When In Rome

As five years in Colombia comes to a bittersweet close and I reflect back on all I have seen, experienced, learned, and accomplished here, I can't deny how I have also changed.  I know I've become more flexible, but at the same time less of a push-over.  I've allowed myself to relax and think less while speaking Spanish and dealing with time issues, while becoming more self-aware and analytical of things around me.  


The other day a Colombian colleague said I had been in the country long enough to become platanizado - literally "made into a plantain" - or localized, for lack of a better word.  Definitely a compliment coming from a native Caleño!  And while I know I still stick out like the glowing pink gringo that I am, I clearly have taken in and adjusted to some of the day-to-day nuances that makes living in Colombia special.


So, for those who will come after me and those who are new to this spectacular corner of the world, I present to you...

How To Be Less Gringo and More Colombian 

(or at least Caleño) in 14 Easy Steps

1)  Always answer your phone.  In public, in the bathroom stall, at the movies, in a work meeting: answer it!  This may mean ducking your head under the table, but still the call must not be ignored.  Also, never whisper.  Colombians don't know how to do this into their phones.  Whisper and you might as well wave your US Passport over your head like a flag on Independence Day.

2)  Learn to flap your hand and point with your lips.  Embarrassed?  Shocked?  Excited?  (Really, do you have any emotion at all?)  Then flap your hand back and forth really fast.  If you can make a hissing noise by sucking in air through gritted teeth, people may suspect you're gringo even less.  Now ask someone to pass you that glass over there with your lips; just raise your chin a bit and blow that bottle a long extended kiss.  Yes, no one suspects a thing!

3) & 4) Don't read books in public.  This is the quickest way to pick out a gringo.  Gringos read in public for fun.  Colombians are social.  Even with complete strangers.  If there is, for some strange reason, no one to strike up a conversation with, resort to flagrant staring.  Without sunglasses.

5) Think small.  Learn how to make everything diminutive when you speak.  Segundo doesn't exist for you: instead say segundito, ratico, or minutico.  See that fat chick over there?  Make yourself feel better and call her gordita instead of gorda.  Is the piece of paper you need smaller than 8 1/2 x 11?  Forget it. The paper could be the size of a Mack truck: call it a papelito and move on.


6) Just dance.  Preferably salsa but that doesn't even matter.  Grab a partner and attempt to copy them and/or those around you.  You get points for effort here.  Everyone dances.  If you stay in your chair and watch, tattoo "foreigner" to your forehead now.

7) Order 'guaro without asking and just start pouring shots.*  Never say "Would anyone like aguardiente?"  Just tell the server to get a bottle; no self-respecting Colombian asks people if they want it.  No self-respecting Colombia declines a shot either; start pouring and sticking those tiny plastic shots under people's unsuspecting noses until they toss it back.
*There is the obvious prerequisite of man-up-and-learn-to-drink-firewater-like-a-champ thing that we'll just blow on past.

8) Stand in front of the doors to the MIO bus and don't move.  Ignore all the space behind you where you could be waiting patiently.  It doesn't matter that the electronic sign says the bus for your route won't be pulling up for another seven minutes; stay put.

Bonus "local points" for giving dirty looks to the people who's bus did just pull up and who had to frantically push by you before the doors slid shut.  How rude of them, right?!?  Clearly you were standing there.

9) Once on the bus, sit in the aisle seat and make people crawl over you.  Look, you got there first.  You might be getting off before this complete stranger you know nothing about.  Heaven forbid you scoot over.  Never mind that this person is huge, pregnant, carrying fifteen bags of groceries, is 105 years old with an oxygen tank, if they want a seat they have to work for it and squeeze between your awkwardly turned body and the seat in front of you.  You do this, you are instantly "local."

10) In a crowded restroom, line up directly behind someone at a urinal or in front of a stall door.  If you decide that standing at the restroom door is a better option you might as well, (a) tie a flashing neon sign above your head saying "not from here" and (b) never get to do your business as everyone will simple walk past you to assume their chosen position.

11) Repeat after me: "There is no such thing as a nasty arepa." A true Colombian loves every and all type of arepa.  Even those disgusting little dry white hockey pucks that come obligatorily on the side of everything.  Bonus points for being able to recommend a place that "has the best arepas in Cali" and offer to take the disgusted person there sometime.

12) & 13) Learn that certain places don't have lines that you need to wait in.  Like the corner bakery.  Or the pharmacy.  Even the airport if you're real ballsy.  Also, as long as you preface your cutting-in with a "peguntica" disclaimer (little tiny question...see #4), that makes it okay.

14) Always know where someplace is.  If some one - foreign or domestic - asks for directions to a place you've never heard of, pretend it is literally right around the corner and send them that way.  Repeatedly use words like "cerquita" and hope they just keep walking and don't come back.

Without Words

We've all been reprimanded with the phrase "actions speak louder than words" at one point or another.  And if you're me, your parents cleverly amended this idiom to say "and yours are screaming so loud I can't hear anything else."  In Colombia, this is no exception; sometimes actions can be more effective communication than speaking.

Just as in any culture, there is a unspoken language in Colombia that I find intriguing.  Ever since I arrived I have been fascinated by the little differences in body language that a non-native would notice, that most Colombians take for granted.  For example, beckoning someone to come toward you requires a palm down clawing sweep of the hand versus the North American "come hither" palm-up style.  (Incidentally, the palm-up version is used for animals and therefore offensive here.)

The following video was posted on a friend's Facebook wall recently and I couldn't help but laugh out loud at that fact that some of these have become commonplace for me.  I don't necessarily use them, but when I see people on the street or even in my classroom bust out a "neck cut" or a "lip point," I no longer consider it strange.



It should be noted that my maid is the "'Grave' Floppy Palm" champion and I will confidently pit her against anyone when it comes down to it.  I'm constantly impressed that her hand doesn't fly away, detaching from her wrist bones, with the vigor she utilizes while shaking it back and forth.

Now That You Mention It...

Remember the scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts is shopping for something nice to wear in a fancy little boutique somewhere on Rodeo Drive and the shop girls follow her around the store, making rude comments and passing judgement, despite the fact that she has money to burn?  Shopping in a Colombian mall will make you feel like Julia Roberts, but minus the rude comments and judgement passing.

It has been something all of us gringos discuss from time to time: how annoying it is to visit a store, whether to browse or to buy.  We try to be strategic and make up our own set of rules.  Never enter a store void of other costumers.  Check the ratio of shoppers to customers from the entryway before entering (Sub-clause: leave if ratio decreases to levels not in your favor.)  Only go shopping with a friend and then, once past the threshold, divide and conquer; they can only follow one of you at a time, right?

Now, if you're a fan of having your own personal shopper, then this is the country for you!  Touch an item just briefly and the sales person has it off the shelf/hook/hanger and is presenting it to you in all it's glory.  Need a specific size and it will materialize faster than you can say "dressing room."  However, if you like a nice leisurely trip to the mall, you're out of luck, amigo.

Today I stopped into my local Adidas store to check out some of their running apparel.  I realized this was going to be "one of those" visits when, no more than two steps into the store I was greeted, asked what I was looking for, and told that this gentleman was "at my service."  After exchanging pleasantries and informing him that I was "just looking" he, not surprisingly, proceeded to trail me as I weaved in and out of the store's aisles, making conversation and pointing out various things along the way.  "This one is nice. These and new.  Do you like this?"  And so on.

Again, this is typical of a store clerk and the shopping experience in general.  However, this gentleman did something different: he asked me how the retail service was in the U.S.  (I'm sure a giddy smile appeared on my face.)  Well, if you really want to know...  I told him it was very good and that people are friendly and greet customers, but that they don't "follow them around the store."

And...release; it was like going to therapy.

Of course, he just nodded thoughtfully, continued to stay near me for the next few minutes as I browsed my way to the exit, and explained that "in Colombia it is good service to always be helpful and attend to a person before they have to do it them self." Thank you, sir, I'm aware.  At least I told someone.

Trivial Pursuit (Part I)

I’ve been hearing the exasperated question “why?!?” a lot lately.  This isn’t completely undeserved either; it’s actually fairly legitimate.  On Sunday I voluntarily sat in a desk for about eight hours and took an exam that has no barring on my future.  


The ICFES is the Colombian equivalent to the SAT, except that is covers eight subjects – math, physics, chemistry, biology, philosophy, language arts (Spanish), social studies, and English (as a foreign language) – and is given in two parts, each four and a half hours in length.  The other major difference between this standardized test and its US counterpart is that every Colombian high school graduate must take the exam to receive a diploma of graduation and, those wishing to attend university in the country depend heavily on the score they receive.  So, you know, no pressure.

So, why did I put myself through it?  I’d say it was equal parts wanting to test my own Spanish comprehension after living here for four years, wanting a first-hand point of view of what is expected (according to the Colombian Ministry of Education) of my biology students, and because it was cheap at about US$20.  Nevertheless, it was a fascinating cultural experience as well.


The test is only given twice a year, with most people taking it at the close of their last year of school.   When you register, you are asked to put your address with the hope that you will be given a testing site nearby.  My colleague, Rita, and I both said we “lived” at the school in the hopes that we would be testing together and at one of the universities that sprout like weeds around our own school’s campus.  No such luck; we were both placed at separate sites on the other side of the city.


Upon arriving at the Universidad Libre in the west side of Cali just after 6am on a drizzly Sunday morning, I joined the already growing number of students lining up down the street, leading away from the front doors of the fortressed university building.  Because every graduate must take this test, there were people arriving from all kinds of schools, neighborhoods, socioeconomic backgrounds; some arrived my bus, some by taxi, and others drove themselves.  It struck me that this may be one of the only times in most city-dwelling Colombian’s lives that they are forced to intermingle with others from vastly different backgrounds, in this still very caste-like divided society.


The doors opened at 7am and everyone filed into the building and were directed to the wing and floor we were each assigned to.  Outside room 408 I was met by a nice old professor-like gentlemen in a worn sweater and jeans who asked to see my identification and match my name with the list outside the door.  With his glasses on the tip of his nose, he triple-checked that I was indeed who I said I was, smiled, and told me to sit in desk #16. 


As I entered the room, which at this point had only one other test-taker in it, I oriented myself to the numbering on the desks.  I saw desk 11, and 12, and then 13.  Taking a glance further down the row I saw it.  One desk that was older, smaller, and more decrepit than the rest.  Even though my gut told me I would be squeezing into this miniature joke of a writing surface, I still continued to count. 


Once the room was filled, the gentleman proctor from the door, Mr. Rojas, began distributing the exams, each personalized with our names and codes, pre-sealed in their own plastic-wrapped packages.  For the next four and a half hours Mr. Rojas, wandered in and out of the room, chatting with other proctors from across the halls, occasionally peaking his head into the room and sighing heavily as he plopped down in the one comfortable-looking chair at the head of the classroom.

Oye, ¿Esta prueba de ingles es de 'fill in
the blanks' o es de 'spot the mistake'?

During the lunch break I met up with six students from my school and we headed to grab something to eat and discuss the first half of the exam.  I was pleasantly surprised that the questions I didn’t “get” were ones they too found perplexing.  The test has been the subject of many a harsh critique over the years, ranging from poorly written questions to conspiracy theories regarding test questions that are too advanced as a way of assuring low scores so that the government has an excuse not to pay educators in poorer schools more money.


One of the most controversial sections, English language, has received some of the worst criticism.  I’ve heard horror stories about questions such as “Which of the following would you find in a park?” with the choices being between a man, a tree, a trashcan, and a dog.  Unsurprisingly, very bilingual graduates from my school were scoring in the 80th percentile.  At lunch we were all anxious to see how this year’s exam would play out.


Other than a couple oddly worded passages, I thought the entire section was well done, although the girl next to me would probably opine otherwise, as she clearly came from a school with no English program and therefore filled in none of her answer sheet, another universal flaw in the exam for schools with no English teachers or funding yet with national expectations.


The only question that I may actually have gotten wrong was in a section with a series of signs where the tester was asked to determine where these signs would be found.  One sign said “No running.”  The choices were: a zoo, a park, and on a bus.  I chose “a zoo” because it doesn’t seem possible to really run on a bus, nor seem like that would be a problem.  I’ve seen plenty of people running at a zoo, although I could see a sign condemning this behavior here much more than on a moving vehicle.  Later in the evening, Rita confirmed this sentiment, however, at school this week, the students had a different point of view: the school busses list not running as one of the many rules.  Context will get you every time.

From the ICFES website, the girl on
the left seems to be having an easier
time managing her exam than some
in my testing room.

Another strange thing about this exam is its form.  Think about being lost on some rural country road or stuck in the middle of big city in rush hour traffic with some giant road atlas map spread out over your lap and steering wheel, momentarily blocking out the windshield.  The exam “booklet” is like that.  You must somehow manipulate this massively awkward poster-sized paper monstrosity with origami master skills in a desk with a foldable writing surface the size of a notebook.  (Or, in my case, half that size.) Why they can't print separate pages and throw a couple staples in it while they're busy shrink-wrapping them is beyond me and most of the people I have spoken to.  


Other than the philosophy and Spanish language arts sections, which I pretty much gave up on not for lack of literal translation but interpretive translation, I felt pretty good about the exam.  For not studying at all, I felt pretty good about things I retained from my own university physics, math, and chemistry days.  Multiple-choice also helps a great deal, and, as a teacher, writing tests gave me an edge in weeding out potential wrong answers.


Time will tell, however, if I could apply to a Colombian university.  Truth be told, I’m mostly looking forward to seeing the score from the biology section, however, a part of me – the competitive part - would love to outscore at least one of our graduating seniors in the overall score.  Going for the B-C-B-C-B-C strategy on two sections probably won’t let that come to fruition though. 


We’ll all find out in May, I guess…

Having Value

Last week I held my eighth round of parent/teacher conferences since coming to Colombia.  Since the inaugural round of conferences my first year here, my Spanish has improved greatly and I have little hesitation giving compliments, offering positive feedback, and discussing goals.  Even "bad" conferences are easier than before - especially when the parent is on my side!

Grade 9: Working with "alleles"

However, something a new colleague said to me during a break in the day struck me.  She questioned how or what these parents did for a living that allowed them all - we have near 100% attendance during the two days devoted to conferences - to leave work and sacrifice several hours of their day walking around campus and talking to eight different teachers.  Sure, some of our families are financially well-off and are either at the top of a company, executively speaking, or run their own businesses, thus being their own boss and setting their own hours.  But not nearly all of them!  And yet they all find a way to show up, dressed as if they simply walked away from their desks elsewhere.

I'm sure their are some deeper, more complex sociological factors at play here and I'm not willing to dive into those at the moment. (The idea that educated people support their children more than less-educated people, and that this is a private school versus a public one so the parents want to see where their money is going both work in here I'm sure.)  In the end, though, I think that education is simply valued more.

With the recent current events going on in the U.S. regarding education and the powers that be that fund and support it, it is an interesting topic to examine. (Those links in the previous sentence don't even cover Wisconsin!)  I feel as though people in the U.S., parents specifically, say they value education, but in reality its like telling a four year old that Santa Claus is real; you almost have to say that.  As the old adage goes: actions speak louder than words.  Except for this Tampa Bay mother:

Corner punishment is working, Mom says: MyFoxTAMPABAY.com

The truth is, other cultures value education more than the collective entity of the U.S.  Ironically, high school graduates from all over the globe clammer for a chance to study at a U.S. university, despite the constant budget cutting and "what's the point?" news and rhetoric of those saying college is less about academics today than it is about socializing.

Pre-AP Biology: botany scavenger hunt

So, why am I stuck sitting talking to parents - mostly two a time - for two consecutive days, twice a school year during regular business hours?  How have these parents been allowed to walk away from their jobs, sacrificing several hours of their respective companies' time to visit their childrens' teachers?  In my head I imagine a different type of boss with a different type of bottom line.  In my head the dialogue goes something like this: "Sir, I have my son's parent/teacher conference scheduled for tomorrow at 9am..."  "For your son's education?  Certainly!  Take the whole morning if you have to!"

But maybe it's "family" that is actually being valued here.  In my ideal little world though, when your family is being schooled, there are some residual effects and, if one is valued, so is the other, even if by catalystic default.  I don't think as many people in the U.S. would answer as quickly and adamantly that the "family" is held in high regard as they would claim "education" is.

Regardless, I have yet another reason to enjoy teaching internationally.  When I sit with a student's family across the table from me - regardless of the meeting's tone - I feel respected for what I do on a daily basis.  I feel valued.

NOTE:  If I have presented the idea that, while teaching in the States, I felt under-valued or disrespected in any professional capacity, I did not.  I am simply generalizing on the perceptive state of education in the U.S. from a now outside point of view.

Stranger Than Fiction

I received a message from a friend after my last post commenting that she was interested in hearing more about my day-to-day existence in Colombia. What about life is different? This question struck me as I used to think everything was different! Different language, different money, different fruits (lulo juice, anyone?), different cars (test drive a Renault 6 lately?), different salutationary customs (kiss, kiss), different daylight...and on and on. I started to think, as I made my way through my daily routines, what still occasionally strikes me as "different" that I take for granted, nonetheless.

• Come and stay at my house and one of the first things you will notice is the man on a bike riding slow laps up and down my block, a machete dangling from his belt.  My vigilante is paid by the residents of our street to keep watch over the neighborhood.  Ironically, I don't really know my street's vigilante as well as I know the vigilantes of the connecting streets.  It is initially disarning to be walking home in the evening and be suddenly aware of a man standing in the shadows of a tree or patio wall, watching as you make your way down the road.  Thankfully, its like having various armed escorts ensuring your safe passage to your house.

Pico y Placa street banner




• The general infrastructure of Cali is terrible.  There are no highways or biways in the city, just several "major roads" that, at times, allow cars to drive at accelerated speeds.  Therefore, in a city of over 2 million, this causes many traffic problems.  As a way to combat this, Cali practices what is known as "Pico y Placa," literally "peak and plate," referring to the peak traffic hours and the license plates of the vehicles.  Depending on numbers beginning the license plate, certain cars are prohibited from being on the road during rush hours.  For example, Mondays people with a license plate beginning with "1" or "2" will be ticketed if they are caught driving between designated times.  The rest of the week they are fine to drive whenever, as other cars will be legally kept off the road.  Interestingly enough, this is the one traffic violation that is ardently enforced.  People will literally pull off the road and sit in their cars rather than drive the rest of the way home if they happen to be caught en route when pico y placa hits.

• As much as the aforementioned infrastructure of Cali is a mess, the city has taken great strides in implimenting a new bussing system known as the Mio.  It works much like an above-ground subway with stations, set unnegotiable routes, and swipe cards; no cash is exchanged with the drivers and there are no surprises along the way.  However, one anomaly that I can not quite wrap my head around is how people wait for the bus.  Hop on the Metro in Paris, the "L" in Chicago, or the train in New York and you will see people patiently waiting for their train, far away from the tracks.  In the Mio stations people crowd close together directly in front of the sliding glass doors that will glide open upon the arrival of the next bus.  The problem is that multiple routes come through the stations, so, when your particular bus arrives and you step forward from the back wall of the station - because that is a normal place to wait - you end up physically pushing and clawing your way through this mass of humanity that are waiting for some future bus, not the one that will soon be closing it's doors.  To make things worse, they look at you as if you are inconveniencing them.

• Telephone etiquette or protocal is another cultural norm that will always seem strange to me.  Its is as if there are different rules.  Rule number one is simple: never leave a message.  If the person you are attempting to get in contact with does not answer it could not possibly mean they are busy, it simply means you should call back repeatedly until they answer.  A subclause for this rule is to do this as many times as it takes to elicit a response.  Rule number two pairs nicely with the former: there is never an inappropriate place to answer your phone and have a full conversation.  The movie theatre, a faculty work meeting, a parent/teacher conference, the crowed bus; these are all perfectly acceptable places to chat.  It is important to know, however, that should you answer your phone in a public place, it is respectful to just cup your hand over the receiver and, if possible, duck under the table; lowering you voice is not necessary.  The third and final rule is that if someone you don't know calls you, they can begin the conversation by asking you who they are speaking with.  Don't try returning the question as that information is not privy to you.

While some cultural nuances are now so commonplace to me that they have been adopted as a part of my behavior or psyche, others will continually cause me to scratch my head in wonderment.  Seriously, though, talk on your phone in the movie, spy on me from the shadows of my own street, but don't try and make me miss my bus; there will be elbows thrown before that happens.

A Pastuso Walks Into A Bar...

Brunettes make fun of blondes. Us northerners have jokes about the southern rednecks and they have their "yankee" ones in return. Minnesotans have the 'Sconies to laugh at. And everyone makes cracks about Canadians. It almost seems to be part of human nature to assign one group of people as the delegated "butt" of jokes. Well, Colombia is no different and here they have the Pastusos to thank for that.

The southwestern most part of Colombia, mainly the department of Nariño, includes the mountainous region bordering Ecuador as well as a small part of the tropical Pacific coast. Due to its proximity to Ecuador and the terrain of this part of the Andes, the region is culturally different than much of the rest of the nation. Winter coats, wraps, and scarves are worn by anyone in the streets. Cuy (guinea pig), a common food staple in Ecuador and Perú, is is sold in many restaurants and street cafés. And the selection of hot drinks is plentiful, as is mora juice - a blackberry relative.

My high school friend, Chris, who I traveled with to Machu Picchu and Lake Titicaca in Perú over Christmas vacation, is currently on a two month trek through the continent and was conveniently passing into Colombia at about the time my Spring Break/Semana Santa vacation was beginning. I met Chris in the border town of Ipiales, where money changers were commonplace around the main plaza exchanging U.S. dollars (the currency of Ecuador) for Colombian pesos.

Sanctuario de las Lajas

There isn't much to do or see in Ipiales save for the majestic and architecturally out of place Sanctuario de las Lajas, a massive church that spans a picturesque mountain gorge. Originally built has an homage to the Virgin Mary after a peasant girl saw her imagine on a rock in the gorge in the mid-1700's, the worship structure has morphed and grown many times in the last 200 years to the point it is at today.

During the guided tour of the church crypt and museum, our guide, while knowledgeable, did not do her fellow countrymen's dim-witted reputation any favors. For several rounds of questioning, she insisted that a black and white photograph depicting a little campesino girl in her mother's arms, pointing at a picture of Mary and two saints drawn on a rock, was "an actual photograph of the girl" who saw the imagine. Until it was pointed out to her that the camera wasn't invented until at least 50 years later - and I'm pretty sure there wasn't one in rural southern Colombia, nor was it of this kid of photographic quality - she continued insisting on the pictures authenticity. She also disappointed and confused us in her spacial awareness as to what part of the church's lower levels we were in. After going down two and then three flights of stairs, she insisted continuously that we were still in the first level below the church despite that fact that the windows were much different on each level.

So, what do you call a Pastuso tour guide who...oh, you've probably heard this one before. Never mind!

Our next stop in Nariño was the larger city of Pasto. For being isolated, mountainous, and not very large compared to Colombia's other metropolis's, Pasto was quite cosmopolitan in its cultural atmosphere. There were many beautiful churches and plazas to visit as well as an abundance of cozy cafes filled with well-dressed and trendy locals. It was the perfect marriage of small town quaint and big city bustle.

Laguna de la Cocha

Just outside of the city of Pasto is Colombia's largest and highest lake, Laguna de la Cocha. After spending time in Perú's Lake Titicaca, Chris and I joked that we should visit all of the highest lakes in South America. We stayed at a Swiss lodge founded and run by a couple from Switzerland. It felt like a ski resort without the snow; there was a lot of wood in the building, hot drinks served all day long in the restaurant, and bags filled with boiling water put under your bed at night. From the top of a nearby hill we got a scenic view of the northern part of the lake as well as the sole island, home to a nature reserve for the trees and birds of the area.

After a relaxing and chilled couple of days in the mountains, we headed to the airport to fly back to the tropical warmth of Cali. I mention the airport because it is located on the top of a flattened peak. Flights literally take off by running out of runway and the airport shuts down when there are clouds. We were fortunate enough to have a sunny day and clear skies for our return trip to the land of salsa dancing and no coats.

Well, Perú To You Too!

This coming summer marks my 10-year high school class reunion. It seems somewhat appropriate then, that I spent the two and a half weeks around Christmas and New Years with a good old friend from back in the Roseville Area High School days!

I actually knew Chris's mom before I knew her, as she was my elementary school librarian. I got to know Chris several years later in the waters of Parkview Center School as we were both swimmers. Chris is currently working as an English teacher at a school in the ocean-side city of Trujillo in northern Perú for one year, so it seemed like an opportune time to visit the country of the Incas. After many adventures cruising around town in a friend's JEEP, skinny-dipping in Lake Owasso, and endless spontaneous dance parties, it's nice to see that some friendships never change.

LIMA (Part I)

"Pues, es conocido."

I had not intended to spend any time in Perú's capital city, Lima, as my guide book's description and various friend's recommendations were more or less lukewarm. Nevertheless, due to flight times and bus schedules, I was stuck there for a night. After asking the counter-girl at the bus station if she knew of a good hotel nearby, she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, and replied, "no bueno...pero conocido" (not good...but 'known').

So I spent the first night in Lima here, in a little cell with a drippy faucet and triple locked door. (That's essentially the whole room; the fact that the bathroom is not visible is for the best.)

NASCA

The small town of Nasca, located in the middle of one of the ugliest deserts I've ever seen, is about six hours south of Lima and not far inland from the Pacific Ocean. Nasca is most famous for the mysterious Nasca Lines spread across a desert plateau a few kilometers from the current population.

The "Owl Man"

The monkey

The condor.

I remember seeing pictures of these giant mysterious figures etched into the desert floor several hundred meters across when I was younger and being awed and impressed but never actually thinking I'd be able to see them. "Seeing them" is debatable. I know I looked at the first half dozen or so, but after that the banking of the tiny cessna plane carrying me, an Australian girl, and Taiwanese guy, high above the enigmatic creatures got to me and I resorted to "point, shoot, hope, and look later" strategy for enjoying these phenomena. (The going rate for almost losing your breakfast is about $50 USD, in case you're curious.)



No one really knows how the lines were made, as the figures can only be properly viewed from the air. Many theories exist - including aliens - but no one has been able to prove anything. They actually weren't discovered until this last century when commercial pilots began passing over the area. The Panamerica Highway actually accidentally cuts directly through one image, as it is nearly impossible to recognize the presence of the pictures from ground level. The largest is around 400 meters across and all shockingly straight and proportioned. The arid conditions of this part of Perú aid in preserving the geoglyphs and are really the only reason they lasted long enough to be discovered in the first place.

Most people stop in Nasca to see the lines and move on, but I had about 9 more hours to kill before my bus left so I trotted back into the tour agency that so kindly tested my upchuck reflex and asked about other guided opportunities. Before I knew it I was on a bus with a bunch of obnoxious Australian tourists heading back into the desert to an archaeological site called Cemetario Chauchilla.

This ancient burial site, also linked to the ancient Nasca peoples, was originally discovered by grave robbers who dug up the tombs, taking the valuables and leaving the mummies and broken pottery scattered across the desert-scape. Again, as with the lines, the arid conditions preserved the mummies - many have skin and hair still - as well as their clothing and pottery. The bones are bleach-white from the years spent sitting out exposed to the suns relentless rays.

The Peruvian government has worked very hard to gather the mummies and return them to their tombs, however, returning each mummy to it's original burial site is next to impossible. As you walk from tomb to tomb it is possible to spot various bones and strips of cloth out, off the path, stuck in the sand, where the grave-robbers presumably left them.

The most interesting thing for me was the initial heart-in-throat shock I felt upon approaching each of the grave sites. They were all essentially identical, two or three long-dead corpses, wrapped in their finest once-brightly colored blankets, facing east, awaiting the rising sun, but each and every time I felt a silent gasp coming from somewhere deep within. I suppose it is a natural ingrained reaction to seeing other humans in the deceased state, much like approaching the casket of a loved one at a funeral; you know they're going to be there, but the sight of their soulless shell of a body is slightly unsettling.

AREQUIPA

In Colombia there is a caramel-like sweet called arequipe (say: ahr-ay-keep-ay). I think I kept mixing the two up during my two days here! Arequipa, the city, is built in the foothills or several mountains, including the still-active volcano, El Misti. With a distinctively Spanish architectural feel, it is easy on the eyes and even easier on the pedestrial visitor; wandering the city-center, marveling at the myraid cathedrals was almost like going to a home-and-garden show for churches. Most of the buildings, including the churches, are built from sillar, a whitish volcanic rock.

Aside from the catholic places of worship, two other structures are notable in Arequipa. The first is the convent Monasterio de Santa Catalina which was veiled in secrecy for nearly 400 years. Built in 1580, the convent was home to nuns from mostly wealthy families; each had to pay a dowry upon entry equivalent today to $50,000 USD. When you wander the maze of this several-city block-sized structure, you soon realize how poshly these nuns had it, each having their own "house" complete with private living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, and servants quarter.

Pretty nice furniture!

Life continued this way for the monestery - no one exiting, no one entering, save for incoming sisterly candidates - until the late 1800's when word got around about the grandiose conditions of the nuns. A new Sister was sent, a strict Dominican nun, who freed the slaves and servants (providing the option to stay as nuns, of course) and sent much of the riches back to Europe. About a hundred years after that, the convent was opened for tourism and for the first time the general public could see for themselves the secrets of the mysterious walled monastery.

Even with my map and the aid of the idiot-proof arrows marking the corridors, I still found myself getting turned around. The most fascinating part of the convent for me was the delivery area where goods from the outside were delivered to the cloistered women. Through rotating doors and storage courtyards, it was completely possible to drop off large amounts of food and products to the nuns without anyone seeing anyone else. Incidentally, there is still a small population of nuns living on the grounds, in a corner away from the tourist path.

Another famous Arequipa resident is even older than the convent. "Juanita" the "Ice Maiden" was a young 12-14 year old girl sacrificed to the Incan Gods about 600 years ago. After an earthquake, her opened tomb was discovered high atop Mount Ampato, near Arequipa; her tightly wrapped body was discovered further down the slope, more or less in good condition. The small museum she is housed in takes extreme precautions in exhibiting and preserving her. No photography is allowed and the mummified remains of Juanita herself are under very low light, behind thick glass, and in a freezer-like case. Nevertheless, this discovery sheds a lot of light on the rituals of the ancient Incan culture and empire (more on that later).

CUSCO

At around 3,400 meters above sea level, the ancient Inca capital city of Cusco (or Cuzco or Qos'qo) is the only still occupied city originally built during the Incan Empire. Many of the people here still speak Quechua (say: ketch-wah) and most of the streets are slowing being returned to their original spellings, after being translated to Spanish when the conquistadors arrived in the 1530's. In this way, with the prevalence of the native language, visiting southern Perú was like being in some place outside Latin America; all of a sudden I had no idea how to pronounce anything all over again!

Since the Spanish built their city directly on top of the Inca's city, there is a distinct fusion of Incan and Spanish architecture. The bases of many building retain the characteristic precision-cut and angled stones of the Inca with the tops embracing the soaring baroque style of Spain.

Alpaca-galore!

As touristy as parts of Cusco are, that becomes part of the fun. Searching through the endless markets for just the right scarves, gloves, sweaters, and blankets made from 100% pure alpaca wool to wear immediately and bring home is only enhanced by the low prices of these hand-made goods.

I met Chris in Cusco and we spent a few days in the city and visiting the surrounding area, which is host to dozens of other long-abandoned Incan cities and ceremonial archeological sites. Of these, we visited Písac (pictured below), Ollantaytambo, and Chinchero on a day-long bus tour of the Valle Sagrado ("Sacred Valley").


The interesting thing about the Inca culture, as opposed to many other ancient and modern civilizations, is where they built their cities. Most often major populations are found along natural resources like oceans and rivers, for food and transportation purposes. The Incas build nearly all their cities, agricultural, and ceremonial sites at the tops of mountains, not in their valleys. While this gave them a good vantage point and, arguably, protection, it also meant they needed to get the several-ton stones used to create these structures up there!

The Incas were the first to use several unique forms of governmental policy and agriculture. For one, the Inca did not pay taxes int he monetary sense. They were required to "work for the government" for four months of each year. This is how the cities got built; the Incas worked together to cut, polish, and drag these enormous pieces of rock to the tops of these mountains.

The Incan farming method.

They also practiced terraced farming. At the high altitude, the temperature changes every six levels, therefore different crops were planted at different levels - corn, potatoes, yucca, beans, and coca all had their places. This method also proved to be less dangerous than farming on a slope and allowed for more surface area. Our guide said that it is theorized that if farmers in mountain and hilly communities went back to this method of farming, more people the world-over could be fed.

The Inca-Jungle Trail

The "original" Inca Trail, otherwise know to locals as the "Gringo Trail," gets booked early, is packed with hikers, and requires both a guide and high entrance fee. For all these reasons, Chris found a tour agency that leads small groups of hikers along one of the lesser-known Inca Trails, this one through the low-lands and jungle.

Discovered only six years ago* by the owner of the tour company and father of our fantastic guide, covering this trail involved three complete days - one biking and two hiking. Our guide, Johan, is a Quechuan himself who went to University to study the Quechuan religion, language, and culture which made his insights into the ancient Incas all the more interesting. (Several years ago, in the midst of rising ethnic tensions between the indigenous populations [highlanders] and those of Spanish-relation, the President made it mandatory that all Universities offer Quechuan [or another native culture] courses. This both improved the literacy of the native peoples, but got others interested in the culture-within-a-culture in Perú.)

*The local Quechua in the area knew of it's existence and used the trail frequently.

Johan discusses coca agriculture.

The chewing of the coca leaf is one of the most prevalent symbols of Quechuan culture. The leaf, surprisingly high in many minerals like Calcium, helps fight off altitude sickness as well as having a caffeinated effect. The cocaine made from coca leaves can only be attained by turning the dried leaf to powder and adding other chemicals like gasoline and fertilizer; growing of the coca leaf is legal in Perú and the production of cocaine has not been a problem for the country.

We learned that the Incas had several Gods, the main one being Pachamama or "Mother Earth." They also held the mountains (Apus) in high regard, specifically those found surrounding the ancient capital of Qos'qo (Cusco) - Machu Picchu, Salkantay, Saqsayhuaman, and Abra Malaga.

The condor, puma, and snake.

Before chewing the coca leaves, for example, a ceremony is performed where the chewer selects three leaves of increasing size representing the trinity of the holy Incan animals. The condor represents peace and is the largest, the middle leaf is for the puma, which stands for strength, and the final and smallest of the leaves is for wisdom, carried by the snake. The three leaves are raised and blown on in the direction of the four mountains (which can be the same direction if you are anywhere outside the Sacred Valley). The leaves and then buried in tribute to Pachamama and the "watered" with chicha, a fermented corn drink, in the shape of a cross. (I found it interesting how the trinity theme and the cross shape showed up in the Inca ceremony.) Finally, a three new leaves are chosen and those are chewed and then spit out after several minutes. Or, if you're Chris, you swallow them and then look surprised when Johan instructs everyone to spit them out later!

Where's the nearest shower?

The biking was fairly easy, as it was mostly downhill. Regardless, when we got to the tiny jungle town of Santa Maria, we all looked like we had been crawling through the underbrush for days, chewing on sticks and caterpillars and sleeping under rotting leaves. That night over dinner we got to know our tour group a little better. Chris and I were definitely in the minority as our caravan was composed of German-speaking Europeans - two German guys, a German family of three, and three more from Switzerland about our age (two girls and a guy). They all knew English at least passably but because of the first-language difference, Chris and I got to know Johan really well.

Highlights of the first day of hiking included sunny weather all day long - a first for our time in the Cusco area as it was in the midst of the rainy season. Also a rest stop at a mountainside "tienda" fulfilled a childhood (and adulthood) dream of holding a monkey. Another highlight that persisted throughout all my time in Perú, but was magnified by the hunger built from hiking all day, was the delicious soup. I am convinced that within Peruvian cuisine are some of the most flavorful soups in the world. Not spicy, just delicious; pumpkin soup, criole soup, quinoa soup, asparagus soup to name a few were all incredible!

Day two of hiking was more of the same but with a stop the night before at some local hot springs converted into several pools of increasing temperature left us re-energized for a three hour hike straight up a mountain to visit the Inca worship temple of Llactapata (pictured). From here we had the unique vantage point to see the iconic Inca city of Machu Picchu for the first time. It was a cloudy day up there on the mountain but at one point the mist cleared in passing through the peaks long enough for a brief, albeit clear view across the valley to see the famous ruins.

This is not a fashion show.

Just as we began our descent it began to rain. This was not a cloud passing around us, misting our faces and jackets, this was a torrential downpour or the near-monsoon variety. As if navigating a steep switch-backed dirt and rock mountain slope was difficult enough, the dirt turning to mud and blinding rain falling on our faces upped the ante a little. At the bottom, almost in accordance with some perversion of Murphy's Law, the rain ceased. We then continued our trek, off the Inca's trail, along the raging and rapid-filled Urubamba River, passing an amazing waterfall, back and forth over several bridges, and finally onto some railroad tracks leading us to the tiny tourist mecca, and Machu Picchu starting point, Pueblo Machu Picchu (or Aguas Calientes).

After another delicious dinner, we bid farewell to Johan and went to bed. At 4 AM we woke up to begin out 90 minute hike to the top of Machu Picchu mountain (Quechua for "Old Mountain"). There are two ways to get to the top to see the ruins - walking or by bus. People begin walking at around 4:30 AM and you need only follow the sleepy but determined parade of hikers to figure out the way to go. The buses begin taking tourist to the top at 5:30 AM, although a line has inevitably been forming since around 4 AM at the bus stop. Regardless, morning is the best time to see Machu Picchu and the gates open for everyone at 6 AM sharp, so really it's a matter of how much you want to be the first to the top and how earlier you can get out of bed! (Pictured below is Chris and me halfway up the mountain at about 5:15 AM.)

5:15 am has never looked to amazing!

Machu Picchu was a sight to see. I have never seen a picture of this ancient city that wasn't impressive and feel that all my photographs succeeded on this front as well. Unfortunately, Johan had been such a fantastic guide that the one we were met by in Machu Picchu, while interesting, was giving us information we already knew and didn't have the guiding prowess to disseminate more advanced information. The basic nut-shell history of Machu Picchu is that that reason it was not discovered and then ransacked by the conquistadors is because the Incas abandoned it before the Spanish even knew to look for it. Looking out across the remote and baguette-like mountains all around and its easy to wonder how that might have even been possible.

Chris and I wandered around the site, watching both the thickening of the tourists (the train from Cusco had obviously arrived) and the clouds. One minute you could see the entire city and the nect you could barely see the wall a few meters in front of you. And then the cloud would pass and it would all be visible again; it was like a meteorological magic trick.

After four days of biking, walking, and climbing, we were exhausted and took the bus down the mountain, to our hostal, grabbed our bags, and headed for the train station. Peru Rail has created an interesting situation. This is the only non-walking method of getting to Aguas Calientes and the company has a monopoly on the track. Therefore, the British-owned train can charge astronomically high prices; our one-way 90 minute journey was a bit over $50 USD. The company has also been accused of some racial practices, one being not allowing Peruvian nationals - even those who can pay - to ride the tourist or backpacker cars; they are relegated to the Peruvian-only cars. It's difficult to fight this though, without leaving the same way you came in - on foot.

PUNO

Back in Cusco we hopped on a bus and headed seven hours south to the nearly 4,000 meter high city of Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca. But not before being told by transit police that the tire was bad, getting off the bus, returning to the same bus with the same tire, going through the same routine with the tire and the police, and finally watching the driver pay off the police officer. So...is the tire still bad and the cops are looking the other way, or was the tire never bad in the first place and Officer Crooked over there didn't get enough a Christmas? Ah, foreign travel...

Feliz Año Nuevo

Puno is cold. Fortunately we found a lively little fusion bar to spend New Years Eve and danced the night away with an international community of Peruvians, Australians, Russians, a couple Brits and a Dutch guy. I even requested some salsa be played and then got many compliments and a free beer for my dancing efforts. Thank you, Cali!

The next morning wasn't so festive. The night before I has drank a local Peruvian beverage called a Pisco Sour which tastes a little like a frothy margarita. Pisco Sours, however, are made with eggs and mine were evidently very bad eggs. Chris used the time where I was sleeping and or making mad dashes to the bathroom (or one unfortunate time to a potted plant in the hallway) to make reservations to take a tour of the highest navigable lake in the world.

The next day, feeling 80% better, we hopped on a boat that would take us on a two-day tour of the lake. Being from "the land of 10,000 lakes" it takes a significant body of water to impress me, but this was impressive. At over 32,000 square miles, Lake Titicaca is very important for the communities in both Perú and Bolivia that share its shores.

Living like the Uro.

The first stop was the visit the Islas Flotantes ("floating islands") of the
Uro people who have built entire communities consisting of houses, restaurants, schools, and a post office, on mats of reeds. Originally constructed as a way to avoid conflicts with other nearby more-warring groups, about 50% of the Uro's economy now comes from tourism. Walking on the reed floors was a unique experience as there is some give to the "ground" and the artificial islands definitely move with the waves. While the reeds are continually being replaced as the older ones rot away underneath, it is impressive to think that you were standing on 15-16 meters of water.

Our next stop, after an even chillier cruise through more open water, was the island of Amantaní. This island, inhabited by native Quechua-speakers was where we spent the night with a local family. There are no real hotels on any of the islands as a way to regulate tourism and not hurt the local populations. The reason we chose this particular tour company is that we were required to pay our host-family directly and not through the tour group, which has been known to cheat the islanders.

Amantaní fiesta!

Our stay was pleasant and relatively uneventful. The mother of the house, Bacilia and her nine-year old daughter, Maria de los Angeles, were amazing hosts and cooked us delicious soups and dishes by wood burning stove. At night we were invited to a party in the town center and got to dress up in some of the traditional clothing. For me that consisted of just a hat and poncho whereas Chris got wrapped tightly in several layers and girdle-like waist wrap; she had impeccable posture for the evening!

The next morning, after potato pancakes from scratch, we headed for the neighboring island of Taquile, a similar but slightly more visited island than Amantaní. After a nice stroll around the island's winding upward path, we reached the town square at the top and had lunch a nearby restaurant overlooking the expanse of the lake. On Amantaní the women, even our host mother, were always knitting. They would walk and knit, cook and knit, probably even sleep and knit. On Taquile, the men knit also. And they take great pride in this skill. We passed several men and boys, including the one below with his flock of sheep, knitting away the day.

The sheep of Taquile.

LIMA (Part II)

We rode the boat back in to Puno, said our goodbyes (until Chris quits her job and visits me in Cali!), and I headed to the bus terminal. I had bought my ticket back to Lima three days before while still in Cusco, so this should have been easy. Upon arriving to the terminal I soon discover that my reservation and seat have been lost. I have the ticket and receipt so the bus company believes that I bought the ticket. They just don't know where to put me. Eventually it was decided that I would sit in the "lounge area" up at the front of the bus for the first 6-7 hours until a space opened up; this is table with a semi-circular cushioned bench seat facing the oncoming road. (Buses in Perú are not like normal buses. They have fully reclining "bed" seats, stewards that serve food and drinks, and television monitors playing movies from the ceilings.) Fine. Just get me to Lima so I can catch my plane.

Right before we leave an employee comes on the bus and asks me to follow her off. When we get outside she tells me I actually can not ride up front for safety and security reasons and then has the gall to suggest I take a taxi and meet the bus in the next city, six to seven hours away. I asked her who was going to pay for this suggested taxi and she didn't have an answer. The driver then stepped in and, when informed of the situation, told me to just get on the bus and that it didn't bother him. Great buses in Perú, but not so great communication.

Upon arriving to Lima I was, of course, accosted by the cab drivers outside the terminal. I told the driver I wanted to go to a hostal from my guide book near the airport. He told me I "didn't want to go there" (oh? I don't?) because it "wasn't safe" (hmm...my guide book is generally not in the interest of suggesting unsafe digs). He then told me I wanted to go to Miraflores, the touristy area. I told him I was "en transito" and just needed a bed and shower so I can be close to the airport and catch my flight. He then suggested a place even closer to the airport that he said was good. Fine. I was too tired to argue. If it was hovel, I would demand he take me back to my original suggestion.

It turned out the place was not a dive and the price was right. I checked in and immediately took a shower. Two things happened almost simultaneously. As I stepped out of the shower I noticed the abundance of mirrors in the room. There were two parallel facing ones in the bathroom alone, and three of the four walls of the bedroom were caked in them. Fortunately not the ceiling. Then I heard the faint exaggerated screams and Hollywood-style sex echoing from somewhere down the corridor and the smell of bleach and disinfectant I thought was evidence of proper upkeep upon entering the room, was suddenly so much more. My taxi driver had taken me to the "love motel." I slept on top of the covers that night and left earlier than necessary the next morning.

To seal my disdain for Lima, the cabbie who took me to the airport charged me the exact same price for a five minute ride that the one from the night before had charged for an across-town haul. There are no meters in cabs in Lima, and when I told him what my driver from the night before had told me the fare would be he just laughed and gave me some mumbled lie about taxes or something. I payed him as angrily as I could and made a B-line for the airport. A straight line toward freedom from Lima and home to warm, friendly, happy, non-cheating Cali.