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El discurso de la lluvia / Translating Félix Molina Flórez

¨Los cuerpos son definiciones perdidas…¨

Los cuerpos son definiciones perdidas
en los diccionarios
Sin brazos
sin piernas
sin ojos
sin memoria
tratan de recobrar su rumbo

Los cuerpos que transitan este paraíso
han perdido su significado
como una tilde dibujada en el vacío

Somos esas piedras
que lavadas por la creciente
han perdido su piel

My Translation:

Our bodies are lost definitions
in dictionaries
No arms
no legs
no eyes
no memory
trying to recover their path

Our bodies that move through this paradise
have lost their meaning
like an accent drawn in the abyss

We are those stones
washed by the tide
that have lost their skin

This poem speaks to me in a way that transcends words. My own attachment to words and metaphor coalesce with this fascinating image drawn out by Félix. Everything that we are and the language we use over time loses its meaning. There is a sense of inevitable decay, a divorce from the tongues that gave words their meaning. I like how this concept of words losing their meaning, and our own bodies becoming words without meaning, formless anomalies — it is such a powerful visual. I hope I did it some justice.

Translating poetry is unique in that you have to take the music of the words into account, as well as the meaning and metaphor. Translating music takes this to another level. But I like the challenge. Translating a full book would be even harder because you have to live inside those pages and words well enough to capture what the author wanted to convey through a different linguistic lens.

I’ll be continuing with this project and translating the full book of poetry, The Discourse of the Rain, during this week. As always, I’m happy to hear any feedback, especially from my bilingual writers/poets.

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Entre Comillas: Chapter 2, Dreamer’s Disease

Millennial naivety. Dreamer’s disease.

I never was set up for low expectations. With my marketing degree and my 4 years working at Kohl’s, I was sure setting up shop would be easy. The real struggle would be establishing myself.

Since I was young, I fancied myself a writer. An artist. All that was missing from my wave of whimsy was the “starving” epithet in front of the “artist.” 

Some might call me aimless. I would just say young and stupid. But regardless, I felt myself stagnate with every passing day in Fayetteville. The heat of summer passed and the mild cold of winter would turn to frosted leaves. I wanted the eternal sun of the West. I wanted to live in someone else’s skin – someone smarter and happier and better. And isn’t that the dream most people seek?

El camión olía a tierra y perspiración. Una sensación de estar inundado en un pantano me bañaba como mi propio sudor. Trataba de no mirar hacia nada, ni al hombre medio parado frente a mí contra la otra pared del camión, ni a la niña y su madre enganchadas a la mano derecha. La vista se me hizo borrosa a los periferales. El ojo se enfocaba en el centro, en el corazón. Pensaba en nada más que mi propia respiración, centrándome en las horas que pasaba con mi celular, escuchando y viendo a medias los videos de meditación y yoga. Yo tenía (y siempre he tenido) un deseo insaciable de ser invencible, de encontrarme en un mundo más allá de la realidad. Y nunca antes alcancé esta meta hasta aquel día en el camión. Y las noches después, también bañadas en sudor, que se me hacían eternas. Y creo que jamás viviré tal delirio nuevamente. O, al menos, eso espero.

Of course, for all my semi-privilege, I couldn’t just pick up and move to the City of Angels. I had a savings account that had barely made it past the $1,000 marker. I had blown most of my money on art kits and dance classes and improvised trips. Oh, and college, which I had not gotten a free ride to afford. Much to the chagrin of my working class parents, I was neither talented enough to earn some sort of fancy art’s scholarship or sport’s scholarship – god forbid – and not bright enough to get a full ride on my academic merits either. I was just good enough to cover the bare minimum.

Regardless, I had never been the sort of person to listen to reason or bar myself. I knew how to work the retail world, sure, I was not the most social of people (although I could lie and say the experience overall changed my essence, I would say it was more of a necessity to adapt that changed me). Retail is relevant everywhere though. 

I started by looking at my budget. Where could I live with just enough scraped together to pay a security deposit and rent and still be able to buy a few groceries?

Craig’s List became my best friend. Some ads were sketchier than others. Some seemed normal until you looked at them hard enough and began to ask yourself “Where is the lie?” My budget was pencil slim – no more than $500 a month until I became established. I sent out so many job applications on monster and indeed and, yes, Craig’s List, too, that I thought for sure I would be in a bind once all of the calls started rolling in.

The phone was unnervingly silent. I waited as long as I could before resigning. I had nothing, nowhere to start.

So I began to look for alternatives. Some Craigslist ads advertised what to my naive 22 year old mind was unthinkable – a strange sex trade for free living situation. I stumbled upon a few links that unambiguously read “Free Housing for Live-in Companion.” Companion, I thought, scrunching my brow and biting my lip as if that euphemism was not painfully clear enough. A smile cracked my lips in spite of my disgust as I read on. “Looking for a lovely young lady to share a queen sized bed with me. I will treat you like a queen. Open-mindedness a must.” My lips folded back in a cringe. Pass. As tempting as paying nothing for rent was, my dignity was worth so much more. Although, with each passing day, I could feel myself becoming restless, and with restlessness came the inevitable shifting of my moral compass, what I felt was absolutely oh-hell-no and negotiable – the two formerly isolated concepts were beginning to blur and merge.

One day, a friend reminded me casually of the possibility of couchsurfing. “Why don’t you try it, Claire?” she asked as she sipped her pumpkin spice latte. “I mean, what do you have to lose? You keep saying you can’t spend more than $400 upfront, what could be better than free? You get on your feet, you might get asked on some weird dates or proposed some awkward cuddle sessions, but hey, why not?”

I knew she was being sarcastic, and I shrugged and shook my head. “How even does that work?” As she sipped, I played with my long dark hair. For some reason, splitting my own ends where they were most damaged was calming to me. Also, I loathe pumpkin spice lattes.

My friend, Amber (yes, the most typical of all white girl names), took an extra long sip of her latte. “Well,” she said, “it’s simple. You stay with someone and exchange company for free room and board.”

“Ugh, lame!” I cried, thinking of the unsavory mix of craigslist ads I had waded through for the past week. “When does the actual, um, couch-surfing thing happen?”

“Chill, it’s not, like, prostitution or anything, girly. It’s perfectly legit, the hosts have profiles and everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had a few hookups on there, but you know, it was like totally unplanned and not awkward at all!”

I felt like my eyes rolled so far back in my head I had found the gap within the space-time continuum.

“Okay, let me back up and reexplain.” She knew the face I was making all too well. She took one last noisy sip of her decimated drink, her lips slurping hard with a desperation that ignored how annoying most people found slurping to be. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Basically, the host can offer you a place on their couch. Sometimes they have spare beds. Sometimes people make agreements to sleep in the same bed. But that’s, like, totally up to the individual.”

Sometimes I wondered how Amber and I had managed to be friends for so long. I thought of myself as being so deep, and sometimes I saw her depth as barely reaching my ankles. I pursed my lips, trying to hide a grin that would inevitably turn into a sneer.

Amber paused, tilting her head at me before bursting out into an uncomfortable cackle. The laugh shook her whole body, and she pushed her dyed red hair back behind an ear so as to avoid it covering her perfectly symmetrical face. “So, you check it out. I mean, it’s free. And really what you trade is just like, cooking and stuff. Going out on hikes. Watching movies. It’s fun. I’ve done it loads of time when I’ve went traveling. Trust me.” Her eyes pleaded with me to take her seriously, but her habitually humorous tone gave her away as insincere.

“Alright, alright,” I said finally. “I’ll take a look tonight and see what I think. Anything to avoid homelessness!”

We had a running joke about me ending up on skid row. It wasn’t the pleasantest or most PC of our jokes, but lately it was looking more and more likely.

After a bit of perusing, I realized that Couch surfing wasn’t the harlotry I had taken it for. The people seemed cool. It was just a matter of finding shared interests and going from there. I sifted for hours through pages that ranged from brief but succinct bullet lists of the person’s interests to a fully detailed novelesque description of their hobbies, goals, and various experiences with couchsurfing. Some claimed to be free spirits that always were hoping to learn something new. The majority were sociable and had likewise expectations of fully getting to know their guest. I figured that could only be expected, to avoid awkwardness. After all, this was not an airbnb you-paid-for-it experience. This was a social experiment, putting two people from different parts of the world into the same living space and seeing what would happen, what they could learn, what they could share…

In the end I was convinced, in spite of Amber’s horrible and somewhat facetious explanation. She never was good for that sort of serious stuff. Now the only issue was finding a host I might be “compatible” with, comfortable with sharing new things and exploring my new home, and yes, kind of freeloading until I got a job.

The more I thought of it in this light, the more I was reminded of my brief but impactful stints on okcupid and tinder. More so on okcupid. There was very little to gain from an app that based your preferences on impulse based on physical appearance alone. I couldn’t be bothered. But the bullet lists and walls of text were very reminiscent to okcupid’s profiles. The only difference was, okcupid didn’t come with warning labels in the form of reviews. So that aspect was much appreciated.

I became mildly obsessed. After getting home from Kohl’s, after waking up, I would begin scanning. I bookmarked different profiles. I mainly gravitated towards the film and book nerds, the ones I knew I would not be stuck grasping at straws for conversation. I tried to avoid the male profiles because my mind inevitably wandered to the idea of some form of relationship. Perhaps it was Amber’s influence, or the fact that I was still trying to move on completely from my last relationship, but I naively dreamed that perhaps my host could become something more. Without the awkward creepiness implied in those craigslist ads. But I suppose on some level I should give credit where credit is due — at least those ads were upfront.

Many conversations began the same way. “Hello! I’m a 23 year old Southern girl looking to get out of Arkansas and move to a land of sunshine and opportunities. Unfortunately, money is an issue at this time. Would you be willing to host me until I get a job (possibly indefinitely)? I swear I make a mean cup of coffee!” Most of these basic messages went through the same revision process repeatedly. Take out a word here, add a smiley face there, swear to myself I did not sound as desperate as I felt. 

Everyday the cold dark of winter pushed closer and closer over the horizon. Time was ticking. I promised myself to be gone by the winter so I could hibernate the way the Monarch butterflies do, in search of a warmer climate to live…and die. I still had a lot of life to live, though, so the death part would need to wait. Which was part of why I insisted on avoiding craigslist like the plague. All that I needed was for someone to bite. Until then, I had to keep on dreaming.

En realidad el sueño americano no era para mí tan grandioso. Fue necesidad que me empujó, la adaptación a unas circunstancias imposibles.

Ya no tuve a quien más para apoyarme o para yo apoyar. Mi abue se murió hace 5 años. Mi familia fue dividida por líneas rayadas por el dinero. Había primos y tíos pero no quisieran que yo me vendiera así, y al saberlo, algunos se pusieron distantes. Sí, lo de la familia fue complicado, un empujón, pero tanto para cumplir como para salir de la situación en sí. Y a la vez, había tantas dudas.

Ya no era un niño. Cuando me veía en el espejo, lo primero que me llamaba la atención eran mis ojeras. No dañaron la vista de mis ojos verde-cafés, pero me hicieron sentir mucho más viejo.

En el camino, sabía que crecían cada vez más, cada vez mis ojeras se ponían más oscuras. Era un viaje corto pero se sintía como una eternidad. Como el paso del tiempo en una nave espacial.

Cruzar la frontera no es lo más emocionante. Es lo que te espera allá. Y en algún momento ya tenía claro que me iba a bajar y nadar y encontrarme en una tierra que no conocía. Oaxaca se volvería un recuerdo colorido y otro punto en el mapa. 

Se escuchan las toses retenidas de los otros pasajeros. La soledad. A pesar de que sus cuerpos quedan cerca, yo me siento lejos. Me imagino caminando por esas calles doradas y me pierdo otra vez, otra vez el conocimiento me invade y se va…

One of the things that makes writing these sorts of passages enjoyable is the sense of melding the self with a person very distinctive and separate from oneself and creating narratives that are both familiar and distant from my own lived experiences. I started writing based on this concept after a conversation with my younger brother about points of view and what could make a love story like this more than a cliché. But I peppered tons of cliches into my character’s thoughts and perceptions of the world, mainly to provoke a sense of realism as well as one of hyperbole and satire.

I don’t know if this story is worth pursuing and writing more. But it was fun rereading something I wrote years ago. As a writer, exercises in point of view shifts really interest me, especially when incorporating the use of different languages.

I’ve been blocked in some ways from writing, although I have been honing my discipline in other areas. So that’s why I’m back here on wordpress, hoping to make posting a habit again.

Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running” has been my inspiration. I swear, I’ve had this book for the past 5 years, and that’s how slowly I have been reading it. There are moments when I don’t appreciate Murakami’s voice, his understating and candid way of casually discussing his successes. It makes me think, “If only it were that easy!” But I think it just might be, and he might have a point. Because in no way is he really implying that writing award-winning novels is “easy” but rather that it doesn’t just come out of some happy accident, some inborn, innate skill. It takes discipline. We in the West give too much credit to “talent.” So as time goes on, I’m starting to read his words differently and see the wisdom suddenly mixed in in his self-deprecating style.

Also, sidebar, I’m reading the version translated into Spanish. The title is De Qué Hablo Cuando Hablo de Escribir and — wow. I didn’t even realize the original title was way better and less redundant until googling the English title just now. For writers, I would highly recommend this book.

To honing our bodies, to sharpening our minds.

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From the Archives: Poesía de Resistencia

Vida Desértica – El Desierto de la Tatacoa, el Gris

Esperanzas Caídas: la Flor Transplante

Puedo embrujar con mi belleza,
Una mirada coqueta, un vistazo de miel
Y carne y hueso y sangre
Pero eso no me completa
No me define.
Mis venas se convierten en raíces
Buscando tierra fértil en la que
Se puedan sentir en casa
Pero sólo encuentran huecos,
Lugares donde se pueden quedar
Sin angustia, sin molestia, sin pena,
Pero pronto se ponen a morir.
Sus hojas se marchitan y
Se vuelven marrón, gris, negro y
La flor se cae al suelo,
Descuidada, olvidada
En tierra extranjera
Y distante, los recuerdos de 
Su belleza encantadora
Se van olvidando, esfumando
Aunque la transplante pidió lo contrario,
Que la cuidara bien la tierra,
Pero está envenenada en cada rincón
Y no había forma de evitarlo
Ni prevenirlo ni siquiera darse cuenta
Antes de que desaparezca todo
Y no queda nada mas que tierra yerma.

Perfect Circle – Montaña el Gigante, Huila

La Lucha Ajena

We cannot fight injustice
In isolation.
That’s what they want–
Each of us struggling from 
Our own separate little islands,
Fighting like we’re alone.
Only if we band together
As people, as humanity,
Can true change come.
Why do you think so many
Marxist revolutions ended
In dissolution and confusion,
Corrupted by global capitalism
And elitism and the Vanguard–
Fuck the Vanguard.

Only if we come together as one,
Organize, empathize,
Will we end injustice,
End the bloodshed in the streets
And the mindless fury–
The greed of the rich,
The survivalism of the poor,
All hustling for themselves or
A dream deterred;
Langston Hughes knew:
If we can feel
For a poem or feel
Pain for some character
Whose heart never felt,
Who never existed,
Then why not fight
For our fellow flesh-
And-blood.

We’re always saying:
“The struggle is real,”
But what are we struggling
If not the struggle of others:
The women in the sweatshops,
In the brothels of the so-called
Third world, a broken model,
The obrero and the aspiring
Rapper, painter, entrepreneur,
Survivor, whatever you are,
Wherever you come from–
Compton, Harlem, Honduras,
Martinique, Korea, the Congo,
The slums, the suburbs,
‘Cause who are we?
Are we our hoods
And gentrified oases,
Segregated from one another
As if our flesh were
Sliced in pieces and flayed
From our bodies?
Who are we
To struggle at all,
The struggle of others–
But if we aren’t,
Moving, fighting, bleeding,
Breathing the struggle
Then we are dust on the wind
Of history,
We are soon forgotten,
Negatable, silent,
Better off dead–
Nothing.

‘Cause who the fuck am I?
White girl, middle class girl,
Ignoring the fact that middle class
Is code for upper class aspiring,
‘Cause I never wanted the lies
They were selling, like high-
Priced cosmetics, all fluff
That I don’t need anyway–
I’d rather cut my legs off
Fighting someone else’s
Battle than waste a few hours
Deciding if my skin is too white
To care or if the bags under my
Eyes are too offensive to the eye.
‘Cause I believe if it’s hurting you,
It’s hurting me.
We’re all part of the same body,
And if I let them sever you,
Why not sever myself
And give into the depression
Eating me alive without meaning–
Better with meaning,
To scream till my lungs
Explode, to know
What it feels like
To have a reason
To suffer
And in doing so
Lessen the suffering
Of others.

La Ceiba, Gigante – símbolo nacional de la libertad de Colombia

Adaptación

Tengo el don de la adaptación.
El mundo siempre está cambiando y
yo también.

Cambio de piel
Cambio de voz
Cambio de opinión
Cambio de perspectiva
Cambio de tema
Cambio de camino
Pero a la vez

No cambio por nadie–
Y nunca lo haré.

Viva el Paro – Santa Marta, Magdalena
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“They’re Killing Us”: Paro Nacional and Witnessing a Human Rights Crisis

Pode ser uma imagem de uma ou mais pessoas e texto que diz "LAWMARTINEZR NOS QUIE REN SACAR LOS OJOS PORQUE SABEN QUE YA LOS ABRIMOS"

The heat has been suffocating in the “City of the Holy Kings.” Since yesterday, we’ve been under a perpetual veil of heavy clouds and humid heat. Last night, I thought for sure that the sky would finally break open and rain would wash the streets clean.

Instead, the heat and dimness continue. The only thing that washed the streets of Valledupar last night was the blood of civilians protesting. The explosion came, but not in the form of rain, thunder, or lightning. The tension caused by the chaos that seized the march and the detention of protestors is palpable and unrelenting.

Social media has given us the gift of reaching people from around the world in a matter of moments. Tears wet my cheeks as I read through and watch video after video of a horror that seems to have happened over night. If only. Imagine, if social media had existed in the 80’s when farms were actively being gassed or during the Segovia massacre of 1988. The past 30 years have been marked by the slaughter of union leaders, farmers, campesinos, indigenous people, sympathizers of certain political parties, and anyone with the gall to demand that their human rights be respected.

As someone that studied Latin American history and politics, I felt stirred by these facts and narratives having only been able to experience them dead on the page. I didn’t imagine that I might actually be in the middle of one of these historical and devastating moments. I didn’t realize just how sadly entrenched they are in the human experience of people living under oppression in communities all over the world.

There have been dozens of videos circulating of people running through the streets, tanks filling the city, teargas shrouding the air, the sound of weapons firing, children screaming as their anguished faces are washed with milk, the cries for justice even as the police deny the right to protest, deny that they themselves are acting with cruel impunity. As they throw teargas bombs into buses full of civilians. As they gather around the people, non-binary, men, women, elderly, children, and grab them, threaten them, punch them, force them into corners, and carry them off on motorcycles.

I’ve always wondered about these ESMAD characters. They’re supposed to be brave defenders of the public. An anti-riot branch of the Colombian police force. They’re supposed to be these pillars of justice that go to protests to dissuade violence and looting. In fact, it’s ironic to see them in their heavy armor carrying their huge weapons as they tower over and surround – unarmed young people that look defenseless by comparison – and incite violence. And we are supposed to believe they are protecting the community from the protestors they mercilessly intimidate?

Everyone I know is against this tax reform and supporting the constitutional rights of Colombians to protest. Except, astonishingly, for the members of the military I’ve met. According to statistics circulating, around 80% of the Colombian population are against the tax overhaul reform that’s supposed to respond to the economic crisis the country is facing. How does it propose to solve the crisis? By taxing and subsidizing. The main issue that people are expressing with this method is that the crisis being faced in Colombia – unemployment, increasing poverty, a poor and slowly executed vaccination process – is not going to be fixed by raising taxes and adding new ones. True, part of the taxing would only apply to the wealthier sectors of society, but it would also include the struggling middle class or middle class-aspiring sector.

And all to be able to provide an 80.000 pesos (that’s only around $22 USD!) monthly subsidy for people living in extreme poverty. What will that do? Oh, so much if you ask the richest sector of Colombian society who perhaps could afford to do just a little bit more. But that would require that money stop being stolen from public works budgets, equally inflated in importance but never producing the promised result.

People are skeptical. People are scared. Who could possibly blame them, when the stakes are this high and everything they’ve experienced from the authorities so far has resulted in lies and more lies.

And now, to top it off, it takes marches for the president to call for a “reworking” of the reform. It takes the documenting of at least 21 murders by the military and the police, 940 cases of police brutality, 672 arbitrary arrests of civilians, and 4 victims of sexual violence (that we know of) for people to take notice of what has been a history soaked in blood. That’s why, in solidarity, as a sign of resistance, Colombians use the flag as their icon, upside down, placing the red blood of the patriots who fought for freedom at the top.

As an expat living in Colombia I’ve learned that even though I may never understand what it’s like to have grown up in extreme poverty, living on $100 or less a month working every day of the year with zero paid vacation time, in a country in civil war where tanks and fully armed soldiers can be seen patrolling the streets for no known reason except to “maintain order” – I stand. I stand with the people that are sick of living in fear.

Just as any US American should. This is just as much our fight. After all, our country funded all of this military equipment. Our country provided the resources to militarize the police force. Our country supported the “paraco hpta” of Uribe as it has countless right-wing military dictators. Our country benefited by keeping so many countries impoverished and suppressed.

And now? We’re finally starting realize that these actions and choices have consequences. Allowing corruption to exist in other places to benefit businesses in “first world” countries is like setting your house on fire to warm your own room during the winter. Now, the countries that have dealt with the brunt of colonization and foreign intervention and neo-liberalism have governments corrupted at every level, and this corruption leads to the same economic crisis happening in Colombia. And with a global pandemic? Full hospitals, under-paid medical workers, non-existent relief packages, non-existent state aid for the nearly 40% of the population living below the poverty line, and a population in which only 1 859 657 out of 51,321,307 people have been vaccinated so far.* And the list goes on and on…

Yet the conversation remains divided along economic lines. Just like in the US, here we have people feebly and some even passionately decrying vandalism and chiding those brave enough to protest. In spite of the fact that the protestors have stopped and even prevented and returned looted goods, there is always a portion of the population which demonizes all protestors as criminals who want the government to “give them everything.”

No, not everything. Just the human right to a life of dignity. Just a transparent government with a clear record on its budgets and military maneuvers. A stand against corruption. The right to demonstrate. The right to a future where children cannot be killed and gassed by the police and face zero consequences.

I know. It’s overwhelming. So much is happening in the world right now. And then there’s this. But these are just the consequences of history. If we don’t learn our history and see how we are all connected by it, we will never escape the domino effect we’ve been locked into. We are all facing one global struggle. If we cannot come together, if we cannot care about our neighbors, then we’re screwing ourselves over just as much.

While all of this is going on, I’m teaching classes online from my apartment in Valledupar. I’m living my dream life, and yet nothing could feel more upsetting and wrong.

To relieve some stress, I order a snack. I walk down the stairs out to meet the delivery man. He’s lost, and for a good reason. My apartment building has gone ghostly silent. All of the corridors are dark. I haven’t been outside today, but if what I’ve been watching online is any indicator, the sense of abandonment and fearfulness is real. Just the other day, Uribe posted on his twitter condoning the use of violence and force to suppress protestors out of “self-defense” against “terrorism.” With leaders like this with all of their shady, violent histories and absent morals, yet somehow untouched by international authorities – it’s easy for me to comprehend this silence. Plus, my apartment is somewhat removed from the heart of the city. But I can imagine that the silence there is just as heavy. Silence like a paperweight, a reminder of what’s happened and what’s to come.

I sense that this is only the calm in the eye of the storm. Many have posted warning against false fliers calling for protestors to meet tonight. They say this is a tactic that is used to round up the protestors and slaughter them all at once. Protesting will resume tomorrow, though, and I plan to be there.

This might not be my fight, but I am here and I will be there in spirit and in body to make sure that I can be some part of the change I have been dreaming about seeing in the world. As so many have said before me, including the current president of the United States: “Our silence is complicity.” And I refuse to choose silence.

Our power is in our voices, our platforms, our identities. Do not underestimate your power and ability to fight injustice.

*Meanwhile, in the US over 105 million people have already been vaccinated; Colombia continues to be in its “2nd phase” in which only medical workers and people between 60-79 years old are eligible to be vaccinated. Global inequality is real.

Pode ser uma imagem de 1 pessoa, em pé e ao ar livre
Credit to: @bryanbeltran_ph (https://instagram.com/bryanbeltran_ph?igshid=cpxlbgzr2ohu)

Some useful sources:

COVID-19 Vaccine Tracker: How Many People Have Been Vaccinated In The U.S.? : Shots – Health News : NPR

covid-19-data/Colombia.csv at master · owid/covid-19-data · GitHub

Vacunación contra la COVID-19 en Colombia – Wikipedia, la enciclopedia libre

Colombian Tax Reform and International Tax Law – Universidad Externado de Colombia (uexternado.edu.co)

Reforma tributaria 2021: esto es lo que deben saber los colombianos – El Espectador – YouTube

In Colombia, 19 Are Killed in Pandemic-Related Protests – The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Petition to involve the UN:

Petición · Que la ONU Intervenga YA para detener el genocidio que promueve el gobierno en Colombia · Change.org

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A Resting Place: Tunja to Villa de Leyva (Semana Santa Weekend)

When I asked about Tunja, I got lots of “there’s nothing there” and “What on earth are you staying there for?” I just shrugged and explained it was a resting place before arriving to Villa de Leyva for the weekend. I knew I would be getting there after a week of trekking and a day of spelunking, so I didn’t mind staying in a less touristy place for the night just to rest if it meant waking up and heading to my weekend destination just an hour or so away.

Well, let me be the first to say, that I left with a feeling of complete disagreement with all the nay-sayers that had told me Tunja wasn’t worth it. As the capital of the department of Boyaca, this city has a lot to offer in the way of history and architecture. In fact, I learned that at least 3 or 4 Colombian presidents had their origins in Tunja, Boyaca.

After a restful night’s sleep, I woke up in my hotel room, enjoyed another hot shower (what a luxury!) before having breakfast. I chose the pancakes option over the arepas, and was mildly disappointed — they were served with honey and were utterly flavorless, like a softer, corn-flour-free arepa. But meh, again, a full stomach supersedes all gripes about the quality of the meal when I travel on a budget. I’ve went hungry enough times to know that I am living a life of luxury, whether it seems that way or not.

I enjoyed getting to bundle up before heading out to explore the square of Tunja. The hotel itself was quite lovely, in an old shopping center with colonial architecture and old world charm. Since it was only about half a block from the central square, I could see what it had gotten “Fabulous Location” on Booking.

Many had complained about the cold in this city. After being in Colorado and even New Mexico in winter, I couldn’t help but muse at how little context many Colombians have when it comes to judging if a place is cold or not. Yes, I wore a light jacket in Tunja, but I would’ve been comfortable without it. As a contrast to the suffocating heat of Valledupar’s draught and the relative heat of Santander, I was loving the chilly breezes and chuckling at what I considered the exaggerative bundling up that people did in the city — not for the last time during this trip. You would think they would have adapted to the temperatures, right?

Well, some of those people were actually tourists. I was walking along with my camera, taking pictures and videos of the plaza, minding my own business, when a small group saw me trying to avoid ruining their picture as I absentmindedly wandered around near the main cathedral, statues of important religious figures that came out of the city, and finally approached the “I (heart) Tunja” letters where they were taking pictures.

Taken off guard, I didn’t realize that they were motioning for me to stop and take a picture of them. Turns out they were taking the picture, not in front of the sign but with their camera propped near the lettering facing towards the square. Abashedly, I realized where the camera was and that they weren’t suggesting I take a picture of them in front of the name as I had assumed. They wanted me to take a picture with them.

Turns out, they were a friendly group of paisas from Medellin who had been staying in Villa de Leyva and had made their way to Tunja for a day visit. They spoke highly of Valledupar when I mentioned where I was living in Colombia, as people generally do, but I of course couldn’t resist mentioning how much lovelier Tunja seemed to me in comparison. We parted ways after a brief conversation, claiming that perhaps we’d see each other later. It is a small world, after all.

I made a few blocks, taking in the colonial style of the city, the dark cobblestones, the clean streets, and the beautiful statues, including the center piece of the Plaza, a triumphant statue of Simon Bolivar on a horse. It reminded me of the famous statue of George Washington in the Commons in Boston.

Once I’d had my fill, I returned to the hotel, ready to head to the Terminal de Transporte. I checked out, and unable to get a cab on inDriver (the price bargaining app I’ve only ever used in Colombia – like Uber but way cheaper and more competitive), I resorted to walking out to the curb. I got picked up by an older man who was quick to start gathering information about me. I prefer when cabbies don’t do this, but he seemed nice enough, if a bit astute. He started telling me about how he had family in the US and how he wanted to get his visa. We both agreed that it was more likely to work out with Biden as president. Most Colombians are painfully aware of how anti-immigrant/latino/etc. Trump was as president, and most share my relief about him no longer being in office.

He gave me a tip. He would take me to a closer point where cars (colectivos) usually pass by to pick up passengers heading to Villa de Leyva. He told me he’d rather not leave the city to get to the bus terminal. I felt a little dubious, because this was Good Friday. Transportation was a bit more fickle. But I took him at his word. When we got there, a guy was waiting for transportation — but not to Villa de Leyva. He said he hadn’t seen any cars heading that way, but it was possible that they might pass at some point. I took his word for it, mainly because this taxi driver had promised to charge me a lot to take me to the terminal…and he still charged me 6k to go a very short distance.

Let’s just say, it’s not always good to talk about where you’re from with taxi drivers. He had made a few comments about how the dollar was more valuable and insinuating that I must have money. So the fact that he’d charged me this when I’d been only charged 4k the night before for a longer ride spoke volumes. “Me jodio,” I proclaimed to the guy waiting there. Both of us realized pretty quickly that there was no transport going to Villa de Leyva at that stop on that day. The rolo (guy from Bogota – I could tell by his accent) was unwilling to blame the old taxi driver, but it was undeniable that he charged me more than necessary. So yes, effectively, he fucked me over.

I quickly decided to catch another cab and got charged the same amount to go much further, in the same direction I came until I reached the Terminal.

Foreigners in Colombia, be ware. Some people might seem nice, but many do think with their wallets. If they ask you about how much money you make within the first few minutes of picking you up, they will probably try screwing you out of money. I knew this, but it wasn’t that he took much money from me. When I called him out that he was overcharging, he did charge mil pesos less, but that pretty much confirmed that he knew what he was doing. Just a life experience, and one that I’ve realized for a while.

There was wifi at the terminal. I got a 20k ticket to Villa de Leyva, ate something resembling a donut, a pastel (meat pie), and drank down a carton of Milo. I was a little apprehensive about not getting on the right van, but it all worked out.

By noon, the hottest hour of the day, I made it to Villa de Leyva. It was a mountainous, gorgeous ride, one of many I’ve experienced during this trip. I was impressed by this town, practically down in a valley surrounded by breathtaking mountains. But as usual, I had been napping and was groggy and had to get off the bus with my hands totally filled. What a pain, I thought. I couldn’t wait to be free of the responsibility of delivering my friend Liz’s package. Luckily, this was its final destination. The couple that founded Nibiru, the hostel in Villa de Leyva — one of many, I soon discovered — were to be the recipients of this gift.

So to make a long story longer, I ended up stepping off the bus, approaching a vendor at a market across the street from the transport square and getting sent in the wrong direction. The guy that helped me admitted he wasn’t from there. What should I expect, right? Well, he googled the hostel, and I assumed he could at least use a map and point me in the right direction.

Wrong.

So I made several blocks, the sun beating down on me. I was still dressed for cool weather after walking around Tunja. Spoiler: Villa de Leyva ain’t all that cold, not during the middle of the day. Not until it rains in the mid-to-late afternoon.

I stopped and asked someone in a carpark (parqueadero). They knew the city but — they had no clue where I needed to go.

Ugh. Okay. Turn around, I told myself. I had seen an “oficina de turismo” on the main street I had been dropped off on by the bus. So I huffed and puffed my way to the tourism office. I explained where I needed to go, by name and address (what I knew of the address – I didn’t have wifi or data). They helped me identify the direction I needed to go to and gave me a map. However, there was no clear indication of how many blocks I would be walking. The only landmark mentioned was the bus terminal and “La Media Torta.”

I had to overwalk, again. I stopped in a drug store and asked for more details to see if I was close. They gave me more vague directions after studying my map, marking dots near where my destination was. In theory, I should’ve been able to show a local the map and receive turn-by-turn instructions until I got at least to the street where my hostel was.

I would be wrong for thinking that. And that was the source of my irritation. No one knew how to give directions in the town. Everything was vague, and no one seemed to know which street was which or if I needed to go up or down a block.

A guy stopped me as I angrily trudged along, muttering to myself. He tried to offer me a room at his hotel. I had to explain hurriedly that I already had a reservation. There was just one problem — I’d been going in circles for a good half hour unable to find the place based on the address. He let me connect to the internet after ushering me up the stairs of his hotel. No doubt, he still hoped to convince me to stay there. I was annoyed that he wasn’t able to give me a quick confirmation of if I was going the right direction or not — even with maps and gps as a guide. He still needed to orient himself by hanging off the balcony and studying the map, his phone, and the streets ahead of him. I wrote the lady from Nibiru and asked for explicit instructions.

Suffice it to say, the hostel had been super close the whole time, only a couple of blocks from the bus stop. That didn’t stop me double confirming the street at D1 to avoid wasting more time and getting more grumpy and tired. As soon as I named the hostel, the grocer’s face went blank and he nearly withdrew his confirmation that the street I was pointing to was in fact the carrera I had asked about.

‘Nough said, I had the right street. I walked and looked to my right at the first intersection, and there it was. Nibiru. A big house remade into a hostel. I couldn’t feel frustrated once I met Ana’s husband, the other half of the pair that own Nibiru. He welcomed me and was happy to receive Liz’s gift, a unique sign with a map pointing out where Nibiru was located. Aw, how that would’ve helped me get there if I had seen it a bit sooner.

Live and learn. These things are bound to happen. I went out after a bit of rest, took lots of photos and videos of the cobblestone and rock-paved streets I had been hopelessly turned around on before. There were so many people — and live music, everywhere. Walking on the rock-paved streets with tiny, sometimes non-existent sidewalks wasn’t my favorite. If you didn’t watch your step and are clumsy like me, you could easily twist your ankle or worse on those uneven rocks in the path. Still, the old world charm and street musicians reminded me of New Orleans.

That night, my legs exhausted from so much adventure, I settled to see the town by Chiva (brightly lit tour buses that blast music as they take tourists around the city). I absorbed some of the history of the famous patrimonial town. I learned it had once been covered by water, leaving behind a wealth of primordial fossils belonging to an assortment of fish and reptiles. How different this place is from New Orleans, a land fighting to avoiding being submerged compared to a town where rivers and seas eventually dried up. Incredible.

I also learned that it was another city from which many a famous Colombian had descended. There are tons of museums in the relatively small city. Everything was bursting with life in spite of these Covid-restricted times. I almost felt as if I were in a bubble untouched by outside worries, a sort of lost city of Atlantis — only instead of being covered by water, it was the product of evaporation of that water. Perhaps at one time, it had been an Atlantis covered by the sea before reemerging later and retaking its former splendor.

The connections my friend Liz gave me were indispensable. I owe the success of this almost month-long trek to the advice of many friends who have offered contacts that have helped me throughout the journey.

The main tour company contact she gave me ended up being the only one I signed up with during my stay. They’re called Gaia Adventure. Their cozy office is located about half a block from the plaza of Villa de Leyva, the biggest plaza per square meter in Colombia. And not a fun one to cross when your legs are sore, I must confess. But the stones paving it, although an obstacle, are quite nice and add to that colonial town charm and authenticity.

That night, they set me up on an hour-long 35k tour on Chiva. We were taken up to the lookout point (Mirador) above the city. My pictures did not do the view much justice, but thanks to this tour, I was able to schedule a horseriding tour for the next morning. We were given our Canelazo (a warm cinnamon-spiced drink with aguardiente (alcohol) very typical in the colder parts of Colombia, and my main motive for taking the tour) at the end, and I headed back to my hostel to rest.

This was the beginning of the decline of my health during this trip. I love to push myself to the limits, and unfortunately, my body hates it. I’ve always been a bit sensitive to allergies, altitude, changes in temperature, etc. And I experienced all of this during the first week. So by that Saturday and Sunday when I left Villa de Leyva, I had a sore throat and a runny nose *cue hello darkness my old friend*.

I tried not to let that hold me back, though, mixing rest with play to the best of my ability. Always a struggle to follow my own advice.

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From My Notes: Days 4-5: Adventures in San Gil and surrounding towns

It’s 10 am. I’m headed to Curiti. From there I’m going to hike to the pozos, some natural pools that are perfect for dirty humans to swim in. I meant to head out an hour ago — I left my hostel at about 9 when I meant to leave at 8. So here we are.

The bus from the Terminalito to Curiti cost just 3.500.

We got there in 20 minutes.

The 7 pozos are probably better when you’re swimming with friends, and not on your period, but I enjoyed the peace. The walk seemed unending, especially alone. I enjoyed the views, the goats and sheep off in the distance and the rolling mountains reminding me of some warmer Switzerland (or what I can imagine the Swiss countryside might be like; pure speculation). I thought I was going to burn for sure. It’s been humid, warm, but overcast. I guess I got lucky. My skin is still peeling from my adventures snorkeling and laying out on the beach in Santa Marta. Otherwise I’m in tact.

I think I made it to 6 of the 7 pozos. After confirming that they all had people in them in some capacity, I picked the one that was the most ample with the fewest people. I think it was two groups, a family, and some couples. I waded around and enjoyed the water cascading from the top to the bottom where I sat. Being in water always refreshes me. I had to do some light rock scaling to get in and out, but I managed the take a dip and put back on my shoes and dress without soaking them. 

I ran into a lady I met at the hostel with her partner and child. She was surprised I was alone and figured I must have been bored. In reality I needed a quiet hike and swim like that. I had seen water far clearer and more aqua but it was still worth the experience. She had rented a small tube for 2 mil. She told me there were bigger ones for 4-6 mil. Next time, I said. I wonder when that will be.

I took lots of pictures and videos before heading back to Curiti to enjoy a brownie con helado and a bebida santadereana (it was really good). Then it was back to the hostel to rest for a bit before waiting a solid hour to take a bus up to Páramo.

The bus to Páramo was just 6 mil ($2). The town was tiny and not so far away.

I checked into Posada San Luis, an inn just up the road from the central park and church at 5:33 pm. I immediately got met with a few obstacles I vented about in my notes:

Though nice, the lady working at the front desk couldn’t offer recommendations.

There were no restaurants to eat at, so I had to settle for a very basic hotdog at a small resto-tienda in the main square.

For the first several hours the WiFi wouldn’t work.

When I went to ask someone, there was no one at reception to help me (And likewise when I returned from eating, I had to let myself in).

Help seemed nonexistent. But you get what you pay for, and while $50 mil has gotten me more in Colombia, it still wasn’t so bad.

Day 5: Páramo 

Páramo is a town that bases its tourism almost solely on extreme sports and outdoor activities. There are next to no restaurants around the square. Even though it was not so late when I got there, like 6 pm, everything was dead. I checked in where I found to my further dismay that the WiFi wasn’t working. I guess I needed to disconnect, but why did it have to be when I had a private class scheduled?

Gloria, an ex teacher and now the person I presume running the hotel Posada San Luis told me I could find Fastfood near the park. In reality there was only one place open, half pharmacy half tienda/restaurant. I was dodging bugs while waiting for my lulo and hotdog. I like eating alone, but there’s something uncomfortable about being the only person sitting in silence with nothing to look at. Am I the only one that feels that way? The jugo de lulo was good, the hotdog had too much salsa de piña, but I went back to my hotel with a full stomach, which was the important thing.

Eventually the WiFi randomly connected, but I still took the chance to go to bed before 10 pm. I woke up several times during the night, not because I was uncomfortable, but just because my body wasn’t prepared to rest as much as it was. That and the fan eventually was too cold. Good problems, in my opinion.

I got up before 7, got ready, had a complimentary tinto and ate one of the apples I brought from home. I got in touch with the tour company, Camine Mano. They opened at 8, so I was among the first people to show. The inn is a block from the main square, and this tour company is located right next to the police station. I was set, changed into my hiking shoes, leggings, a tshirt with my swim suit underneath. I struck up conversation with one of the guides, a nice guy by the name of Juan Camilo. We discussed language learning, a topic that comes up a lot in my travels. Usually after they realize where I’m from and what I do. And show surprise that I’m from the states but speak Spanish well. I’m cautious to take this as a compliment, wholesale, but it’s still a nicer comment than what this one taxi driver said to me the other day in Valledupar: “Wow just goes to show! Four years and you still have an accent!” Not one of my happiest moments. But bless the man for his honesty. The only thing worse is when they praise you and you know it’s pure bullshit. So it is what it is.

Two of the first women to arrive ended up scooping me and including me in their pictures for the tour. I suppose because it would be a cheaper deal to split the cost with a third person, but still, like the group I met in San Gil, they were very open and friendly. They were both a bit older than me and super nice. I’ve encountered more people from Bogota during this trip than from anywhere else. Sincerely all the encounters have been positive. They’ve included me in their groups and asked genuine and insightful questions. It’s refreshing after so much of the same in Valledupar, even after 4 years of living there. This is why I like traveling. It’s easy to forget that people and culture is not the same everywhere. Even in the same country, there are so many types of people, accents, and cultures. It’s reminded me of why I love to travel so much.

There are definitely fewer foreigners in these parts, I’ve noticed. I’ve yet to encounter an American. Our trip to the cave (la Cueva del Indio) was pretty much all people from the interior — Bogota, Cucuta, and the surrounding areas. We made fast friends as we waited around to enter the cave and speculated about what we might see and just how scary it might be. It was a relief to know I wasn’t the only one a little apprehensive about the famous “Salto al Vacio” at the end of the trek. There were 3 or 4 children with us on the tour, so that frankly put me at ease. It really wasn’t nearly as terrifying as my imagination could conjure.

At the end of the tour, soaked, the girls bought me an ice cream before it was time to go our separate ways. I went to the hotel, quickly changed out of my damp clothes, and ran to catch the next bus leaving Paramo and heading one-way to San Gil. That was not something I had anticipated, as I had originally chosen to stay outside of San Gil in order to save time between traveling to my next destination, Tunja, Boyaca.

I realized while taking the bus from San Gil to Tunja that Socorro is much bigger than Páramo. I should’ve stayed there. It even had its own terminal. But hindsight is 20/20, and all worked out anyway.

The bus from San Gil to Tunja left at 2:45. I got there around 10 pm, my phone dead, in the middle of a cold highway in the same dress I had changed into after my spelunking. Once again, all the credit to a kind taxi driver that happened to be sitting right down the road (I wasn’t dropped at a terminal this time, because the Tunja terminal is located a bit outside of the city). I told him the name of my hotel and suggested he google it when he couldn’t recall where it was located. Before I knew it I was taking a hot shower before bedding down in my singlet hotel room a mere block from the main Plaza Simon Bolivar.

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Migracampi: Ecotourism in Pueblo Bello

Finally! Some inspiration to publish travel content, brought to you by my first paseo (short/roadtrip) of 2021 in Colombia!

Let’s start with the facts:

Town: Pueblo Bello, Cesar, Colombia
Lodging: Migracampi (just say “donde John” to the driver — they’ll know where to drop you off)
Distance: 53 km, about an hour from Valledupar (the capital of Cesar)
Transportation: bus or Coomaple Colectivo ($15.000/~$5 USD per person)
Style: Camping/Glamping
Prices: 35-40.000 pesos (~12-14 dollars)/night
Breakfast, coffee, and tea Included
Food and drink available to buy on site (including beer! and other more “exotic” local spirits)
Host: John Alvarez (@migracampi)

The long and short of it – follow me on Instagram for more!

Now that I’ve gotten the key info out of the way, let me narrate my incredible experience with Migracampi.

This was my second time staying at the backyard campsite. It had been just over a year ago when I first decided to explore. My third time going to Pueblo Bello.

Pueblo Bello, although a small town, is something of a cultural crossroads between the indigenous cultures under the “Arhuaco” cultural umbrella that live in and around the Sierra Nevada and the post-colonial mainstream Colombian culture. And then people like me, foreigners from all over the world that have been drawn to these little-spoken-of gems hidden among a kaleidoscope of more “developed” tourist attractions in the country.

The creator of Migra, John, is acutely aware of the cultural and ecological significance of the space he inhabits. He paves the way as an entrepreneur who has managed to grow his space greatly within the course of a single year. In fact, he never seems to tire of his various projects to expand on the sustainable mission of his lodging and tour ecotourism services.

Let me start from the beginning. To get to Pueblo Bello from Valledupar, my friend and coworker Carin and I only had to take a taxi to downtown Valledupar. Near an outdoor shopping center called La Galeria, in an alley-like street bursting with venders of fruits, vegetables, clothing, and even school supplies, you can find several transportation offices.

The one we were looking for was easy to spot — Coomaple. We walked in, gave our names, and were quickly instructed to load a white truck by the driver. We paid the driver the 15.000 peso fare once we got to Pueblo Bello — after picking up two and a half more passengers (including their adorable white puppy, Aaron).

The ride up through the mountains leading to the Sierra Nevada is twisted and gave me a bit of motion sickness on the way up, but “luckily,” the truck got a flat tire. While the driver used rocks in the place of a car jack, I sat on the curb of the road, trying to remind myself that things like this happen in Colombia all the time. A flat tire on a sloped incline should be the least of my concerns!

The greenery and blooming flowers welcome you into Pueblo Bello. Unlike in Valledupar, it has been raining regularly. The air is crisp and fresh. The sound of birds fills your ears from all sides. For those that appreciate it, like my friend Jose, it is the perfect place for bird-watching and spotting varieties of birds unique to the region.

We were greeted by John upon arrival. I felt like I was being welcomed home by an old friend — secret handshake and all. A native of Pueblo Bello, John has a sort of energy that makes you feel immediately relaxed and open. He’s just a genuine person, on top of being an earnest host, and a fantastic trail/tour guide.

He showed us our lodging, which exceeded our expectations – even mine having stayed at Migra before. When I visited Migra for the first time a year ago, I had opted for the simple tent experience. The tents are set up by John and include a sleeping pad, bedding, and a flashlight. They are comfy and minimalist. However, this time I had opted to try the “Glamping” experience.

My gorgeous, inviting bed for the weekend. ~Glamping~

Products of his ingenious crafting abilities, John offers two mini homes, cabins made from recycled materials. The windows shine green as the light hits repurposed beer bottles which have been set in the place of glass windows to allow for air to constantly circulate within the cabin. The two cabins sit on different sides of the enclosed camping space. One is made for an individual and the other can fit two people in a queen-sized bed. The decorations are impeccable, reflecting the same attention to detail that you can observe and appreciate around the entire space.

Every personal touch makes sense while creating an inviting, familiar atmosphere. In the middle of camp, there is a public sink with a mirror and handsoap, additional to the two bathrooms with sinks, showers, and mirrors of their own. There is a garden with chairs set up perfectly to enjoy the sunset and sounds of nature or even a smoke, if that’s your fancy. John even dabbles in beekeeping and has his own bee house of friendly bees on the grounds. The signature bar to the left of the entrance continues to be the hub where music plays, and food and drink are offered at low prices that belie their quality.

Even a simple sandwich displays John’s individual style and attention to detail.

With so much to offer, I had not imagined how much more I would find this time around, only a year later. As I noted, John had not taken a day off. Now the Migra campgrounds include a treehouse deck (which will eventually be converted into a cabin) with hammocks hanging in a chill space underneath. This area is cleverly furnished with plants and books, just like the other spaces of Migracampi. We rested and ate in the shade, waiting for our other friends to arrive before going on a bike ride around Pueblo Bello.


John helps you get information and reserve any activities you might want to do in Pueblo Bello. After a quick phone call, he found out that the locals that rent out bikes only had 3 available that day. There were 5 of us. John rented out two of his own bikes so that we could all take off together without a problem.

Biking in Pueblo Bello is just 5.000 pesos an hour. We spent three hours — 2 of which were spent at the river drinking and enjoying the water — exploring Pueblo Bello from top to bottom — literally. The majority of the ride through the town is downhill when heading towards the river and hiking towards the waterfall. The way back posed a problem for me since I had opted for two beers and we had stopped at an ice cream shop before going down to the river. I quickly got winded trying to fight my way up the rather steep hills. Then I started to feel dizzy and nauseous.

My friends helped me to get a bottle of water and a automoto taxi back, just as it started to rain really hard. I was more than relieved to unload the bike and leave it in the front so that I could lay down in a hammock and catch my breath. Once again, the host was graceful enough to return the bike for me without any hesitation.

Another thing to keep in mind about Pueblo Bello is that it rains pretty frequently, depending on the time of year, sometimes suddenly and heavily, especially during the rainy season. Rainy season starts around the end of February, so we are finally seeing an end to the months of drought typical of the dry season.

My poor friends had to book it to get back to the house where we rented the bikes in the rain. They returned their bikes, and we all convened for dinner and drinks on the campground. The rain fell hard, harder than I had seen since I left Louisiana, and lightning streaked the sky in a soothing yet intimidating way. There was no danger; this is typical of the rainy season.

I stayed up until the sun had completely disappeared, but once I ate, with the rain still coming down, I slid into my glamping cabin, slipped under the fluffy quilt and went straight to sleep, even as some of my friends stayed up to chat and drink Churro, a distilled ancestral liquor found in this region of Colombia.

I’ll end this with the peaceful memory of that cool night. The bedspread was just thick enough to keep me cozy and comfortable despite the low temperatures. The sound of birds is a constant symphony at Migracampi, one that lulled me to sleep and then woke me up early the next morning.

To be continued…. (leave some applause if you liked this review/check out my instagram!)

Day 2: The hike to La Tranquilidad and the Deluge that came after.

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Opportunities for Growth

During quarantine last year, all of the time I had to myself gave me lots of opportunities to digest thoughts that had not yet crystalized for me before. About myself, my goals, and most importantly habits and how integral they are to being successful and staying motivated.

So often we put ourselves in this catch-22 scenario where we can only do what we want if we sacrifice our own mental health in some way. We can never win. If we do what we want, we have no time. If we don’t, we feel like we aren’t doing enough.

Wait, was I just projecting my own problems with prioritizing? I guess so. I confronted these feelings a lot during my time in quarantine, needless to say.

We want to create, but struggle to do so. We want to exercise, but fail to find motivation. Wanting to achieve our goals, but — for some reason or another — we still procrastinate on them. We fail to fall in love with the process.

We have to start. That’s the first step. Then from there we have to keep going. That’s been harder than starting, some days. So I started doing a little research on how these new habits I want to form can be done in the most logical and passive way possible. Passive, in the sense that it doesn’t have to be this aggressive struggle to do as much as possible every day. I’d been living by that rule, going against the grain and pushing myself past the bounds of self-care: all or nothing. And yes, I felt drained, and somewhat unsatisfied as a result. Because it never seemed to be enough.

Growing up, my dad would always be watching Seinfeld. I was a big fan, even if a lot of the more sophisticated jokes went over my head. It was always a groundbreaking show to me, in a way, because I felt it had a different vibe than other sitcoms that were big at the time. It felt somehow more authentic.

Never would I have guessed that there was more than just comedic genius behind its creator’s success.

“After a few days you’ll have a chain. Just keep at it and the chain will grow longer every day. You’ll like seeing that chain, especially when you get a few weeks under your belt. Your only job is to not break the chain.”

I found this wonderful article (which I now cannot refind) all about the Seinfeld strategy, described above by my boy Jerry Seinfeld. He pointed out that while most people get demotivated and off–track after a bad performance, a bad workout, or simply a bad day at work, top performers settle right back into their pattern the next day. They reset and keep their long-term goals in mind. They embrace the new obstacles as opportunities for growth.

The Seinfeld Strategy works because it helps to take the focus off of each individual performance and puts the emphasis on the process instead. So instead of obsessing with where we want to be on a daily basis, we focus on the small steps it takes to reaching our destination.

So step one is to choose a task that is simple enough to be sustainable. At the same time, you have to make sure that your actions are meaningful enough to matter. And that your strategies are varied enough to keep you engaged and passionate.

Last month, I also learned about S.M.A.R.T. goals from the Habits for Happiness podcast I discovered for free with my audible subscription. I started 2021 listening to this podcast, and I would highly recommend following this strategy developed by George T. Doran way back in 1981 to help with setting clear objectives in any aspect of life. 

What makes them SMART? You have to ask yourself about any given goal you choose to set: Is it Specific? Is it Measurable? Is it Achievable/Realistic? Is it Relevant to your overall vision? And finally, what is your Timeframe for reaching your goal? You can add on points for exciting and recorded, among other qualifiers, as you see fit.

Although it has been quoted to death, as Greg Reid asserted, writing down a goal, breaking it down into steps, and following through with those steps, with the consistency of the Seinfeld method can make all the difference.

But most importantly, the motivation must be authentic. I realized how hard it was to cultivate motivation when I was actively and frequently struggling with depression. That is true for any dopamine and vitamin D deprived individual such as myself. It comes down to chemical composition. How can we level out and correct the release and maintenance of certain chemicals in the body? I realized that addressing this issue had to be part of my plan. Every plan needs room for maintenance and repair, in the event of a setback or *ahem* breakdown. And once I was in the states, finding solutions to those on-going chemical factors became a priority. 

When it comes to treatment of a disorder or illness, not breaking the chain becomes even more important. One day without taking your medicine or exercising or meditating can cause a dramatic swing in your mood and perception of your situation, as well as your motivation and momentum. It’s not often a permanent state or condition, but it can have damaging effects on your mental wellness and overall assessment of your own progress.

So as I coped with the new balance adjustments on my chemicals, while evacuating, having no place to call home, virtual classes, familial tension… I fell back even harder on my routine. I focused on the little things that I could do for a short period of time each day. I made sure to zero in on the most pleasurable aspects of those steps in my plan.

I didn’t stop studying French. I’ve almost cleared the lessons on Duolingo and reached a B1 level in about a year of study after knowing next to nothing and not being able to fully immerse myself in real life use of the language. I’ve been gradually been building up my content on social media. I’m trying to apply my SMART goals and the Seinfeld method to my writing as well — and I think it’s getting more consistent. I still get blocked looking through all of my drafts, but as long as I am still writing a few lines a day, publishing once I’m satisfied at least a few times a month, then I feel I am reaching my goal.

Another routine that made a huge difference during quarantine was establishing morning rituals. I try to use my phone as a tool to wake me up mentally via podcasts (like Up Next by NPR to get my daily overview of the news), the Daily Stoic, and YouTube videos by channels that post Alan Watts videos and self-help/introspective tips like Better Ideas and Awaken Insight to name a few. Getting your mind right and finding your best headspace in the morning is the best way to wipe the slate of the previous day’s struggles and stumbling blocks and start with a fresh outlook.

I have continued to make this a part of my routine, as well as filling my body with light, healthy food like fruits, grains, and oatmeal to help prevent my typical digestive problems. Health can never take a backburner in our daily life — if nothing else, I think 2020 taught a lot of us that.

Additionally, I applied the Seinfeld method to doing yoga daily in the mornings during my 2 and a half months in lockdown. I reminded myself that it doesn’t matter how much exercise I do, the intensity nor the duration, so long as I don’t stop doing it. Previously, I felt frustrated seeing the results of my hard work in the gym fade after I became too busy to go regularly. What’s the point if the results wouldn’t stick and I’d repeatedly have to start over every time I went?

That’s where not breaking the chain is truly genius. Even if your growth is not linear or exponential, it does pay off in the long run. I haven’t done yoga daily since my time in the States, but since returning to the gym – and on days when I have a lot of tension, pain, and stress – I use the techniques I learned during those 60 whole days straight that I practiced yoga at least once a day. 

It worked! What I learned stuck. And not because I never took time off or never had slow days or short sessions. On the hard days, I took breaks and shortcuts, but I didn’t stop.

In 2021, I continue to think proactively, to enjoy rest and productivity, socializing and self-care in equal measure. The balance has gotten easier, even though it truly is an uphill battle. It’s never as easy as it looks or seems. That’s important to keep in mind. Comparing ourselves to others is the least productive thing we can do when looking to grow and live life to the fullest.

I’ve got to shoutout both my brothers who are a strong example to me of this persistent approach to goals. Jace has gone from knowing next to nothing about music theory and never seriously learning to play an instrument to being able to sing while playing and write songs on the guitar in under a year. How badass is that? As someone who was often a defeatist with new hobbies, I was inspired by how he refused to take a day off from playing or get frustrated, even when he was in exhausting and stressful situations or when progress seemed slow.

My older brother Seth is an extremely hardworking family man. In spite of two hurricanes, having to move suddenly, and all the other crazy consequences of last year, he continues to be a high performer in everything he does. From sports to management and sales, he’s a true inspiration to me as he has become so successful in his work and family life, alike. I’m lucky I’ve had some strong examples in my personal life that have helped me to reach this proactive point in my journey.

So I write through the exhaustion of a new hybrid teaching schedule. I’m continuing to learn more about video and photo-editing, teaching and what the hell’s going on in the world — because I’ll need that if I want to get where I am heading. I have projects that I haven’t finished, but at least I have something. 

And while progress is not linear, the important thing is to keep going.

I love sunrises and dusk pictures, and how could I not include some of my first edits from my New Years trip and a lovely shot of my own backyard (not in that order).
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My WordPress Anniversary and 2021: Rocking Beginnings

How this year began (ish) (or how last year ended?) – Roadtrip Recap of Colorado and New Mexico to come!

It’s been 4 years since I made this blog. Four years living in Colombia. A metamorphosis and exploration of the world and of self. That’s what this project has been for me. So much has changed and developed in my life. One thing’s for certain: we never stop growing, changing, and discovering new things about ourselves and the world.

And guess what? I have over 50 followers now!

Wow, that’s like, 50 more than I ever expected, honestly. Especially when I struggle to stay writing motivated even though I have so many things I want to write about. Thank you to everyone that actually reads what I write! Bigger thank you for the feedback I’ve received. That feedback, beyond the likes, really does help push me to sort out the thoughts in my head and keep writing.

I think with everything going on, we’ve come to realize that all anyone ever wants is a connection. We use social media to gain that connection with the world, and while many detractors of social media say it is making us more shallow and disconnected, I happen to belong to the camp that believes that virtual connection is the way of the future. It is the complement of empathy that allows us to see through the eyes of others. And it’s free (virtually) to (almost) everyone! The sad part of course is that it still isn’t globally accessible; we still suffer a crisis of global inequality. But we continue to march toward a future where all of those bridges have been extended across the world, across the lines of social class, race, and nationality, and we will truly be one world.

This is what I believe. And this is what I enjoy discussing with my students. Now more than ever, these children living privileged lives in Colombia have the opportunity to truly consider themselves Global Citizens. That excites me and motivates me to really educate them about history, social movements, things that are occurring outside of their geopolitical bubbles.

That’s been the objective of this bimester. January has been interesting, because my vision and the message I want my students to take away has grown with every lesson. Students teach us — teachers must be receptive to that. I’ve discovered from teaching in quarantine that while modeling and setting rubrics and expectations is important, giving students and their support systems the freedom to convey what they have learned in their own way is infinitely more important. Learning occurs when seeds are planted in the deepest parts of our brains, but those seeds can only be cultivated by our care and interest.

Long story short, if I dictated every creative choice for my students, I would be alienating so many of my students to the point of turning them off to the subject and creating a mental block. When kids aren’t given agency, they don’t cultivate their knowledge. It becomes a chore. Something to be memorized, regurgitated, and then forgotten.

If they don’t remember any of the facts by heart, I won’t care, so long as curiosity is ignited in their hearts to continue learning and exploring more.

That’s become my mission, as an educator. As a content creator (is that what this is?). I want to inspire curiosity. I want to empower others to look for their own answers and express them in their own way. Creativity should be nourished and encouraged, and I believe from that curiosity and creativity, arrives a deeper level of learning.

Looking back, my writing ended up being more significant than I gave myself credit for. I want that to continue. I want to continue commenting on my experiences, traveling and exploring, but also the daily regular parts of life that can lead to the insights I have uncovered while sharing my writing and thoughts on this platform.

2021 did not start with fireworks for me. It started in under a star-specked black sky in the freezing cold New Mexico desert. I came into this year resolving to hold onto peace amid the chaos. And boy, has this been a chaotic year already. January itself seems like this saga of sudden explosions, like a chaotic pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other while hitting things in its path.

I started this year out sick. I thought it was because of the exposure to temperatures I wasn’t used to, the long hours driving, during my road trip. I could tell it was viral when I found myself aching and laying in bed, too exhausted to walk from one end of the house to another. That only lasted a few days. I also had headaches, an on-and-off sore throat, and other sinus issues. So I got tested before coming back to Colombia. It was a swab test by the Civic Center, free and efficient, but the results were not taken quickly.

I took the test right before coming back to Colombia. Literally the day before my flight. My mom was not happy. I was embarrassed, I admit, and I made sure to frequently sanitize my hands, keep my mask on, speak to no one, and avoid breathing on anyone.

Things continued to go less-than-swimmingly when I got to Bogota and found out the SIM card in my phone had deactivated and my work visa had expired because I had been out of the country for over 6 months. Surprise! On top of that, I would need to quarantine. All I wanted to do was get to my airbnb, but my host wasn’t prepared for my arrival. When I got to the apartment building, I got to scare an old lady working the desk. It was already pretty late once I got through a mile-long customs line moving at a snail’s pace. Welcome back, right?

The rockiness continued the next day. I continued to feel tired and sluggish, and taking advantage of how close the apartment was to the airport, I chose to leave about an hour before my flight. I didn’t get the email to check in. Lovely. So when I got there, I had to fumble through my phone (which is falling apart) to find my flight confirmation number next to my name.

All of this took me just long enough to miss my flight by five minutes. Not miss my flight, really, but the gate had closed and they wouldn’t be able to load my bag. So I paid a $40 penalty to get on the next flight to Valledupar.

After making it back to this land of unending summer, I got to my apartment only to find the internet had not been restored. There was no gas. Things were falling apart — including the AC. I was feeling overwhelmed. This feeling lingered during the following week when I got my positive COVID test and immediately started taking all of my medicine.

It took some pestering and some persistence, but now I finally have things sorted with my apartment. The AC has been fixed, the gas and internet were turned back on, and now I’m back to virtual classes. And that’s been a relief.

But February is coming, and with that comes new challenges. We’re going to start our hybrid program. Classes will only last until 12 pm, but I will be working for that entire time, either in the classroom or virtually or supervision duty. Let’s hope I can maintain my flow and my vision.

Around the time President Biden finally was sworn in, things began to normalize themselves in my own life. At the beginning of the month, the upheaval I predicted unfortunately struck. We’ve all been through so much in such a short time, witnessing this National conflict and tension as the far-right rejects the system of democracy they feel betrayed by. So much is at stake. But this new presidency has involved actions that show an acknowledgement of reality and necessity. The necessity of unity. And that has renewed my hope. Let’s hope things continue on this track. And that political gridlock doesn’t frustrate this hope.

This hasn’t been a normal first month of the year. But it has been better than some. I’ve confronted these situations head-on, both personal and professional. (Did I mention I’ve got a new job in the works?) I put my plans into action, just as I taught my students the importance of not just setting goals but making SMART goals — that is Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-conscience.

Our collective goal? To learn something new everyday. To not be afraid to make mistakes. To try new things and explore new hobbies. My students really are an inspiration to me. They’re fantastic, hard-working, and compassionate. I couldn’t have been happier to talk about New Years resolutions with a group of kids who were otherwise unfamiliar with the concept. That helped me iron out my own.

The beginning may be rocky, but the end results will be worth it. Get those vision boards ready! Here’s to rocking 2021.

What are your goals for this year? How will you make them happen? Or better yet, how will you maintain a growth mindset that will allow you to be flexible with your timetables assuming that you run into setbacks along the way? I’d love to read what you guys have thought about 2021 so far and where you hope it will go!

A lovely mural outside of the Village Coffee Shop in Boulder (highly recommend it).
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Teaching with Compassion

Being a mentor is not always easy. As an English teacher of students across a broad spectrum of ages, levels, and interests, I have been tested consistently and found that being patient is sometimes easier said than done. I would like to share some of the keys that I’ve uncovered during my last 6+ years of teaching and tutoring to maintaining my composure and making authentic connections with my students (that I hope could last for a lifetime).

Compassion. If we are compassionate with others, we become more compassionate with ourselves — and vice versa. Throughout my life, I have struggled to find and cultivate self-compassion. This difficulty comes from being a perfectionist, a busy-body of sorts, always wanting things to go smoothly. Always wanting to be right. Always wanting to feel competent.

As my good friend and mentor Uncle Iroh once said, “Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source.” When you are compassionate with yourself, you forgive your own mistakes and short-comings. You are more patient and ultimately, more humble. And if we cultivate a strong compassion with ourselves, it is not so hard to transfer that compassion to our relationships with others.

Empathy. Being able to see things not only from your own perspective, but contradicting perspectives, and recognizing which of those perspectives applies to the person you are interacting with. As a teacher, empathy cannot be stressed enough. Like humility, if we lack empathy, we easily can become a caricature, the angry, exacting professor sneering down at their students without a drop of remorse or interest in the perspective of those they are teaching.

Empathy can only be built from humility, by understanding that we all make mistakes. There was a time when we were learning. Ideally, we are still learning everyday. And how do we like it when encountering someone supposed to be mentoring us who talks down to us and makes us feel dumb every time we have a question or make a mistake?

We don’t. We shut down. Shame leads to anxiety which can ultimately affect the functioning of our brains and memories. This is why it is so hard for someone that has been abused as a child to recall information and be present in other realms of their lives.

Be an example. As a teacher, we are in a special position. We are learning, just as our students are learning. However, our students oftentimes act as a mirror, holding up our own best and worst traits. (This is also true for parenting, but since I’m not a parent, I realize I can’t really speak to that relationship directly)

When you want to teach something, you must talk the talk and walk the walk.

I know I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said before, but I’d like to use my own successes–and failures–to illustrate what I mean.

When I started out teaching fulltime in Colombia, I felt an immense pressure to establish myself as an authority figure in the classroom. As a younger woman (I was 24 when I started out), many assumed that I must be trampled by my students.

All my life, I’ve had a terribly great tendency of taking these sorts of assumptions personally and using my disgust at them to fuel my success. You know, to be the best to prove others wrong. Spite, however, led to feelings of anger, defensiveness, and isolation…and that’s what happened to my professional relationships at the outset of this journey. I never wanted to be wrong or be confronted about being wrong. I didn’t like for my authority to be questioned. Because I focused more on what I didn’t want to be instead of the sort of teacher I would admire and choose to be.

Laugh at yourself. The more I let go and got taken off guard, the more I learned that the best solution to any tension or mistake is to laugh at oneself. If a student does or says something shocking (and trust me, they will) sometimes instead of letting yourself fall into the role of vindictive hell-bent teacher to prove a point — imagine how you would handle this situation if you were an actor or person you admired or felt inspired by (in my case, Uncle Iroh obviously ranks high on my personal list). Putting yourself into another role and viewing things as humorously and impersonally as possible keeps the classroom fun and also hides the buttons that your less-than-nice students might try to prod at any given opportunity. Also, it helps maintain that whole humility thing.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Assumptions are the enemy in any human interaction. Students will often speak impulsively — and parents as well — especially when they are under stress. The best thing is to shut up and listen. Don’t assume you know what’s going to come out of their mouth. I’ve realized I prevent fires that could have easily sparked out of a simple misunderstanding. As teachers, we have to be slow to process and react to things. In other words, get all of the information and then respond.

Take responsibility. This goes back to being a good example to your students. When you take responsibility without assigning blame or excusing your own mistakes, your students pick up on how genuine you are and how strong your character is. Hypocrisy is a double-edged sword — it hurts the bearer and those in its path. Being a hypocritical teacher is insidiously easy, but it will not gain the respect of your students, and worse, their behavior will reflect your worst moments.

When I was in the hot-headed phase of hating my job and holding onto my power and control by the skin of my teeth, I let my emotions get the better of me. At times, I would preach about treating each other with respect and following the rules while simultaneously humiliating a student in the middle of class to teach a lesson. Little by little, bullying became a problem among that group of students. And some part of me, unfortunately, realized with great dread that it was my fault. I had taught the wrong lessons, and it was my actions, not my words which the students had picked up on.

Luckily, each year and group of students, while bringing its own challenges, offers new solutions and opportunities for growth and self-examination.

During the past year, I have been working with students to promote a growth mindset. The moment I realized that I myself had lacked this important principle and quality was not a blow to my ego — it was a wake-up call. I often felt as though in order to be an authority figure, I had to be direct and firm, brooking no nonsense. But acting that way was as rigid as outlawing fun in the classroom — and I’m a fun person. But under pressure, I felt less and less like myself and more and more fragile. And I didn’t forgive myself enough to realize how much I was growing and changing everyday.

Change doesn’t happen the way lightning strikes — it’s gradual like the tide, ebbing and flowing, sometimes pleasant and rewarding, sometimes painful and unsettling. But it happens, whether we are aware of it or not.

While teaching online, I’ve gotten the chance to step away and reevaluate Ms. Amanda the Teacher. I’ve recognized how my posturing in the classroom often did not create the environment I wanted to see — but I did have some important breakthroughs along the way. I forgave myself. I celebrated how much I had grown and changed. I celebrated the growth of my students. That’s how a relationship is formed. No one is perfect.

When working abroad in particular, it’s so easy to blame every little thing we don’t like on the culture. We romanticize our home countries, thinking that this level of disorganization would never happen there. Everything flows more smoothly through the rose-colored lens of our memories. I’ve spent hours venting and ranting with other English teachers who are frustrated with their jobs, hate their students, disdain their students’ parents, and reminisce on how much easier things were or had been or would be in their own countries.

After talking to teachers in other places and honestly reflecting on my past experience teaching as a paraeducator in the states, I realized that these idealizations simply aren’t true. The difference between myself in the States starting out and Ms. Amanda the Serious Teacher was that I used to have far more compassion. I used to have more perspective, because I often was not in the spotlight. I was a supporting cast member helping to allow things to go smoothly. Yes, things seldom went smoothly. There was administrative pressure, just like I experience now as a homeroom and primary teacher. But with a fresher perspective, I enjoyed teaching more. And as I adapted to the culture shock of living in another country and region with stigmas and stereotypes and ways of communicating, some part of myself became more closed and less excited to absorb everything, to take in new information. To grow.

So that’s what this experience has taught me. I’m far from a perfect teacher (much less a perfect person), but I have been feeling satisfied with the results as I have fine-tuned my online class experiences. The importance of a plan, working with the end result in mind, while being spontaneous and unafraid to improvise and roll with class discussions and fun, has finally imprinted itself on my sporadic, easily-disillusioned mind.

And I’m enjoying teaching. In spite of the new challenges and hiccups, the exhausting days and the never-ending flow of planning and paperwork. I’ve found within this profession a way to evaluate and assess without judgment and to accept criticism and laugh without being too self-defacing and awkward. I’m growing. Reminding myself always to teach with compassion.

What about you? Have you been challenged as a teacher or a mentor? Have you lived abroad? What have you learned?

P.S.: It seems appropriate that this blog go full circle since it’s officially been 4 years since I started it — 4 years of teaching in Colombia.

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Roadtrip 2020: Seeing New England in Times of Covid

Part One: Through the Bible Belt into a Brave New World

Against all odds, this year has provided some silverlinings in my life, the likes of which I would have never been able to imagine. I’ve dealt with isolation, loneliness, depression, anxiety, grief over the deaths of friends and family members, displacement, a sense of homelessness (or perhaps just placelessness) – and yet, there is always room for growth. That room gives way to light. It gives way to hope.

October was a busy month for me. If I look through my instagram feed, nothing is more apparent. I started the month with a can-do attitude, a feeling of radical self-acceptance I have written on a lot recently. And fortunately, the feeling continued to grow by the day.

The highlight of the month – of my year, as someone that’s been terribly deprived of external adventures that I crave – was hands-down my heavily anticipated road trip.

Let’s look at the context, complemented by Corona, to understand why this was such a big deal: Semana Santa is usually one of my big travel months. I was in total lockdown in my apartment in Colombia. I had aspirations of making a full (or at least partial) trek around South America. Lockdown was still going on. It only just let up in Colombia. I made the decision to come home to Louisiana. I was anxious, mind you, about choosing to do the following: leave my apartment unoccupied for an indefinite amount of time, taking a bus to get to Bogota and then a plane (all the while possibly exposing myself to the virus) only to be shut in my parents house or my grandma’s house – indefinitely. Possibly unable to return.

I had expected to be back in Colombia by September. That didn’t happen.

And on top of that, my grandpa passed in July and I spent that whole month basically mourning and taking care of my grandma. My depression and anxiety reached a fever pitch. Around which point I reached this turning point in regards to taking advantage of qualifying for medicaid and reaching out for medical help. And from there, things began to move at lightning speeds. Even now it seems like a beautiful, hazy blur – and yet, simultaneously September onward has been some of the clearest moments of my life so far.

For starters, in August, I went back to work. Virtual work. I readapted to this schedule, a new schedule, while living in somewhat close quarters with my grandma, my cousin, and eventually his girlfriend and their baby. But while getting things straight with work, I also was going to the doctor, practicing driving, and by the end of the month I had finally passed my driving test – just before Hurricane Laura came to town. September was upon me. No license yet.

3 weeks with my uncle. A month evacuated and struggling and being held together by my work schedule. I adapted to my medicine. And finally, we were back home – back with my grandma again (my parents had no internet at this point, so staying with them wasn’t even an option).

As soon as I could, I got my license with a vengeance. Why so eager? you wonder. Well I could see at this point the blatant truth – I wouldn’t be going back to Colombia anytime soon. I was stranded and just homeless enough to qualify for free healthcare in the state of Louisiana. But it was time to turn these negatives into a positive.

My first move with my freshly printed, hot-off-the-press license? Renting a car. And taking a roadtrip. To New York City!

My grandma thought I was absolutely delirious when I told her. “But surely you won’t go alone,” she said. “I mean, these days, with all these crazy people, it’s just not safe for a woman to travel all that way alone.”

I insisted I would be fine and that I’d made up my mind. I had been doing this sort of stuff since I was 16, and everyone always called me crazy, but I always came out of the experience fine.

Still, it took a call from my brother and dropping the news on him for a spontaneous collaboration to calm her fears: I wouldn’t be going alone. Jace would be going with me, my second in command, my navigator, my…deadbeat driving partner. [I kid, but he did spend considerably more time on his phone watching Hunter x Hunter instead of paying attention and giving moral support as I drove in THE DARK FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER NOT TO MENTION IN THE MOUNTAINS – but don’t worry, I don’t take every possible opportunity to remind him of this or anything *clears throat ostentatiously*]

Our journey began at the Alexandria airport on Sunday morning. The date was October 4th. The time was 10 am. We arrived just when the rental car was supposed to be ready. Unfortunately, it was not. We had hit our first snag in the trip. However, I was far too happy to be bothered by the minor inconvenience – and the lady working at National Rental was far too nice for me to get upset about it.

This delay was caused by three factors: rental car customers not returning the cars on time, a limited supply of cars to begin with, and the time it took to clean and sanitize the cars before turning them over to a new driver. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t feel rushed or distressed, but as luck would have it, we were only waiting a short time – by 11 am we were on our way from the airport to the highway.

Three days before, I had made my reservation and calculated things just so Jace and I could leave from his girlfriend’s house in Alexandria. A Mid-Size car for a week runs at $217.64 at National – PLUS Taxes and Fees of $109.36 PLUS a protection plan…and fees for late return. Put a little pin in that fact, because it comes back to bite me later. I was so naïve, thinking by paying the gas, Jace had the worse end of the deal. But we had a car, and in the moment, that was all that mattered.

The road is an exciting place. It’s more exciting when you’ve been fantasizing about hopping in a car and just driving for years – literally romanticizing Kerouac’s On the Road and praying to the universe for the opportunity to do what so many Americans take for granted – blast music from their own speakers without anyone else’s approval and go on an adventure.

Needless to say, I was literally buzzing for the first 3 hours or so of the trip. Then the fatigue set in as every rice and even the beautiful white cotton fields all started to look the same. Jace and I alternated a few times as I found myself get more and more weary.

We made it to our first stop, a basement airbnb in Evansville, Indiana. One episode that stands out from the 12+ hours on the road was our stop off in some town in Kentucky. We stopped because it was time to refill the tank (wow, gas goes fast!), I needed to use the bathroom, and we both decided if we were gonna drink that night we would need to go ahead and buy our booze before getting to Indiana. It was about 6 or 7 pm I think, and the chipper lady behind the counter rang up the drinks I’d grabbed without even asking for my ID. When I tried to pay, there was a restriction. Dry after 10. I laughed in confusion. It was still early. The lady kindly clarified: No alcohol can be sold in Kentucky after 10 am on a Sunday.

Now I don’t know what kind of law this is except: BACKASSWARDS. But unfortunately there was nothing she could do but recommend a liquor store or bar or something (warehouse?) down the way that sells alcohol even after legal hours. Once again, I was more amused than bothered. That’s just life, but there was no way we were detouring for that.

I discovered that something essential when you’re on the road is using your time wisely. Jace and I began racing from day to day so that we would not waste too much time on the road.

Our stay in Evansville was…quaint. The lady, a slender ginger woman with long braided hair, seemed to have a stiffness about her. She did not answer the door right away when we got there (admittedly it was late and we were very embarrassed and apologetic). Then when Jace ran off to get food, he gave her a headsup yet she still locked the door – causing some more chagrin as I struggled to unlock it before finally resorting to knocking on her door – this was after midnight.

We were delirious and exhausted. Surrounded by what seemed to be a perfectly set up classroom for fundamentalist Christian homeschool, replete with a Biblical history of the world and “The Lord Jesus Christ” scrawled loudly in beautiful cursive script on the whiteboard on the other end from the queen sized bed – somehow we were exhausted enough to pass out. Until we were woken in the morning by the sound of her three children running around. Walking past them sitting at a dining table near the living room/ante chamber was…awkward. So that was our first brush with the quaintness of the famous Mennonites – the slightly more modern version of Quakers and Amish people, I guess.

Anyway, we got on the road early that day. Each day was about 12 hours driving, and we were more excited than ever to reach DC. Our airbnb in DC was flawless. If a kindly uber driver hadn’t later informed us that we were in a “sketchy” part of the city, we would have never guessed – aside from the unavoidable smell of weed. And the view of it growing in broad daylight across the street the next day. But still, not necessarily a “sketchy” thing.

You see, DC is interesting because marihuana is decriminalized and yet technically still illegal to sell. So you can have it, but you can’t sell it. And if you buy it, you are technically giving a “donation.” Don’t ask how I found that out. But DC was a lovely experience. Our airbnb was a different kind of basement – quiet, a big comfortable bed and a big sofa bed, a big kitchen and clean bathroom. And still basically the same price as the place we stayed in in Evansville. Well, maybe a bit more expensive. My brother was in charge of lodging on the way.

We had imagined taking a bike to the historic part of the city. We didn’t realize how warm it would be. Yes, it was cooler than Louisiana, but under the midday sun, DC still felt just as warm. We opted for an uber to what is known as the National Mall.

We visited the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam memorial, and even the Smithsonian Institute focused on American history – all for free. The only expene was the uber and our lunch.

Most restaurants were closed in DC because of the virus. Jace and I noticed people were still active, walking, vlogging, and visiting museums – but few places to eat. Not even a coffee shop. We eventually found the sculpture garden after leaving the Smithsonian and had some good sandwiches and a drink, which we ate outside in the garden.

We passed by tons of museums and old state houses – the city was absolutely gorgeous. And the people were friendly as well. Unexpected bonuses?: We got some free edibles and some lady was walking around with her boobs out. Questions were asked. No answers were given. And the White House was still being watched by every political newscaster in the biz, no doubt speculating about the health of a recently Covid-stricken Trump. DC, my dears. A dream fulfilled.

With our day in DC well spent, we turned our eyes northward to our true destination: the Big Apple.

*Note: I’m having issues uploading pictures, but there will be more to see soon!*

Want to read more AND learn what not to do while staying in NYC? Leave a like or a clap!

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Looking for “normal” in a “weird time of life”

I’ve been wanting to write a confessional tell-all for a while now, ever since I became more mindful of myself and my journey. Unfortunately, I’ve also wanted to write about a million other topics, and for some reason (hmmm) it hasn’t been easy.

For starters, I am not writing this on my own laptop. Hell, I’m not even sitting in my own house. Well, for the time being, I don’t have a house of my own. I do, but it’s in Colombia, across the Caribbean Sea, which might as well be the other side of the world. But relatively speaking, I haven’t returned thanks to the Coronavirus, a global pandemic, but also because this has been an important time for me to spend with my family.

To recap, I came home in June of this most “blessed” year – 2020. I made this decision in spite of the risks to my own health and even the health of my family for a somber reason: my grandpa – my pawpaw – was dying. He had been given 6 months maximum to live back in March, just as the virus was being recognized internationally, and nobody believed he would make it until December. His C0PD had crippled him. For several years, he struggled with the aftershocks of years of hard labor, asthma, smoking, and alcoholism. He did not have an easy life, and I knew that if I waited until the pandemic passed to be with him, it would be too late.

So even though I was relatively comfortable in Colombia, if fairly isolated, I chose to leave after getting the greenlight from my school’s principal. Before coming home, ever day seemed the same. I was trapped in that quarantine loop of endless “What day is it?” and a routine of pacing around my apartment, cooking, watching shows, repeat, with a weekly outing for shopping. That became my new “normal.”

Then I came home. And once again, the illusion of normalcy shifted in another direction. I watched my pawpaw die, held his hand as he took his last breath – after a full week of being there to support him while he suffered and refused to eat, unable to speak after some time, expressing repeatedly that he was ready to go. I was grateful to be able to be there for my grandma, to cry with her and comfort her as the presence of her husband of 45 years faded from the house they had built together. Family gathered to be near to him, friends came to say their goodbyes, until finally his last will – to be allowed to die peacefully rather than being kept alive on life support – was fulfilled.

More than my own sorrow and anxiety at being home for the longest time in years, this was my grandma’s journey through grief. We were all ready for the moment when it came, but no one could imagine the empty feeling that would follow. I could see my grandma’s restlessness growing even as she accepted my grandpa’s passing. I felt her tension acutely. And yet, she persisted. She developed a routine that worked for her, that helped her to keep moving forward. Just as my grandpa had admonished, she did her best not to lie around crying and missing him. But the tension hung over us, and my anxiety was making it harder for me to be there for her.

Around this time, I finally spoke to a doctor after getting on Medicaid thanks to my low income status (after all, I am still only making money in pesos and far below what is considered an average income in the States). For years, I have struggled with the ebbs and flows of anxiety and depression. I recognized it, have been to therapy for it, and actively sought to overcome it with a combination of mindfulness meditation, yoga, and other coping mechanisms, some healthier than others.

A year ago, I was awakened to the extent of my father’s bipolar disorder. His struggle to find the right ratio of medications and therapy had been difficult to watch, sometimes frustrating, other times equally upsetting as it seemed almost futile and inadequate against all of his years of trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and escalating mental and physical illness.

However, there was one thing I took away from all of that. He had improved. The journey was tough, and progress was not linear, but the change was undeniable. So although my mother and other family members have a wary view of medication, I decided to follow my doctor’s advice to see if it could help me sort out my physical and mental issues.

Honestly, I could not have picked a better time to try. I’m not sure how else I would have gotten through the rollercoaster that was only just beginning in mid-August. Once the emptiness of my grandfather’s death passed – or at least was managed – we became almost immediately and comically (if in only a “divine” way) uprooted by Hurricane Laura. I don’t need to describe the devastation of the storm – it’s left its own mark on the media and public imagination as much as Hurricane Katrina has, even if it has received what most would consider less coverage (which as others have pointed out, could be due to all of the other natural and human disasters shaking the globe). We were displaced for an entire month. Three of those 4 weeks I spent living in my uncle’s house so that I could continue to teach online. Most of my time has been consumed by that work, and I am so grateful. Routine and responsibilities do help loads during uncertain times. They create a sense of normalcy, a grounding of consistency. Plus they help to remind you what day it is. My students have been a godsend during these times.

But after all of it passed, we were still left with land covered in debris and homes, while inhabitable, feeling alien to us. My grandma and I returned and steadily began to clean up and pick up the pieces left behind.

And then, almost ironically, just after the ceremony we held to lay pawpaw’s ashes to rest in Bogata, Texas…another storm reared its nasty head. Hurricane Delta went through while I was comfortably traveling with my younger brother, yet for all that we enjoyed ourselves, the twist in my stomach at not being able to return home – again – was sharp and sickening. Once again, we are craving normalcy during an utterly weird time of our lives, a time when everything seems possible and yet nothing seems easy. A time when so many are struggling, losing parents, neighbors, and loved ones of all sorts.

And I am brought back to the purpose I seek – the unity, the understanding, the compassion. And I am reminded that by being able to face my own problems, I have been more equipped to achieve this with others. A calm in the storm, a clarity of mind unattainable by me before.

To close this reflection, I would like to share some poems I have written over the past year that I feel encapsulate this awakening, this painful growth, and the power it has given me to persevere in spite of all adversity. These are more so portraits of what I’ve seen and where I’ve been. Yet they make me all the more grateful for where I am today. Weird a place as it may be.

Depression is not a silent killer

Depression is not a silent killer.
It screams and shouts
Sometimes
It breaks things –
Plates and forks and frames
Sometimes –
It just breaks hearts.

Depression is wishing:
You were dead
Thinking:
Who’s gonna care anyway?
Being immobile:
Neither asleep
Nor awake.

Depression is a flatline
It’s seeing your dad dressed for his own
Funeral –
It’s not knowing
If waking up is ever really worth it
While the dreams fill you with fear of sleep –
But still –
It’s a cycle.

Depression is living –
It’s alive and breeding
Making a home in your darkest thoughts
Making a chant of your biggest flaws.

Depression is feeling
Awake while you’re asleep
And asleep while you’re awake.

The fact is –
Even though you can’t hear it –
Even if it doesn’t make sense –
If the words don’t come out right –
If there are no I-need-you/help-me’s –
No cries for help –
The signs are there:

Depression is not
A silent killer.

Trauma

Trauma lives
deep inside our bones.
We can’t sweat it out,
our tears won’t make it go away.

Trauma
blinds us
and breaks us.
But sometimes
it breaks us free.

When I remember
his hands around my neck
my hands pulling his hair
our fists and teeth clenched
his fingers pinching the razor blade
till red paint bursts across my eyes
the hatred in his eyes
the fear and heavy breathing
the sweat and heady tension –

I remember that
I am free.
And I thank God
that it’s just a memory:
a deep-seated
PTSD.

Unhealthy

How to break the cycle?
How do I become more whole
So that I avoid breaking myself
In two for someone else?

Today
The earth reminds us
With every fire, every shake, every storm
Of the old adage
That no matter where you are:
What injures the hive, injures the bee.

I thank you, reader, for looking outward and inward. During this time, we must remember that we aren’t alone in our struggles, and while there is no one simple solution, we can overcome the worst and the darkest. We might need to fall a thousand times or lose our homes or just have the courage to reach out to others. But it’s worth it. Today, in spite of all of this, I feel grateful to wake up every morning, to have something to write about, to be alive – and that’s not always been an easy thing to say. And I’m grateful to you.

Thanks for accompanying me on this journey.

One if by land, two if by air: A Gamble in Ecuador (a recap of my time in Quito in 2021)

Bear with me, but I am going through my drafts and trying to release a few. I wrote this back in 2021. I decided to leave out the cringe-worthy prologue about the plans I ditched that year reminding of how naive I used to be. But the information and experience I had in Quito as I described it was worth recounting, so here you go!

Currently, I’m sitting in the airport in Guayaquil, Ecuador. I’ve got about 6 hours until my flight to Colombia, so I’ve been reading through my new German Essentials for Dummies book and now finally updating this blog.

What have I been doing in Ecuador, you ask? Well, I needed to check off at least one country from my list this year. I wasn’t sure if I’d be accepted to the Trilingual International Studies program so I went ahead and booked a flight to Quito, Ecuador after deciding that I would make a trip home to visit my folks. My time home completely revolved around family – including a terribly wholesome family roadtrip to visit my grandpa in New Mexico. I really needed to do something for me after that; it wasn’t what I originally had in mind, as I have been hoping to explore several South American countries during the June-July break (thanks, Corona!), but it was a nice way of getting out of my comfort zone and exploring a new place.

I booked the flight back in mid-June after deliberating over flights with my brother. Parentals insisted that flying into Lake Charles was the easiest option for everyone, so I decided that if I was going to be paying extra to fly into a small city airport anyway, I might as well tac on a return flight to Quito. The roundtrip flight cost around $600, $400 of which were covered by finishing my 2-year work contract.

My time at home passed quickly, and before I knew it, I had only booked a single hostel for my first two nights in Quito. Frankly, I like traveling this way, because up until I stayed in Quito for the weekend, I wasn’t even sure where I wanted to go after exploring the capital. My original plan was to casually work my way north since Quito is only about 4-5 hours from the border with Colombia, then cross by land and bus around to some places of interest on the way home (including Pasto and a possible stop in Ibague or Villavicencio).

This was my plan. No flights back. I even did several searches to see what the most viable way of crossing the Ecuador-Colombia border would be. I had it all figured out, I thought, before I even had each day of my trip mapped out.

Until I started talking to other people in the hostel and got a more up-to-date view of the border crossing. Ironic that when you search for information about the Ecuador-Colombia border, the fact that it’s closed on the Ecuadorian side doesn’t come up.

Colombia has opened up their side with Ecuador since mid-June, however Ecuador doesn’t seem to be keen about letting people out or in by land. I understand that ground borders tend to be less regulated and therefore less practical for preventing people with the Corona Virus from crossing, but I feel this is more about population control in general. Plus, it does nothing to efficiently stop the transport of contraband. Airports are perhaps more orderly and “cleaner” in their regulation of the comings and goings of people.

One of my favorite things about solo travel is being able to time and pace things to my liking. I book based on my energy level and the amount I want to do during my stay. I knew from the beginning that I would probably only spend the weekend (Friday-Sunday) in Quito, so I intended to make my time count. That’s how I decided to book a bunk at the Secret Garden hostel in Quito’s historic downtown. This hostel has a breathtaking view of the city. Even when arriving, exhausted, at 11:30 pm on Friday night and having to walk up 4 flights of stairs (this is how you get the amazing rooftop bar view), I couldn’t help but stare in awe at the lights and illuminated monuments of the Ecuadorian capital.

This hostel was perfect for meeting travelers from all over the world, both young and old. The next day, I had breakfast around 9 am in order to be prepared to take off on a 2-hour free walking tour at 10. I sat alone and couldn’t help overhearing the conversation at the table next to me – a mixture of French, English, and German! I admit it, I was itching to just insert myself into that conversation and try practicing my language skills. But I was not fully awake or comfortable and felt that would be obnoxious and awkward, so I contented myself with just eavesdropping (one of the great joys of being a language learner/polyglot).

I cannot hype the walking tour enough. Once I ate and changed, I met on the same rooftop where reception and the kitchen/bar are located to wait for the guide to arrive. While waiting, a girl from Switzerland struck up conversation with me. In hostels, you find yourself meeting people from all over and initially starting conversations the same way over and over again (Where are you from? How long have you been here? What are your plans? Why did you choose x country to visit?). It’s inevitable but enjoyable nonetheless because every person you meet has a slightly different story.

Our group was a European mixture. I was the only American on the tour. Other hostel stayers included a Belgium couple, a Spanish couple, and a man from Sweden. We started with a group picture, being taught about the “Cuy” or rodents (like Guinea Pigs) that were a traditional part of local cuisine as we were told to shout “Cuy!” instead of cheese. (sidebar: I learned this is a homophone with the French word for balls)

The tour felt something like a hike as we went up and down the infinite hills and slopes of Quito. We saw several breathtaking and gaudy Catholic churches, including La Basilica, with its famous condor spire. Entry to most of these buildings and museums costs between $2-5 dollars. We were shown old buildings built on foundations mixed with bones. In pre-Colombian times, people would use the bones of their deceased relatives to infuse the house with their spirit and be protected by them. The bones in the foundations we saw were animal bones, but I wondered where I might see a structure old enough to still have human bones mixed into the stone. We also learned other fun facts about the architecture and saw stones around the Presidential Palace that could be traced back to the time of the Inca based on the shape and texture of their stones.

The highlight of this walking tour is the sampling we got to do. Angie, our guide, took us to a jugueria or fruit/juice spot where we got to try fruits typically used to make juice in Ecuador. Most are the same as in Colombia, except for taxo (I’m still not sure if it has an equivalent in Colombia or if it’s totally unique and native to Ecuador), and some with different names like naranjilla (known as lulo in Colombia). This reminded me of the walking tour I took in Cali which included a last stop in the Alameda market. I bought a jugo de taxo for one dollar, just for the sake of its novelty. I hadn’t missed out on much, though, as the orange-colored juice is quite bland and sort of tasteless in my opinion.

Our next stop included an explanation of how chocolate was made from the bitter cacao seeds/beans and included lots of samples of chocolates made from 60%-100% purity. Apparently, most commercial chocolates (Hersheys, etc.) can’t be considered true, high quality chocolate because they have under 60% of cacao needed to be called “real.” I had had a huge breakfast and was feeling so full I couldn’t even finish all of my chocolate samples – never thought I’d see the day when I didn’t have space for sweets!

Finally we finished our adventure in a private room upstairs where I assume people usually get together with their friends to drink and dance. I got to give a brief salsa demonstration (LOL) because out of everyone there I was the only person that new the basic steps (other than Angie). We got our canelazo (traditional cinnamon drinks mixed – optionally – with sugarcane rum, the most common liquor sold native to Ecuador) and everyone learned the famous drinking phrase: Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa’ dentro!

During this experience, I made plans with my Swiss friend Ramona to go on our own little tour. At first, we were just going to the teleferico (a cable car suspended in the air that is used to quickly scale mountains) to capture of view of the city. Our taxista convinced us that we could squeeze in La Mitad del Mundo (~50 minutes from the hostel) into our schedule and do it all – just for $35. Did I mention Ecuador is more expensive than Colombia? And the currency is dollars? Because that would be a shitton of pesos colombianos and I would refuse. But here, that sounded like a good deal to split between two people. Plus, just to get from the airport (some 45 minutes away at the time I got in, nighttime), I got tricked into paying $30 for a ride that usually would cost $20. Not knowing the local pricing and sleeping on negotiating can really drain your money.

For $5 we entered the Middle of the World monument park. There are lots of museums and shops to visit inside, but the gimmick that this is the exact place where the equator passes (0 degrees latitude) is apparently debunked in the museum we decided to skip.

Another fun tip is to make sure you bring layers or a good jacket. It was so windy, and after sweating during the walking tour, Ramona and I were convinced it wouldn’t be too cold. We were wrong, oh so very wrong – and me more than her because I didn’t even take a sweater just in case.

The real chill factor came with the teleferico. After the fast yet interminable climb to the top overlooking the city (roughing 15-20 minutes long), we were literally in the clouds. We could see our breath. I started losing feeling in my fingers and had to hike at a brisk pace (as brisk as my gasping breaths in the high altitude would allow) in order to stay warm. The trail leads to a swing set, el columpio en las nubes, or the swing in the clouds. By the time we finally got our turn on the swing set, the mountain was completely embanked by clouds and fog.

Instead of waiting in an infinitely long line to go down, we waited out the cold in the cafe. We were literally the last of the people to go down the mountain and had a surprise scare when the gondola suddenly froze when we finally had the base station in view. Trust me when I say, I was lowkey-highkey screaming on the inside.

Our night was tied together with a mediocre meal at the hostel and a great night out. We went up in taxi with a Danish guy that had been sat with Ramona for dinner and the Swedish man we met on the tour. We enjoyed a couple cups of canelazo and an incredible view of the Virgen del Panecillo, the name for the hill overlooking the city. We weren’t expecting to find a full fair of street food and live performances at the top of that hill, but our night was made by the visit.

To return to my predicament, I discovered that night that I wasn’t the only one hoping to cross into Colombia by land. After making lots of calls, an acquaintance I made in The Secret Garden hostel concluded that you could cross by taxi without getting stamped, as long as you didn’t need to return to Europe. Obviously, the legality of such a situation is murky, but with that information, on Sunday I booked my next stay at Hospedaje Vertientes del Imbabura. I set out full speed ahead towards Otavalo once I felt rested enough.

The Ecuadorian countryside was lovely. I got to meet some kind locals — a taxi driver that told me about how inflation with the switch to the dollar had affected people living in Ecuador for the worst; a kindly innkeeper for lack of a better name that told me about the local Andean culture of Imbabura with their Summer Solstice festival and rituals; even in Otavalo I found kind faces in the Plaza de los Ponchos where I ended up buying two ponchos (one of which unfortunately was synthetic, but I got what I could on a limited budget). From Otavalo, I hiked up to a waterfall with a local guide and tried some local food before caving to the realization that I was not willing to risk crossing the Ecuadorian border illegally.

Tearful, I ended up booking a flight from Quito which I honestly do not regret as much as I thought I would. The funny thing about spending money when you travel is you rarely look back and say, “Fudge! I shouldn’t have spent that money that clearly went towards making my life better!” It hurts in the moment, especially when you miss a flight and have to pay for a new one, but in this case, the monetary cost of leaving Ecuador legally was worth the stress of booking a last-minute flight to avoid taking risks by going in some pirate taxi on some sketchy dirt road between Ecuador and Colombia that could have ended up costing more in more ways than one.

So! Moral of the story: spend the money and forget about it. In the long run, it doesn’t matter. Traveling well and taking precautions will never be a waste of money, even if that money could have been spent better or wiser.

At least that’s my takeaway from this experience 3 years later. It hasn’t been that long in reality, but it feels like ages have passed since then, and so it goes….

Day 3: San Gil & Rafting

I made it to San Gil later than I had bargained for — 2 pm. This was due to a series of unfortunate events: first I checked out without getting my passport. Before I even realized that though I was waiting for my inDriver to pick me up. He was running late and had to make a full block. I had been trying to get to the terminal by 8. I couldn’t get there until 8:20. Then I found that the next bus that was leaving for San Gil wasn’t leaving till 9:40. This actually was a rather fortunate event — a blessing in disguise — because it was around this time that I realized I was missing something very essential. My passport. Shit.

I had to find WiFi in order to contact the hotel. Breathe, I told myself. Don’t panic, there’s time.

You see as I mentioned when I got to the second hotel it was 5 am, and I was exhausted. They told me they needed my passport to check me in so I handed it over. Then I never got it back.

It’s a good thing I got my new SIM card and a better thing that the terminal in Bucaramanga has public WiFi. I contacted the hotel and they quickly got a delivery guy to bring me my passport. Without the SIM card, I would’ve missed the guy completely as I had no idea where he was. Mark the first of many times I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off looking around and asking directions all over the place.

6 mil later, I had my passport back. Then it was time to board the bus. There was tons of traffic between Bucaramanga and San Gil, which turned a one hour trip to a four hour trip. Again, not ideal as I was going to take a bus to explore Curiti or originally go to Cañón Chicamocha to trek the same day.

Once I got to San Gil, having slept most of the way, I woke up groggy and spaced out. The driver helped me with my bag but we both forgot one key thing: the package my friend Liz entrusted me with. I found a taxi and literally sat down before realizing what I was missing. Like a crazy woman, I tell the taxista I’m missing something important and dart out of the taxi. I run across the terminal, praying that the bus hasn’t left yet. I nearly got onto the wrong Reina bus that was leaving, but once I realized it was a driver I didn’t recognize, I apologized and rushed to the other Reina bus — and somehow, it was my bus. Everyone stared at me as I gasped for air and triumphantly reached up and grabbed the rectangular package. Feeling everyone starring at me, I explained I’d almost left it, but “todo bien, menos mal.” One step closer to following through with my promise to deliver it safely to Nibiru.

On to Trip Monkey! A cheap taxi ride, just 4800 and not so far off the path. Trip Monkey is ranked number 1 among hostels in San Gil, and it was easy to see why. I was greeted immediately by Yosh (or Josh?) who quickly sorted me out using a map to show me what my options were during my 2 day (1 night) stay. After showing me the king sized (yes “matrimonial”) bunkbed I’d be sleeping in and giving me the grand tour, I took a moment to sort out the information I was given.

I was able to do so much during my short time:

-Parque Gallineral: a natural park right down the road from the hostel, 6k to enter, a peaceful and lovely place to enjoy the natural riches of San Gil on the banks of the Fonce River.

-rafting down this same river at 4 pm for 60.000 cop.

-exploring the 7 pozos of Pescaderito near the town of Curití

-Heading to Páramo in the afternoon to rest before a dive into the Cueva del Indio the next day

And I left having the opportunity of making some nice friends from Bogota in the process! That’s been the coolest part of this trip, the different contacts I’ve been able to make and the stimulating conversations I’ve shared along the way.

I struck up conversation with the group that was going rafting at the same time as me. In reality, their plans had been made and they had been staying at Trip Monkey for several days already. They accepted me into their group immediately and showed interest in getting to know me. I guess we foreigners living in Valledupar are some kind of enigmas. It has given plenty to talk about, that’s for sure.

When we got to the raft launch point, I got placed with a separate, smaller group. They were a family, made up of two small children, two women, a younger guy, and me. And the guide who instructed us and kept us from flipping the boat. The guy was a saint for sure, because somehow nobody fell out of the boat in spite of all the crying and rapids we ran into at the beginning. I love the water and all, but even I have to admit I was a little nervous at first. I didn’t mind getting wet, but falling into the water and possibly hitting my head on a rock? Yeah, I think in worst case scenarios, what can I say?

But as soon I was at the front of the boat rowing away (following the instructions shouted by our guide: Adelante! – Forward – Alto! – Stop – Atras – Back – who had taught us the proper way to hold the oar and paddle ahead of time), I felt like the hero of an action-adventure movie. I was Pocahontas mentally singing Just Around the Riverbend at full belt. I was surrounded by beauty and lush greenery, birds, trees, ancient rocks, and cold rushing waters sometimes replaced by seductively subtle whirlpools. It was magical. I would do it a million times over — I would even go for a more challenging route like a 4-5. Just like that, fear was not a problem.

The other half of the family/friend group was on a smaller raft. Unlike us, they had trouble distributing their weight. They must have fallen out or tipped their boat over at least 4 or 5 times. I got to save one of them as she was pulled toward our boat by the current. Easier said than done — pulling her into the boat was a joint effort. Nobody was hurt, and she was able to jump back into her raft a bit later.

After our hour-long adventure, we made it to the side of the river closer to San Gil. The guide had a go-pro and was kind enough to send me all of the videos and pictures taken of the tour. While we dried off, I spoke some more with my new travel buddies from the hostel. They shared some lemon cake with me, and the strong, gorgeous woman that drove us to and from the rafting area convinced me to buy a bag of artisanal coffee grown in the area. For my parents, I decided, I wouldn’t say no.

Once we were back at the hostel, we sat out on the back patio and enjoyed Burger Night — $16000 for a freshly grilled burger, nachos, guac, and a beer. I had 3 beers while chatting with the group, made up of a few couples and friends from work and childhood. We played our first game of Rummi, one that involves quite a bit of math and patterns. Somehow (beginner’s luck, no doubt) I managed to win. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves until around 11 when we had finished the game and decided to get some rest for the new adventures waiting for us on the following day.

Traveling has a way of stripping all of your mundane worries and fears down and putting them in perspective. I used to be so guarded with new people. But sometimes it just takes sharing — information, interests, a game — in order to create a vibe. I started the day tired and stressed out. I ended it relaxed and rejuvenated, exhausted yet perfectly content. I have reminded myself daily during this trip, whether what is happening is good or bad: it’s the journey. It’s part of the story. Each day and moment and challenge is what we make of it.

A marathon, not a sprint

I got into Bucaramanga at 5 am. Even though I slept on the bus and even had a row of two seats to myself in the front to lay across and try to become comfortable, I still felt exhausted. (I still feel exhausted)

All I could think about was the hotel room waiting for me. I knew it was too early to check in — I booked the room for Monday night. I didn’t care. I couldn’t think.

I listened to Kafka on the Shore on the bus ride until I fell asleep 5 chapters in and had to replace it with relaxing music to avoid missing anything and having to relisten to the same chapters. Kafka is the self-given pseudonym of the protagonist, a 15 year old male runaway. Like most Murakami stories I’ve encountered, his solitude is interrupted by a chance (what they call “karmic”) meeting with a girl called Sakura. They had each fallen asleep on the bus around the time that I did the same. They woke up just as sore and exhausted as I did. Somehow that seems appropriate.

I got to my hotel quickly enough, 8 pesos, and I was promptly informed that there was nowhere for me to sleep until checkin at 3 pm. Let’s just say, I’m less than impressed with Ayenda hotels. Still, the receptionist, Maria Fernanda, was accommodating and helped me get a room in another hotel. Just $25 mil pesos more for a private room upgraded with AC. The only downside is its proximity to reception — right by a noisy downtown street with noisy workmen and guests. But beggars can’t be choosers. I was just happy to have somewhere to sleep. I underestimated how tired I was.

I slept from 6 am until noon. I had three missions today: get a SIM card, print, sign, and email a contract, and find a place to eat and work at. I somehow accomplished it all. I’m sitting outside of Crepes & Waffles right now, getting ready to give an English class. I’ve been here since 4 pm. It’s located in Parque Pio, a very central location that’s had people in and out since I’ve been here.

Many recommended I do different things today. I liked the idea, but my exhaustion overrode everything. Tomorrow I’ll be staying at a hostel in San Gil. I’ll go to Canyon Chicamocha and hike. Adventure is around the corner. But today was evidence that my body needed rest above and beyond all else.

Travel like you’re running a marathon, not a sprint. That’s something life has taught me. Listen to your body. You don’t want to be miserable rushing around doing things just because you feel that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Semana Santa diaries: Anxiety

Somehow even with 3 days of preparation, I still have this gnawing fear of forgetting something. Leaving something undone. Packing too much or too little. Miscalculating.

This is travel anxiety. An old friend I know too well. Almost like an ex I can’t seem to shake off. We just keep on getting back together, no matter how toxic our relationship is clear to be.

Well, it’s my first time solo traveling in a year and a half. I experience this anxiety pretty much everytime I do. I’m always on edge. But I’ve come to see it as a sort of excitement and expectation of the adventure to come. Before the plunge into the unknown.

I have a love-hate relationship with risk-taking. The last time I visited one of the towns on my ever-growing list of destinations, I tried paragliding for the first time. That was in October of 2019. I was somewhere between fear, excitement, and denial. I have this little fear of falling from high places. Not a general fear of heights, but a phobia caused by the vulnerability of looking down and feeling you could die. That’s vertigo, right? It was a thrill. I’m not planning on doing it again though, and definitely not while solo traveling.

This semana Santa, I’m focusing on places I’ve heard about often but still haven’t seen. Tonight I’m heading to Bucaramanga. My bus leaves at 9 and will get there around…6? 5? Something like that. Depends on the number of stops. It goes fast at night.

I’ll be exploring some places that I’ve already been to, like San Gil, with many I new towns like Páramo and Villa de Leyva.

I have all of my destinations mapped out pretty much, but with my personal brand of ADHD, trying to plan each day’s activities is beyond me. It’s so overwhelming my jaw clenched just thinking about it. I have an idea of what each spot has to offer, but I’ve decided to take things slow and not stress over doing every single activity. I just want to soak each place in, come away with a feel of what I liked and what I found jarring or strange. That’s part of the fun of immersive travel.

And I have not 1 but 2 weeks to do this thanks to Covid. We’ll be virtual for 2 whole extra weeks. So I’ll be working while traveling, a foreign concept but a welcomed challenge. That means for next week, I’m looking for private rooms at the best price I can find.

I spent the day sussing through different locations and properties on booking, deciding which would give me the most bang for my buck. I almost wanted to say “f it” and go extravagant and expensive, but then I remembered that 2 weeks of travel require a bargain hunting mentality to avoid financial stress later. So I used what I could find about different destinations and the best deals in the nicest hostels and hotels I could find to guide me on this journey. I’m going to start cheap and slowly work my way up, as will be required while I’m teaching virtually.

I’m also going to look like the biggest tourist ever as I’m going to be carrying not one but TWO backpacks — my big mochilero bag and my laptop backpack. I think it’ll be more comfortable than having a purse or shoulder bag in the long run. Plus I want to keep my laptop on me at all times when I’m not checked in somewhere.

So that’s the plan. In an hour and a half I’ll be at the terminal. I cleaned my apartment (3 loads of laundry — and I still have dirty clothes — dishes washed, trash taken out, floors swept), I’ve rested and showered to mentally and physically prepare for the bus ride. Now I’m contemplating popping an Antianxiety pill or two and meditating.

I always anticipate the adventure. But that doesn’t mean I stop grappling with the negative and positive sides of anxiety. And that’s okay. Confronting the things that give us anxiety and finding the good in them is how we grow.