REFLECTION 7: trotar means to run

trotar means to run (well, actually not sure about this translation, does it mean to jog? correr means to run too! good thing I am not a spanish teacher).

(Warning: if you hate it when 'those people' go 'on and on about running', this may not be the post for you. Just skip it. I give you absolute permission. Not that you needed it.)

..........

There is something amazing about running for me. Only 3 years ago, I said I could never run more than 2 miles. I truly believed that. I was never the 'athletic type' or at least didn't see myself as overly athletic- meaning, I was a band nerd, no explanation needed. Sure, I enjoyed kayaking, cross country skiing, and hiking, but running- you have got to be kidding me. Kill me first. 

Then I began to train for my first race: an 8 k I believe. It was the 'Rudolf Ramble' in Chicago, and there was frost on the ground. Maybe I started because of a friend's influence, or just the pure challenge to get my butt out there and try it. Ask me today and I, like so many others say that running 'got me through' (a break up in my case). And it continues to 'get me through'- life. Stress relief. Focuses me. Gives me time to just breathe, and be with me. I don't really do it for the time (although it's fun sometimes to try to go above the 13-14 minute per mile average that I usually loaf along at). Nor do I do it for the body (although of course, I feel better when I am not sitting on the couch, and the truth is it that I feel better about myself when I have less fat on the bod, and I feel stronger, like I could run away from someone trying to rob me, if I had to- animal instinct I suppose). Nor do I do it for the bragging rights (although it was pretty cool to do the Bogotá half marathon a week ago). Nor the guilt- 'I can eat this whole carton of ben and jerry's ice cream BECAUSE I went on a run today'. Nope, not me. I eat whatever I want within reason, I just love eating and food. Nor do I do it for the challenge (anymore). I do it more because of the stability, the peace, the mental stress and anxiety relief and because I am in the habit of running. I am mildly addicted, I believe, to that feeling after you get home from a stretch of the legs. The feeling of 'I can now proceed throughout my day with calmness' 'I can do this life'. I do it because running gives me the attitude of 'I got this'.

I also love sharing this time and space with others. Namely my boyfriend, my best friend, my mom, and anyone else who will go out for a short or long run with me. I have learned (thanks to said boyfriend) that this time can be so intimate. And yet you don't have to talk. You can just glide along (or huff along, as some days feel) next to the person and you feel a deep connection and peace together. Without expectation or pressure, without having to talk. You just listen to the world around you, and to your partner, and to your inner voice. And all is well.

While living in Bogotá, I have gained a deep appreciation of the peace that running gives me. I have also gained a purely basic appreciation of the legs that I have. Starting when I triple fractured my ankle a year and a half ago, and was in a cast/crutches for 3 months. Crutching around Bogotá's sidewalks is an exercise of patience and strength in itself. But also just looking around every day here, there are a lot of people without a leg in Bogotá. I think it is from war. But whatever the reason is, each time I put on shoes, and go out the door, I now appreciate this action. I appreciate the opportunity I have of relieving my stress through this action. Running. I appreciate the ability to use both legs, and feet and ankles. I appreciate the gift I have of being able to walk, and run on two feet. I realise that it can be taken away so easily. And I am grateful. 

I now also feel an odd sort of responsibility to use these legs. To do peaceful things with them, to use them for good. And to get outside and enjoy them, and feel the ground beneath me. 

The other thing I enjoy about running is that it let's me explore the place I am in, in an organic, slow, authentic, non carbon producing way. I totally dig getting up at the crack of dawn in a new city, and throwing on my shoes, and getting lost in the new streets of a city. Cobble stones. Dirt roads. Paved with pot holes. Along the city river. In the center. On the outskirts. I feel that it allows me to get to know a city in a real way- I get to see the women throwing out the wash water, hanging laundry, little kids playing in the street, the markets, the suits going to work, the way a city wakes up... it's really a pleasure, and it makes me fall in love with life and the world and the small beautiful details of both life and our world all over again. 

And can you believe it- I just ran a half marathon- in Bogotá (8,600 feet above sea level)! It was a blast. No, that was a lie. It was hard. And not always a blast. And the training was intense. And I ran it faster than normal without meaning to- 11 minute miles, so I almost died, or felt like it 3/4 of the way through. But I am proud of the fact that I did it. And even more enthusiastic about the fact that I did an activity with 42,000 other people from around Colombia and the world (talk about shared intention), and ... that I did it with the man I love is just the cherry on top!

 running in parque simon bolívar, bogotá, with my man

 us, after the half marathon (again in parque simon bolívar)

on a great 10 miler in bogotá, on our long sunday runs

REFLECTION 6: La Costa Atlantica/Parque Tyrona

La Costa Atlantica/ Parque Tyrona


My boyfriend and I recently went up to Parque Tyrona for a week together. He and many other Colombians said it was one of the most beautiful places in Colombia, so I had to see for myself. I had seen many beautiful places in Colombia, but he was right: it was beyond words, and pictures and whatever else one can share.

The national park is set on the tip of the Atlantic Coast of Colombia and really well preserved for the most part. Although I could tell about the few noisy generators, or the many tourists (mostly Colombian and European) who just went for the beaches, or the expensive food costs (after all they crate everything in on horseback), that's not what I chose to focus on. Because in between the few camp sites, and people trying to make a living off of selling you food and water for more than it costs when you don't have to hike it in on a horse, there exists spectacular natural beauty at every corner...

little monkeys eating away in the canopy above you
black and white ant eater hidden in a huge rock crevice on the hike up to the 'Pueblito'
ancient wisdom laid in each stone that carved the path up the mountain to said 'Pueblito'
Cogi and Tyrona Indigenous people talking with us, selling their beautiful mochillas and orange rind jewelry, telling us of the animals that we will find there
exquisite white sand beaches with deep teal, blue, green, purple water
little colourful fish and life in said water
bright pink jelly fish thing (not sure the name of it)
huge rocks, where the mountain meets the sea
waves larger than I have ever seen, and more powerful than I can barely imagine- creating a dramatic and dangerous under tow- some beaches we couldn't swim at
the nude beach, there is something about being in an ocean with out your suit :)
tons and tons of lizards (like miniature iguanas)- teal, green, brown, black, bright blue chasing each other across the leaves in the campground, pausing to look at me or pick up a bug
huge centipedes
huge huge crabs in their holes coming out of their holes at 5 or 6 as we hike back to camp
sand crabs...that you have to make friends with
chiguïros (or smaller versions of chiguiros: picture the mix between a rabbit and a wild bore hopping and squeaking through the forest) on our early morning runs, and in the evening
running through the canopy in the early morning, dripping sweat, but loving every minute of it
eating pan de chocolate after a full day in the sun and sand and salt
bats at night, especially our first hike in, at 6:30 pm, dive bombing us, while the crabs shuffled under our feet
blood ants making their trails across the path, and biting me if I put my hand down on them, that hurt!
great gourmet food- in the middle of the jungle mountains
showers and clean toilet areas- the camping was honestly the best campground I have ever been to- and it was in the middle of nowhere in Colombia (playa alta)- the camping varied from $5,000 pesos per night to ours $19,000 pesos per night
the peace we found there, individually and together
hours of sitting, writing, laughing, not talking, talking
swimming a ton
floating in the salt water
coconut lime aid = heaven in itself
a slight breeze to take away the heat of midday
happiness freedom and connectivity
to others, to the native land, to the trees and sand

I'd go back in a second. Want to join me?

REFLECTION 5: Bogotá/Ciudad Bolívar

Bogotá/Ciudad Bolívar


When you say that you work in Ciudad Bolívar in Bogotá, the response is what you might expect from a Chicagoan if you say 'I work in Inglewood on the south side', except an even more dramatic 'how could you go there? Are you nuts? A gringa in Ciudad Bolívar? I have never even been there.' type of look. Especially from those who rarely go south of El Centro. Ciudad Bolívar is a huge neighbourhood, and located inside of this big neighbourhood is this smaller neighbourhood of 'Arbolizadora Alta'. The Departamento de la Prosperidad Social (DPS) Batuta has a contract with the local 'Alcaldia' of this neighbourhood to work way up there. It's really way up in the mountains on the south side of the city: you have to take the transmilenio to the last stop, then take an 'alimentador' (other bus) to get way up the mountain. The commute is over an hour and a half-2 hours one way from Parkwey and, yep, it's a challenging neighbourhood. You pass parks with lots of shoes hanging from electric lines. Lots of boys and men playing soccer and drinking beer at roadside stands. Lots of people in a very small space. Lots of teen Moms. I saw taxi wheels and rim caps get robbed, I saw plenty of stray dogs, and kids who don't get too much to eat, who have dirty clothes, and families who are living really quite seriously on the edge (more on the edge than I have ever experienced before now). And the school where we rehearsed (after hours) was an urban war zone, quite comprable to the school I worked at in Inglewood. The teachers yelled, and the kids yelled, and the hallways and bathrooms were seriously lacking adult supervision. The bathrooms didn't ever have toilet paper in them, nor toilet seats and at night, it just got more intense. If I get lost going or coming from Ciudad Bolívar, or get off at the wrong bus stop, it's probably not such a good idea. Sure. I'll give it to you. It is dangerous. 

But not like on the south side of Chicago. I am not at risk of getting accidentally shot in a drive by, like in Inglewood. Nor do they bother me because I am white. (I was called a 'white bitch' by a kindergartener and later over the phone, by her mother, in Inglewood, Chicago). In fact, the kindness that I was shown once they got to know me is usually the other way around. Or at least it is like: 'We better not mess with the gringa because if we do, it'll be in headlines'. Usually more of intrigue. 'Why are you here?', they ask. The locals, after they knew that I was teaching their kids kind of looked out for me: they made sure I was on the right bus, brought me to the right corner, showed me how to ride the bus for 'mil' like the locals do, and really protected me. I didn't once feel threatened by someone I knew, nor did I feel at risk of anything more than getting my cell phone robbed from me on the street (which can really happen anywhere these days). It's a neighbourhood that is on the edge of the city, the edge of survival, the edge of the limits of everything. Of course it has it's challenges. Wouldn't you, if you were on the true edge at all times?

But the challenge of getting there, or working with challenging administration, of commuting such a long way in the black pollution of busetas, or even the small danger that I might be robbed on the street- it was way outweighed by the experience with the kids. 

Once again, KIDS: so full of life. So young and ready for anything. So resilient. So beautifully raw: introvertedly wide eyed cautious and highly inquisitive at the same time. The CB kids were not as supported to come to choir by the community, and by some other teachers at Batuta, so that made starting a choral program a bit more challenging. But overall, those sweet faces will remain with me for a long time. They wrote me kind notes, brought me a small piece of candy, and tried their very best when they showed up for rehearsal. Sure, some missed every other rehearsal- they had to take care of their little siblings at home, or their parents wouldn't let them come to rehearsal because they were doing poorly in school (the old 'I am going to ground you from music because you aren't doing well in math' when we all know that a child's participation in the fine arts is proven to raise test scores in the sciences and other 'core areas'.) But I had a blast with these students. They taught me more than I could have ever imagined walking in those doors- they really showed me a ton about who I am, about who I want to be as a teacher, and who I want to be as a person, and about how to connect with a population that you know nothing about and have so few things in common. They taught me how to see that we have many more things in common than not. 

We played together. We did a ton of team building exercises together. We learned from one another. And we sang quite a few concerts together:

- The Christmas Concert the very first semester I worked in Batuta (super sweet yet very out of tune!)
- The huge choir concert in Leon de Greiff where the poor things had to learn the Halleluja Chorus after being in choir for less than a year (pedagogically insane)
- Other small concerts for their community, families, etc. (really the best ever, should have done more of these!)
- Concert final at the church with the Choirs of Lisboa (solid, for a beginning choir, and beginning community, got good reviews, fun to join choirs)

In the end, the kids of Ciudad Bolívar are just like any other kids in the world- they deserve to be born in another part of the city, where the opportunities are far more immense and they don't get stuck in the cycle of poverty- where they can study, instead of go to work to pay for family expenses, and where the girls have higher expectations than only being a mother (not that that is a bad goal, but being the only goal at 11 years old is an issue). They deserve love from friends and adults and parents, and they really work hard, and deserve to get ahead because of this work ethic. But it's not that way all the time. Because they were born (or were displaced to) the south side of the capitol city of Colombia. 

Los niños de Ciudad Bolívar- les quiero mucho por siempre. Tienen un pedacito de mi corazón.

REFLECTION 4: Zona Roja/Planadas y Ataco

Zona Roja/Planadas y Ataco

8 hours after Ibagué on a bus is Planadas. We left at 3 am, and continued south for 4 hours before a first break for breakfast at a small restaurant on the edge of the road, then 4 hours more, bumping along at maybe 25-30 miles an hour, max 40. The roads were not paved. Dust layered on. Sitting. Thinking. Watching. We got off twice for military personelle who stopped the bus with their AK 47s (I think that is what everyone carries around down here) checking for god knows who or what. They seemed confused why I was there, a gringa with a cedula extranjeria in a zona roja, but didn't ask me questions, and I didn't dare open my mouth for fear the other passengers would realise I didn't speak the language so well. Didn't want to fall asleep for fear of being robbed. I arrived exhausted and dying of thirst, but the profesor from Batuta was there awaiting my arrival- ready to take me to the Centro Musical to work with his students. I walk into the room full of kids, 40 or 50 bright eyed, dark skinned beautiful Colombian children, ready to learn and sing and smile at me, and I felt at home, so far away from home. They were so joyous. And they loved music. We played, and sang and learned, I sang for them, they sang for me, they asked to touch my hair and what were those specks on my face? (I guess they had never seen freckles before). They ate up every word, and we finished with the dramatic beautiful landscape of mountains- dark blue and dark green jungle around us, the scent of rain in the air. I slept in a small hostel seeming hotel, the nicest in town. Tired, and happy.

I stopped in Ataco on my way back. There it is so hot, and they fight cocks. They are all chained up in the middle of the road. The atmosphere was different, really conservative, and a bit judgemental there- less curious. But of course the kids were beautiful, I worked a day with them. But for example, I'd been there for 4 hours and the kids saw me walking with the profe and asked if we were dating. The lunch that was prepared for me was great, and I sat with the teacher and ate, with kittens, little chicks and a few parrots around us, watching. What a trip. Worth it? Sure. But I was glad to be on the way back to Bogotá, I'll be honest.

REFLECTION 3: Liboa.Bogotá/Luz de la Costa

Lisboa. Bogotá/Luz de la Costa

(if you are a child, and we all are...this post contains some violence that might be hard to handle fyi)

She invited me...in that way you can't say 'no' to...to her house for lunch. Her son was in the choir-- Estefan, a quiet, sweet boy who wanted to learn, he had that want in his eyes, the same one that was in his mamma's eyes. We walked along the dirt streets of Lisboa-- further than I had anticipated, through the dust and trash to her place. It was a humble 4 small room apartment-- a bed and computer for her son. A bed for her. The kitchen, a room with lots of clothing, sewing? Clean. Neat. Showed me photos of her family in the Atlantic Coast, who she hadn't seen in years. Told me her story. She misses them. Hadn't seen them, not since they airlifted her to Bogotá. 5 years ago. Many men from an armed military group gang raped her outside of her apartment in the coast. Watching was her baby 4 year old boy. She was somehow connected to some opposing group through family or something. Escaped to the plane in the night, in a car hidden under sheets so they wouldn't stop her. She wants to start a new. A better life here, where she can make money and live with her son, where he can get an education- but she is still full of fear. If anyone finds out who she's connected to they could 'shut her up'. So she doesn't talk. Like most of the women in the community of Lisboa, she doesn't talk out of fear. She tells her story to few. Her eyes show her past when she is telling me this, as we walk along the street back to the center. Her smile though, shows her optimism and want to live. Her want for her son to get out. I didn't know what to say, so I say nothing but smile and hug her and thank her for lunch.

She serves me fresh fish fried with plantains, rice, salad, jugo de mora- probably costing more than she makes in a week. She teaches me to eat the fish with my fingers (as they do in the coast), and reaches on to my plate to show me how. I leave some meat on the bones without meaning to, and she looks over saying, I'll get that for you, and takes it for her. At the end after I have tried to get it all, and eat everything she gave me, she says 'you left the best part, Profe', 'los ojos'!. So I think, 'there are probably worse things to eat somewhere else in the world than fish eyes, and there is no way in hell I am insulting this woman who fed me lunch out of the kindness of her heart by saying I don't eat fish eyes'. She says 'make sure to get the socket'. I suck the eye along with the socket down, and then the other one. Yum. A smile spreads across her face- she knows I have never eaten fish eyes before.

Thank you, Luz for teaching me more than how to eat fish eyes.

REFLECTION 2: Lisboa.Bogotá/DOGSyBIKES

REFLECTION 2: Lisboa.Bogotá/DOGSyBICIS

Although this isn't really that interesting, it must be written down.

A group of dogs attacked me. Scared me out of my mind. I was biking through the sketchiest part of where I should have/could have taken the detour. But I wanted to get off the main drag of calle 80. They all came (6 dogs I think) at me at once, and got really violent really fast. One grabbed by foot as I was trying to pedal. I yelled 'no' and they wouldn't stop. I had to raise my feet up above them, they were getting rowdier and rowdier, as if feeding of the other's violence. If I stopped peddling, I would've fallen over. So I peddled. One bit. Not deep, over the sock, but I was scared- I couldn't see how deep it was, I just kept going. Crying. Biking. To the Centro Musical- didn't know what else to do. Finally when I arrived there, I took off my sock to find a small puncture- and my students told me 'no, profe, you don't have to be scared, so many of the dogs have their rabies shot'. I didn't go to the Dr. for 3 days because I was teaching. And stupid. (When you are in Lisboa, with those kids, in those conditions, something puts it all in 'perspective', and I felt at that time that it was more important to teach those kids than run to the hospital...it's not like my leg was falling off or something- but in retrospect...) Thank goodness the dog didn't have rabies and I didn't die.

Still getting over my newfound fear of all dogs off leashes, especially big ones. I'm enjoying dog therapy: i.e.: any dog I know, I let close to me, and try to get over my fear- it's a year later and it's still there.

REFLECTION 1: Lisboa.Bogotá/BUSES

Here I begin my reflections on the past 2 years of living, working and loving in Colombia.

My writing on this blog is more cathartic than anything, however if you (anyone) read it, I'd be happy to share, and discuss. It's challenging putting it into one reflection, so I am going to break it up into stories to try to make sense of it all. If you read it, enjoy--- and remember that it is only one person's experience of a huge beautiful diverse country.

REFLECTION 1: Lisboa.Bogotá/BUSES

I had to take the transmilenio to the portal de la 80 then transfer to an alimentador then transfer to a buseta- over an hour each way. Sometimes I rode my bike* (see other post re: bike- 50 minutes each way). When I got off the bus, I walked down the street, in between the dog shit, and human shit on the sidewalk, the trash from days before, and got to the market street with the Centro Musical on it. It was filled with the vendors just putting our their goods: everything was sold- from fresh fish on a bed of ice to cow tongue to veggies and fruit and cut up salads and hot corn arepas (kinda like tortillas but fatter, a yummy alternative that is very well loved in Colombia and Venezuela) with eggs. Normally I ran into one or 2 kids in the market with their siblings and maybe their mothers. I'd enter the center musical where I taught choir (in one location, when it rained, the water came down through a hole in the roof, the other location was in the community library, much better, but still nowhere near 'acceptable rehearsal space' according to gringa standards). When I entered the Centro Musical and began the rehearsal (usually with the 3 kids that showed up on time, the others filtered in slowly during the first hour of class) all the exterior problems and challenges it took to get there went away. All of a sudden, I'm dealing with just any normal choir/group of kids, who sure, is incredibly unstabilized and reactive to anything they take personally and who have big huge incredibly intense challenges in pretty much every area of their lives- but who are so resilient. RESILIENT. That word has come up so many times since I have been here. They truly are resilient- that they keep surviving and they keep living, with smiles on their faces, after the shit they have seen and been through before the age of 9- it's truly incredible. I mean these kids have seen things I hope to never see in my lifetime, and lived things that are beyond my imagination. And the fact is is that, although many may not have eaten much or at all that day, they come to the CM with a smile, give me a huge kiss on the cheek (custom) and are ready to try pretty much anything. They respond always to:
CONSISTENCY and
LOVE
1. These kids wanted to know that I wasn't one of the many adults who were going to leave them with out explanation. They wanted to know I was gonna show up. And they were supposed to show up too. They wanted to know I wasn't going to hit them one day, then hug them the next. They wanted to know that I was going to be a rock in their crazy swirling river for a little while at least. This is the consistency I am talking about.
2. They, like all kids, want healthy, real love and attention from adults. Love is how they survive. Really- it's the main thing they need and sometimes get. They want and yearn for attention- so any adult that walks along and gives it to them- within a few rehearsals, you have them eating out of your hand.

As always, the reason I couldn't continue wasn't the kids. It's never the kids. The kids are why I was there in the first place. The kids and their families are the most lovely organic, warm group of humans I have yet to work with. It is not them at all. The reason I resigned from teaching choir in the CM Lisboa was simply: the commute and challenges within the huge organisation that is Batuta of Bogotá. Not the kids. /buses