not know, the major meal of the day in most Latin American countries is lunch. Families gather in their kitchens and dining areas and eat humongous meals together, sometimes taking naps afterwards and then head back to work to finish their days.

When supper comes along, you eat a small meal: a sandwich, some bread or some of the leftover food from lunchtime. You don't go to sleep full here. And that's a good thing.

This is probably the reason why there aren't many overweight people here. People eat their big meal of the day (their supper-sized lunch) and then continue on with their day, burning their fat and calories while they work. Or, they go to the gym in the evening or go jogging or play sports early in the evening. They don't just fall asleep and let the food they ate turn into fat.

It's also not a "fast food" culture here. From what i can gather, even if you work in an office, you have plenty of time to eat your main meal of the day. You can go home and eat or go out and have a relaxing lunch. I went to lunch with my mother and godfather when I was in Bogota and, before we sat down at our table, I spied a couple tables of obvious business men and women. They were eating appetizers and drinking beers (thumbs up) before we even sat down. We got our table, ordered and began to eat. I looked around to notice that the same groups of people were still sitting at their tables enjoying cups of coffee, looking about as relaxed as I was even though they knew they had to return to work. They weren't checking their watches. They didn't look like they were in a hurry. They were sipping their drinks and talking. I'm sure they were probably concerned about their work, but they didn't make it look like they were. When we got up to leave, they were also getting ready to leave. They had probably been there about a half an hour longer then my party.

What a country.

I absolutely love eating a steak for lunch here and then eating a couple of rolls (or nothing at all) for dinner. But you have to remember the metric system when you travel outside of the United States. A 500 gram steak is much bigger then you probably think it will be. I did.

And to think I almost ordered the 800 gram steak.

There was enough leftover meat to make myself two sandwiches for lunch the next day.

One more thing: Coke in a glass bottle is the best drink ever.

A moment of silence...

Rest in Peace King of Pop. You made Gary, Ind. (and the world) dance. I got the news walking down the streets of Bucaramanga. Sad day.

Something New for the Blog

Alright. I've been getting a little stumped on what I should be writing about, so I've decided to change it up a bit. I'm going to pick a topic and discuss the similarities and differences between how we perceive that topic in the United States and how the people of Colombia view that same topic.

This evenings topic: driving and transit.

Let me start off by saying that I don't drive at the moment. When you live in a city like Chicago that has accessible and well managed public transit, you don't really need a car. And when biking weather comes around, there isn't really even any need for transit.

Also, as many of you know, I tend to get skittish in automobiles, becoming the shotgun or backseat driver that no one wants, critiquing your every move. But enough about me and my misconception about your driving.

Do you think drivers in Chicago and in the United States are bad? You ain't seen nothing yet.

From what I can gather, there really aren't things like lane lines or passing zones here in Colombia: you drive where ever you want to drive as long as it's not on the sidewalks. The only place where lane lines are present are on larger roads, like highways, and much of the time, they are ignored.

You can pass where ever you please as well. If the person in front of you is driving slow and it's angering you then, by all means, pass them whenever you please.

Pedestrians in Colombia DO NOT have the right of way. If a person hops in front of your car while you are driving, feel free to lay on your horn until they jump out of the way or until you hit them, whichever comes first. Bicyclists who ride the streets of Bogota are probably the bravest people you'll ever see because cars tend to ignore them when they are riding in the streets.

Motorcycles are everywhere and their driving lane is where ever their bike is. During rush hours, you'll see motorcycles weaving in and out of cars, buses and even other motorcycles. These motorcyclists have some humongous eggs and so do their passengers because, much of the time, there are two people on a bike.

Taxi drivers are just as bad as taxi drivers in big cities, hustling from fare to fare without a concern for anyone.

The streets of Bogota are confusing as well. During rush hours, some streets (a few of the major causeways) change from two way streets into one way streets. So, between the hours of 6am and 9am, a street will only be used to travel in on direction. After that time, the streets return to two way traffic. Once again, from 5pm to 8pm, the same streets will change into one way streets, only in the opposite direction. The logic behind this is that it relieves congestion, which I assume it does, although it's very confusing and, had I been driving this evening, I may have just started driving the wrong down what I assumed was a two way street.

Where's the police and traffic control people in Bogota? Nowhere. They have more important things to deal with. Sometimes though, when you leave the capital city, they will randomly stop you on your way back into the city to make sure your car is up to code.

Transit, on the other hand, is an entity all it's own.

There are no trains in the city of Bogota but there is an extensive bus system that much of the population of the city uses. I would too because gas (super, which is equivalent to regular grade in the United States) costs $4+ dollars a gallon.

Buses on the major roads are segregated from the rest of traffic with two to three lanes for travel. Stops along the route are stations, much like train stations on Chicago's 'L, where, at times, hundreds of people wait for their bus line to come. During rush hours, stations resemble cattle slaughter house lines with people shoulder to shoulder. I didn't get a chance to ride a bus in Bogota but they looked similar to any other accordion-style bus in any big city, only with double doors on the left and right hand sides. Cost to ride the bus: 1500 pesos or about $.75 a ride. My godfather said the price was so low because people in the city do not make a lot of money.

I'm leaving Bogota in the morning and heading to Bucaramonga, the childhood home of my mother. New topic tomorrow evening.

Bogota is a completely different world then Cartagena

Ah, capital city. The hustle and bustle of cars, motorcycles and buses. Skyscrapers, museums, churches. And people, everywhere.

Cartagena was much more of a travel destination. It was a place for where people, from what I could tell, people came to relax and enjoy the ocean and the VERY hot weather.

But Bogota is different. In the shadow of the Andes mountains sits the home of the president of Colombia and one million others. It's much like any other big city; traffic, shopping malls, crime, beggars and homeless.

It has a homely feeling though. And although the hustle may be a bit for some to handle, I feel as though anyone who has lived in a big city before could make Bogota their home. More later.

Cartagena - A Tour in Pictures

It kind of looks like Miami but don't tell that to the people who live there. Every morning, locals take to the beach and set up the chairs and tarps that you see next to the water. I'm sure they charge something to use the canopies and seats but, since i never rented one, i have no idea of the cost. The building at the point, is the Hilton Hotel, which apparently is one of the oldest hotels in the city. At night, it's covered in purple lights. This is the west side of the peninsula. Follow the beach to the north (left) and you'll reach the point, about half a mile down the beach.

This is the view from the back window of my bedroom. Notice all the construction. Until three years ago, no one was allowed to construct anything new on the peninsula. My cousin told me that something happened politically three years ago that opened the area up to construction. Business is booming.

This is the west side of the Peninsula. Gorgeous? Yes? Should you swim in it? NO! Every time it rains (which is often), the streets flood (there are no sewers to collect the water on the street). So, when the streets flood, the water that has collected is directed toward this side of the bay and, whatever trash collects with it, goes into the bay. So, it looks beautiful, but it's very filthy.

A one sided teeter-totter. Probably the saddest piece of playground equipment i've ever seen. It really wasn't that fun to play with either.

The center of town (El Centro). It may be hard to see, but directly in front of the horse sculpture sits many a canon-like gun. This is the old section of town. It's surrounded by a large (25 foot?) wall with canons facing the sea. In the olden days, when travelers would come to South America and find gold, Cartagena was the place where it was stored (at least according to my mother). To protect this gold (Cartagena was like the Fort Knox of Colombia), the people built this wall around their city and had lookouts, scanning the sea for pirates who wanted to rob them. Now, El Centro is home to many shops, restaurants, bars, discos and street vendors. There's even a a disco/bar on top of the wall where many kids spend their Friday and Saturday nights.

Another view of a different part of El Centro. Notice the gentleman with the table of spoons on his head. He's just one of the many street vendors that walk the streets of Cartagena during the days and nights. Need a beer, a water or a cola? Find a vendor. Need some some smokes, gum, potato chips, bracelets, bags? Find a vendor. You can find almost anything for sale on the streets of Cartagena. And you can do almost anything you want (with a few restrictions) on the streets of Cartagena. The one thing i don't understand is why businesses don't make a fuss out of the exorbitant number of people who sell things on the street. It must take away a ton of their business. Never the less, it's a cool thing. Whenever i needed a smoke, at any hour, all i had to do was take the elevator to the street below my aunt and uncle's house and wait no more then five minutes for a kid with a box full of smokes to walk by. Give him 200 pesos ($.10) and he gives you a cig. He'll even light it for you. What a country!

Bob Barker Would Shit his pants if he came anywhere near Cartagena…

I’ve never seen so many animals strolling down the street; leash less, free and with all the parts that they were born. It’s a beautiful thing.

On the beach, near my cousin’s water sports school, lives a dog named Toto. He’s the beach mascot. The beach is his home. Everyone knows him. Everyone likes him. He’s one of the kindest dogs you’re likely to meet (unless, of course your another dog who is invading his territory).

He’s a mutt by every definition of the word. From what I can gather, he must be part Labrador because he is light yellow in color and about the size of medium Lab. But he has dark spots over much of his body, kind of like a cow but not as distinct as our milk giving friends.

He’s smart as a whip too.

My cousin came home tonight with one his friends and picked me up after they finished working at the school. They brought Toto along with them on their mile long journey from the beach to the house. Our plan was to grab the car, drive the dog back to the beach and drop off the dog before we went out for the evening.

But Toto was stubborn. He didn’t want to get in the car. So we had to devise another plan. The three of us hopped in the car and began to drive. We opened the windows and beckoned the dog to follow us. To my surprise, Toto followed the car. We’d drive straight; he’d follow behind us. We’d make a left or a right and so would Toto.

I’ve only once before seen a dog follow a bunch of kids in a car and that was probably the smartest, most well behaved and well trained dog I’ve ever known. But this dog, this homeless wanderer of Cartagena, was just as smart.

Some may think that this is sad; a waste of what could be a beautiful pet. The way I see it though, he’s the cities pet. No one can claim ownership. He’s free, he’s tame and he’s enjoying his life.

On a side note, I see only one downside to letting animals roam the streets. Earlier in the afternoon I was walking down the street and I encountered a puppy that couldn’t have been more then three months old. All I wanted to do was pick it up and take it home with me. Hopefully someone else did.

Los Deportes

When you think of Hispanic countries and sports, the first sport that the majority of people will think of is Soccer. In Colombia, it’s no different. Little kids walk around wearing soccer jerseys, kicking soccer balls down the beach. There are makeshift fields everywhere, many of them just fenced in lots of dirt with two goals. It’s all about the game here.

But Soccer isn’t the only sport that people participate in. Down the street from my aunt and uncles house sits a softball stadium where I was lucky enough to see half a game this evening.

The stadium was packed full of people, mostly young but there were a few older gentlemen and ladies there, cheering for Los Indios (the Indians-apparently it’s not an offensive term down here) and Los Eagles.

This wasn’t a beer league either. This was serious, fast-pitch softball. Coaches were calling signs to batters and runners. Every player was playing his heart out; stealing bases whenever they could, snapping throws from center field all the way home. All of the players were communicating well with each other and taking the game very serious.

A couple of amazing notes: the field only had two sponsors, a local technical college and a bar. The scoreboard was like the scoreboard at Wrigley (nothing digital) and, I assume, there was a little kid inside the scoreboard counting balls, strikes, outs and runs. None of the players threw with their left hand and only one player batted left-handed. The bases weren’t even attached to the ground and when a player would slide into a base, it would often go flying into the fence. Many of the Eagles players wore hats from the University of Miami and a few of the fans in the stands wore shirts from the University of Alabama (the SEC apparently gets a lot of love in Colombia, although the Big Ten was close behind as I saw a few hats from the University of Wisconsin).

Although the Eagles massacred the Indians (I believe the score was 14-7), there was something more that brought the people of Cartagena together tonight: a sense of community.

From what I could gather, most of the people there knew each other (I went with my cousin and he must’ve introduced to a half dozen people and talked with numerous others in the 45 minutes we were there). I guess it’s pretty similar to going to sporting events in the United States, but it was much more of a homely atmosphere. People who were cheering for the opposites sides weren’t sitting around busting each others chops (although at times, fans for the Eagles would blow horns when Indian players were at bat); everyone was very cordial with each other. It was definitely a treat to be a part of this experience.

First thoughts from the Motherland

A sleepless Sunday night. A 6:35am flight from Detroit Metro to Fort Lauderdale. And, finally, an 11:00am flight from Fort Lauderdale to Cartagena, Colombia. I have arrived.

I’ve never before exited a plane and walked directly onto a runway, but here in Colombia, it’s the norm.

After a short conversation with the gentleman at customs, my mother and I grabbed our luggage and walked outside the airport, where everyone’s loved ones were waiting for them. From what I could gather, if you weren’t coming off of a plane or getting ready to leave on a plane, then you weren’t allowed in the airport.

We were greeted by my aunt, Liliana, and my cousin, Juan Carlos, two people who, at least from my recollection, I had never met before (although I may have met both of them the last time I was in Colombia at the age of three). But family is family and after a few hugs and handshakes, I felt as though I had known them for years.

Sitting in the back seat, I got my first glimpses at the country where my mother grew up and where the majority of her family (including seven siblings, a number of nieces and nephews, her step mother and god knows how many other relatives) still live today.

Driving past numerous beaches, gas stations where the price of gas was between 7,340 to 8,400 pesos per liter, small shops, a Colombian naval base and restaurants, we made it to our final destination; the home of my aunt, uncle and cousin.

We parked the car in a small parking lot behind the nine-story building and hopped into the elevator. After pushing the button for the fifth floor and traveling to the floor, I got a first look at the place that will be my home for the next week and will once again be my home in three weeks.

After putting our things away in what will be our room for the week, I walked around the house. It’s plenty different from any home I’ve seen in the past. I’ve spotted two televisions in the entire house (not that I really care about television right now because I’m still trying to remember my high school Spanish at the moment). The only reason that I bring this up is because, at least from my experiences, most rooms in homes in the United States usually hold a television, especially rooms like the living room. But here, at least at my aunt and uncle’s house, the living room/dining room area did not have a television. This small cultural anomaly really brings me to the conclusion that, when families are spending time together here in Colombia, it’s not while sitting around a television.

After a long nap and a bout with a little bit of cold bug (let’s hope this is from Leslie and not the H1N1 virus), my other cousin Philippe and his girlfriend showed up at the house and the four of us (Juan Carlos, Philippe, his girlfriend and myself) decided to go out onto the town for a little while.

We didn’t go to a bar or to a restaurant; we went to a small store and bought four beers, opened them in the store and began to walk through the older section of the city. At first, I felt a little bit of culture shock. If we were to walk into a 7-11 and open our beers and walk out onto the street and drink in the streets of Chicago, the police would have a field day with us. But in Cartagena, this is the norm. Young boys sell loose cigarettes, street vendors are everywhere and people walk the streets, enjoying themselves at every turn.

Philippe and his better half retired to their apartment and Juan Carlos and I continued our journey, stopping at another little store to grab another beer. I waited in the car as Juan Carlos grabbed two beers and was kind of astonished to see that he handed me an open beer. I guess if you’re not completely smashed, drinking and driving is okay in Colombia (the drinking age is 18 here taboot). We drove to the beach where we parked the car and sat outside car and drank and had couple of smokes. Although my Spanish is, at the moment, very minimal and Juan Carlos’ English is minimal, we managed to communicate pretty well with each other. And as every moment passes, my Spanish continues to improve.

It’s 2:30 in the morning right now and I couldn’t think of another place I’d rather be. I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking the ocean. Palm trees line Calle 5 (that’s the road that is right below me) and it has got to be at least 70 degrees right now. It’s paradise. One more smoke before I go to bed (and I told myself I was going to quit. Too bad these 10 packs of Marlboros are so cute).

Pictures of how beautiful it is here will follow.