Let's Dance

When we returned to Ecuador in January, we had a few changes to implement to our after-school care program here. One of those changes was the addition of a two-day literacy program, and a weekly music program.

We launched out music program yesterday by learning that everyone is a musician, and that musicians all over the world speak the same language. By way of example, we pointed to Wyclef Jean and Lauryn Hill’s cover of Celia Cruz’s “Guantanamera” and the Gipsy Kings' cover of “Hotel California.”

For the next few weeks, we will hop around the world learning about different kinds of music and how they are related – from Bob Marley to the Beatles to B.B. King. But, given that I spent an unfortunate amount of my youth listening to bad religious music, I need a little help. The hypothetical:

Let's say Ban Ki-Moon and the rest of the folks at the UN decided to set up a “World Musical Heritage Collection,” along the lines of the World Heritage Sites. What songs and artists would be in it?

Send me an email with your ideas. If you own them and aren’t a Luddite, attach them as well.

Go to Colombia: Part III of III

I left Salento, Colombia, in much the same manner I left Taganga: wondering why we were leaving at all. Luke was ready to party, however, and we had heard from multiple sources that Cali, Colombia was the place to do that.

If that is true, Luke and I were in the wrong spot. Along with a new Austrian friend, we went to the main strip identified in our (less than) trusty Lonely Planet. We attempted to pretend to be having fun, then went back to the hostel and crashed.

The following morning, we went with our new Australian friends (aren`t we wordly) straight to the bus stop to buy tickets back to Quito. As I found during my EuroTrip, ten days is about my quick-stop backpacking limit. But the overnight bus, the only one that wouldn`t put us in FARC country overnight, left at nine. How in the world were we going to spend the rest of the day?

We had promised to bring back to Ecuador some Colombian coffee, and Luke wanted a Colombian hat - both of which we found, the latter of which I lost on a bus back to Quito. Sorry Luke. The interesting bit about Colombian coffee, however, is that unless you are in Bogota, Colombian coffee is almost impossible to find in Colombia. Sounds nuts, right? The basic economic deal is that producers can make mountains of money by exporting coffee, and precious little selling it to Colombians. So it´s all exported. Which means that Luke and I, along with a new and entirely random Colombian friend, traveled all over Cali - and I mean all over Cali - and wound up buying untoasted coffee in a small shop that sold birdfood, fish, rice, beans, and dehydrated meats. We got ten pounds of it, called it a day, and headed back home.

Go to Colombia: Part II of III

After spending a few extra days scuba-diving in paradise (see previous post), Luke and I hopped on a bus back through Santa Marta, Colombia, and on to Medellin. Medellin is, supposedly, one of Colombia´s gems. But given our Cartagena experience, Luke and I decided to head out of the city immediately and wound up, mostly by accident, in a village called Salento.

Located in the middle of Colombia´s coffee zone, Salento´s main attractions are a marvelous hostel and access to hiking, horse back riding, and some of the most beautiful scenery (and people) I have laid eyes on. As in Taganga, Luke and I doubled the amount of time we had planned on staying in Salento, and were there through Christmas.

At this point, mind you, my parents did not know I was in Colombia. I told my brother, and Luke´s family knew. But I was not willing to have my mother lose two weeks´ worth of sleep just because some guerillas used to like snatching gringos in Colombia (they only snatch rich locals now). So, aspiring CIA operative that I am, I lied to the folks about being in Ecuador, until Christmas Day.

Christmas at the hostel was wonderful - we had a genuinely cross-cultural Christmas feast and Secret Santa gift exchange, and Luke and I even cooked up some sausage jambalaya to share with the others. I was explaining all of this, vaguely, to the parents, when I began to describe my Secret Santa´s gifts:

Me: "Really cool, it almost feels like Christmas. I got this little pen with a flashlight on it, and a Colombian poncho, and-"

Mom: "Is that a hint, Mark?"

Me, to self: *$¿%! Maybe I can wiggle out of this one...

Me, to Mom: I´m in Colombia. But it´s really safe, I promise! They haven´t kidnapped any Americans since 2003, and those guys were probably in the CIA anyway.

Mom: Mark, if you got kidnapped, it´d be like The Ransom of Red Chief all over again. They´d be paying to give you back."

Merry Christmas, Mom.

Go to Colombia: Part I of III

Before I talk much about my recent two-week Christmas trip to Colombia, let me answer what seems to be most people´s first question:

Yes.

Yes, Colombia is safe for Americans, as long as you don´t go rubbing elbows at cocaine factories deep in the Amazon jungle. The last gringos kidnapped in Colombia were US defense contractors - local rumor holds also CIA operatives - and that was in 2003. Yes, Colombia is gorgeous. And yes, the people are as stereotypically friendly as any Latin American country I have ever visited. Luke and I had a blast, and except for our rather brainless wandering around the ghetto in Cali, sniffed not a hint of personal danger.

Now, on to the meat of things. State Department be damned, Luke and I flew north to Cartagena on December 16th. We landed at night, spent three hours fending off pimps and cocaine dealers, and fled as fast as possible the following morning. Cartagena could have been great - it´s a coastal city with beautiful beaches and French Quarter-style bougainvillea-covered balconies overlooking narrow streets. But it´s just so much grimier even than New Orleans that Luke and I couldn´t stomach it.

So away we fled to Taganga, a tiny fishing village east of Santa Marta. I am scratching my head as to why we´re not in Taganga today, to be quite honest. Luke and I spent three days eating fresh-cooked fish, drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice, and puzzling over whether to spend our afternoons after scuba diving reading on the beach or relaxing in the hammocks of our favorite beach-view restaurants. Go to Taganga. Yesterday.

Next up: another set of urban disappointments, lying to my parents about traveling in Colombia, and the day-long search for coffee beans/bird food in Cali.