What Mr. Moustache didn't know...

As I wrote in my latest article, South Americans are always willing to help, whether you ask or not, and I sincerely love them for that.  But sometimes it seems that their willingness to be helpful far exceeds there ability to be helpful.

Many a times, we've asked for direction to the bank, to a supermarket, to the post office, etc.  Only about one person in 20 says, "sorry, I don't know."  Unfortunately, that guy is one of the few who actually knows what he knows, if you get my meaning.  Rarely do we ever arrive at our destination.

The ritual, which is funny the next day but never at the moment, goes something like this :

- "Excuse me sir," we ask the tall moustachioed man, "we're looking for the nearest post office.  Do you know where it is ?"

- "Oh yes !," he answers excitedly.  "You need to walk two blocks up this road, and he points, then turn left at the red light.  Then walk one more block and you'll see it."

We thank him and follow his directions and find three pollo restaurants and four stores selling shoes.  We then ask a kindly-looking woman who's waiting for a bus.

- "Walk up this way one block, then turn right and walk two blocks."

- "Are you sure ?  We just came from that direction.  And we didn't see it."

- "Oh, it's there, I'm sure of it."  So we follow her directions, and we discreetly walk past the man with the moustache.  And we ask a student standing on the corner.

- "Oooh, it's far away."  And she points in the opposite direction of Mr. Moustache and Mrs. Kindly."  Just walk straight for about 10 or 15 minutes on this road."

Guess what ?  Was the post office there ?  If you could see our shaking heads and slumped shoulders, you'd know the answer.

So we give up and walk in a different direction, perpendicularly away from Miss Student, Mr. Moustache, and Mrs. Kindly, searching instead for something to eat.  And five minutes later, we find the post office.

And of course that post office couldn't send our letters...but that's another story.

The next day, we ask an elderly man for directions to a bus stop.

- "Well, I'm not sure.  Let's go ask someone else."  I could have kissed him.

Quick, look lost !

We arrived in Medellin on the night bus.  We staggered into the terminal, tired and without much of a plan for the day.  Less than three minutes later, a woman approached us, "Are you lost ?  Do you need help ?"  We told her we were thinking of maybe, perhaps, going to the Botanical Garden.  "Oh," she looked us up and down, "if you go in there with your backpacks, you won't be leaving with them."  Then she offered to bring us home with her...and feed us...and let take showers...and let us sleep in a bed.  It was an offer we couldn't refuse.  We were certainly interested in keeping our backpacks.  So we spent the day with Andrea and her sister and mother and had a great time.

This is an extreme example, but this happens over and over in Colombia and Venezuela.  Anytime we spend more than two minutes at a street corner contemplating which direction to take, there's always a local who notices and offers help and advice.

In fact if you want to find the nicest people in a 50-meter radius, anywhere in upper South America, here's what you do : stop moving, pull out a map or guidebook, look at it upside down, and scratch your head.  Get ready, someone's coming to help.

Brown Paper, Narrow Pipes

In the beginning, there was a hole.  And someone took a dump there.  And wiped his own hole with his hand…or perhaps with some leaves.  Thus the first toilet was born.  Can you hear the opening music to the film 2001 ?  Of course, that bathroom ritual still exists in many parts of the world today.  But in Europe and North America, among other places, we’ve reached the pinnacle of bathroom technology and hygiene; we’ve got flushable toilets and oh-so-soft triple-ply paper. 

Upon first glance at any bathroom in Colombia and Venezuela, you probably wouldn’t be able to detect any differences.  Sink and faucet : check.  Flushable toilet : check.  Toilet paper : check.  Little trash bin : check.  But there is a difference.  It’s in the pipes.  In this part of the world, the pipes aren’t exactly the same caliber as back home.  Oh, they can handle just fine the peepee and the caca…but not the paperpaper.  That little brown-streaked paper goes in the little trash bin next to the toilet. 

And you might expect that this little bathroom would be the foulest smelling room in the world.  You might expect it to be crawling and overflowing with flies and maggots.  You might expect to get wicked constipation from tightening your anus and avoiding all the bathrooms of Latin America.  Those would be reasonable expectations.  But you’d be wrong.  In fact, it’s usually odorless, and certainly smells no worse than any other room in the house.  And I can’t even begin to explain it.  I've seen those bins overflowing with brown paper, but not overflowing with stink.  I don’t get it; my olfaction doesn't get it.  I guess it’s just one of life’s pleasant mysteries.

Like A Bridge Over Brown Water

 

The Golden Gate Bridge.  The London Millennium Footbridge.  The Millau Viaduct.  The Pont du Gard.  Bridges are beautiful.  They span space and time.  They're spanners.  But not "in the works" of course.  They defy the instinctual logic of my brain.  How can they hold up their own weight, let alone all the cars, trucks, and fat tourists ?  Why don't they crash into the abyss below ?  But if I accept the fact that bridges are not magic - and physics does make such a claim - that makes it all the more paradoxical and ironic that they can be felled by marching armies or tourists, or wind, or supposedly even a cat.  They're beautiful, too, as metaphors, but I won't get into all that cross-cultural bullshit.

Anyway, back to Colombia.  Barranquilla and Santa Marta are large Colombian cities along the Caribbean shores.  The Magdalena River and the Manzaranes River pass, respectively, through these two towns.  And several bridges span these rivers, the majority unremarkable.  But on our second day in Barranquilla, we did discover some rather interesting bridges built with unconventional architectural techniques.

You see, these cities have no gutters and no sewers.  So when it rains, at least once every three days during the rainy season, you get inner city flash floods.  The roads collect all the precipitation, forming hundreds of new and temporary canals after about 30 minutes.  Looks something like a dirty and shallow Venice.  But not a gondola in sight.

Most people stay put when the streets flood, and many cab drivers will even refuse to drive.  They don't drive Hummers here, after all.  Maybe they could use some gondolas after all, steered by singing Italians...  But honestly, it's very dangerous.  We heard of one motorcyclist who had been swept away the river of sediment and garbage.  His body was never recovered.  We saw a giant drowned rat that had been swept away, too.  Its body rolled in front of my feet.

So what's the solution ?  Are the cities building gutters and sewers and retention ponds ?  Ha !  Of course not !  But some enterprising citizens brave the river-slash-roads and build bridges out of pallets and crates and 2x2's and other scraps of wood, and they charge the passers-by 25 cents to get to the other side.  And not even armies of soaked Barranquilleros and Samarios marching across can't collapse it.  It's no Golden Gate, that's for sure, but these Bridges of Barranquilla and Santa Marta have their utility and, in a way, their beauty.

Trash

Trash.  Rubbish.  Garbage.  Litter.  Waste.  Latin America has it all.  In abundance.  Anyone who's visited this part of the world knows what I'm talking about.  One of my first cultural shocks I received on my first trip to Latin America was on my first bus ride out of Managua.  Several passengers had bought sodas in a bag (literally, soda poured into a plastic bag) for the trip.  And when the bag was empty, the passengers leisurely tossed them out the window to let them mingle with other discarded bags.  Cringe !

But my most recent shock was in Barranquilla, on the Colombian Caribbean coast.  Driving through the city, we passed a canal, called the Pumpkin Canal, which was linked through a series of canals to the Magdalena River.  But this canal was an interesting composition of one part water and three parts trash.  The layer of plastic, paper, glass, and rotting food bobbed up and down with the wind.  Like a Colombian Cuyahoga.  If you're not American or if younger than 40 years old, you may be unfamiliar with the Cuyahoga River.  It's a river in Ohio that is infamous for catching on fire in the 1960's...several times.

The US, the country where rivers burn, produces more trash than any other nation.  But it usually does a damn fine job of hiding it all.  It's no Switzerland, but the plastic bags on the side of the road are few and far between.  Latin America produces less trash, but lets it all hang out.  If there's a hand-painted "No Littering Here" sign on a wall, below it you'll find, without exception, 14 bags of trash, half of them torn open and dispersed by the roving dogs.  Some kind of reverse psychology going on here...  I'm thinking of painting the sign "Whatever you do, don't place your gold and diamonds here" on a wall and then waiting around the corner.

And if this were Nebraska or the Murmansk Oblast, nobody'd be complaining.  But there's far too much beauty here between all the mountains and the beaches and the plains and the rainforest to let it be marred by styrofoam and plastic.  I can only hope that, like the fires on the Cuyahoga River, Barranquilla's dump canal will spur the people's inner environmentalists into action. 

I Have A Daydream

I have a daydream.  I’ve had the same one for over five years.  My mother is not fond of my daydream.  She’s pretty sure I’d be killed.  By sharks or drug-runners or big waves.  I’m more afraid of getting dragged by currents and ending up in Iceland.

Last night, I had a real dream.  In my night dream last night, I built a closet, no bigger than a telephone booth.  And I’ve planned to sail it, or rather, float it across an ocean.  Only that in my dream, it takes only a few minutes to cross, so it was probably a canal or small lake.  This water closet was only big enough for me, but for some reason there two other people hanging on the outside.  This dream was certainly inspired by my original daydream.  I’m not sure what inspired my daydream.  Perhaps it was Alfons Aberg, the little Swedish boy with a grand imagination.

My daydream is to build a lightweight and inexpensive boat and paddle and sail it around the Caribbean, starting in Florida and finishing in Trinidad or Venezuela, passing the Bahamas, Hispaniola, Puerto Rico, and all of the lesser Antilles en route.  I imagine a trip such as this would easily take half a year or more.  Preferably with some friends and a brother or two in the boat, too.

I wouldn’t say I’ve got the sea in my blood.  I wouldn’t even say that I’m a boat person.  I’ve been on a sailboat only once in my life and it was docked in a marina.  Out on the open water, I’ve never been in anything smaller than a ferry or a cruise ship.  I’m most familiar with canoes, paddling around the rivers of central Florida…but, I’d never try to cross the Gulf Stream in a tippy canoe.  I’m not a boat person, but I’d like to try to become one.

Buying has never been an option.  I do it homemade, with garbage and other cheap materials.  For my first attempt, I invited some friends to my home, and I told them to bring any float-worthy garbage.  We had a group of six sailors in addition to a hollow door, a wooden gate, a tile-encrusted wooden table, lots of plastic bottles, two 55-gallon barrels, and several oak branches that had fallen during a storm.  We divided ourselves into two teams and had three hours to build two lake-worthy rafts.  The result : the first boat was a submarine, gliding along two inches below lake level, wetting the pants of all crewmembers, including me.  The second boat fared far worse.  Taller than long, it flipped every time its crew attempted to climb back on.  Very funny.  Funny enough that we were encouraged to try again.


Six months later, we started again, with grand aspirations.  We were going to descend the Mississippi River iver iver er…or perhaps cross the Gulf of Mexico exico exico ico co o.  Like the echo ?  Anyway, the raft would be much bigger, more buoyant, more liveable.  Then we heard and read about all the sharks and the currents in the Gulf…  Back to the lake !  So we built it and lived on it for five days in the middle of the lake.  We never moved faster than one mile an hour, and that was with the wind.  We were thrashed about every afternoon by the daily thunderstorms, and we loved it !  But in the end, someone driving on the nearby bridge had called the police to report a sinking boat…and the police came, put their feet on our boat, threatened to deport our Aruban crewmember, and forced us off the lake.




Tries three and four were on the other side of the ocean, in Montpellier, France.  The last boat was too slow, too heavy.  It took four people to lift half of it.  So this time, we’d be going ultra-light : cardboard !  And so I convinced five teams (the first occasion) and eight teams (the second) to build flimsy cardboard boats, held together by paint and tape.  The first time, my boat sank after five minutes and my team swam across the lake carrying the submerged boat.  I swam back carrying a submerged paddle.  Did you know that a 25 kg cardboard raft weighs more than 3,000 kg when saturated with lake water ?  The second try, we fared a little better.  Our boat sank like before, but not before winning the race across the lake.  Progress !








It’s been six months now.  I’ve been boat-less for more than six months now.  I’m loving the mountains of Colombia, but my lake-legs miss the Huckleberry Finn life.  Every time I look at the world map, or at least the Caribbean part, I start daydreaming about crossing it, from Antille to Antille (is that the singular of Antilles ?).  But I know I have a lot of work to do before that, lots of materials to test, lots to learn about sailing and currents and man-eating sharks before embarcation.


Afficher Caribbean Trip sur une carte plus grande

So that’s why my next trip will be from the Ecuadorian coast to the Galapagos archipelago, in a raft made of tightly-bound reeds.  It’ll be a way to kill two birds with one stone.  The Galapagos islands are far too expensive for us to visit in the usual style, you know, with planes and cruises.  Keep checking for updates as my daydream approaches reality!




Just kidding, mom !  I’m not gonna cross hundreds of miles of the Pacific.


Yet.

Massacre Department

From Cartagena to Medellin on bus, you have to pass through the department of Cordoba.  The trip takes 14 hours, so we considered cutting the trip in two by stopping in Monteria, the capital of Cordoba.  And a friend living in Medellin had told me about a beautiful and un-touristy island a bit north of Monteria.  Sounded perfect !

We told our host in Barranquilla about our tentative plan.  He recoiled in horror.  “Oh, no, please don’t go there.”  We were a bit skeptical.  This is just one guy talking, who doesn’t even live in the region.  We were not yet convinced.

Then he told us about the reality of the life in the campo.  Around the country (all well beyond the beaten tourist trail), you have several armed and competing groups who demand a fee from the local farmers…or else.  Very mafia-style.  They call this fee a vacuna.  A vaccine.  For protection against a virus called…armed bandits.  There are least five such groups extracting money from the farmers.  The most famous is of course the FARC, but there are plenty of paramilitary, guerrilla, and other criminal groups to go around.  Some sad regions have all of these groups competing, meaning the locals need to pay five or six vacunas.  Cordoba is such a region.

Later on, we spoke to two other Cordobans, independently.  They concurred.  They had both left the area because of the violence and assured us that our white-ish skin and large-ish backpacks would attract the attention of one or more of the armed groups providing vaccinations.

We started to get the point, but I was going to do a bit of research to make sure.  One of the first articles that Google presented me was regarding two students from Bogota who were shot to death in January because they took photos on the beach.  They were mistaken for journalists.  I love beach photos, but I don’t want to be mistaken for a journalist.  The next article spoke of the 500 unsolved murders last year.  In one single department, with a small capital city with small towns and villages and farms around it.  Something like Iowa.

Each region, each department of the country is known for its special characteristics.  Bogota is the cultural center of the country , Paisas in Medellin are known for their business savy, the Costenos for fast-talkin' and slow-movin', and Cali is world famous for Salsa dancing.  And Cordoba is known for its massacres.  And I haven’t yet been vaccinated against massacres.  Is that part of the MMR vaccine : Measles Massacres and Rubella ?

Tayrona

After leaving the lonely and lovely Guajira, our next stop was Taganga, a small fishing village that has been overrun by tourists looking for parties and drugs and beaches.  It’s also used as a base for visiting the nearby national parks of Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta and Tayrona. 

The Sierra Nevada is a small mountain range in area but reaches 5,700m in altitude.  In fact, it’s the highest coastal range in the world.  The southern slopes of the park is home to la Ciudad Perdida.  This Lost City was the capital of the Tayrona civilization, a pre-Hispanic indigenous group and is now in ruins like its more famous Incan and Mayan counterparts in Peru and Mexico, albeit less impressive.   The real draw is the three-day hike (one-way) through the jungle to get there.  Unfortunately, the upper reaches are off-limits; the drug-growing indigenous are likely to kill trespassers.

Tayrona is perhaps the most-visited natural national park in the country.  It’s a Colombian juxtaposition of mountains, rainforest, and Caribbean beaches.  And it has monkeys.  And giant ants.  So you can see, it’s something like paradise.  Many travelers come to Colombia and spend the majority of their time bouncing between these three sites. 

Within seconds of stepping out of the taxi in Taganga, we were accosted from all sides by the hawkers hawking hotels, hostels, posadas, guided tours, boat excursions, restaurants…  I thought we’d suffocate under their weight.  Right after we passed the hawker gauntlet, we met another.  An army of dreadlocked hippies selling the same woven bracelets and necklaces.  The two groups were like a dozen piglets clamoring over half a dozen teats.

In the hyper-touristic sites and cities, the locals in the tourist industry equate white-skinned Europeans and North Americans with money.  Like walking wallets.  And in most of the cases, I think they’re right.  Most of the travelers we meet find no qualm paying overpriced hotels and taxis and guided tours.  We are not like most travelers.  To be able to travel for a year, a year and a half, we try to think and spend more like the regular locals.    

Thus we arrived at a camping ground while pondering which activities we would like to partake in.  At the camping ground, we met Rafael, a Colombian with a drooping Snidely Whiplash moustache and the front half of his skull shaved.  He tried to convince us to visit Tayrona.  “Hay que !,” he said.  You have to go !  Normally, the entrance fee is roughly $35 per person + $8 camping fee per night, which is not a price we spend lightly.  “Honestly,” continues Rafael, “it’s really worth the price.”  “You paid ?” I asked foolishly.  “Well, no, but you should definitely pay.”

Then he told us about one particular entrance to the park.  It was possible to avoid the park guards by walking in a creek around the park office and reach the beach without paying.  So now, we were heavily leaning toward going, by the super secret camino.  But he then added that it takes six hours of hiking to get to the beach.  With nowhere to leave our packs, we would have carry the weight over steep mountains with the heat and humidity of the rainforest air.  Hmmm, maybe not.  And to make matters worse, the guards give you a bracelet when you pay…and often check to see if the tourists are wearing them.  So, perhaps not.  Seemed like a hassle either way.

So, what’s plan B ?  Some locals at Taganga told us about a waterfall and several swimming holes along a creek in the mountains.  Cost : $1.50.  That’s more like it.  So we went there, spent the day there, and saw plenty of locals and not a single tourist.  And we loved it.  The water was perfectly refreshing on a hot day.  And it’s always hot along the coast. 

So we missed two of the biggest sites in the country…big deal.  The money we didn‘t spend means we can travel for another month in Bolivia or Paraguay.  And we have a very good reason to come back and see the rest of Colombia, some day, when we have more money.

The Castle

I love the beach.  But only up to a point.  I find it difficult to spend more than half a day at any beach, even the most beautiful Caribbean sort.  Honestly, beaches are hot, and activities are a bit limited.  Swimming, sunbathing, perhaps reading, frisbeeing and paddleballing, and sand-castle-building.  We don't have a frisbee, nor paddles and a ball.  We do have plenty of sand, though.  So we make castles.  Pauline and I have constructed castles on every beach we've encountered along the Caribbean.  Just walls and moats and towers.  By hand, with absolutely no artistic merit.  Any ol' five-year-old could do the same.

And as the tide starts to rise, we watch the waves slowly lick the castle to death.  Good fun in between dips in the ocean.  But interestingly and sadly enough, our primitive castles are always conspicuously alone.  We've never seen another person attempt the challenging feat of piling sand and digging trenches.  Not even the ol' five-year-olds do it...and there are plenty of them around !


Our latest visit to the beach was in a small town called Camarones, meaning "Shrimp".  The beach there was no Caribbean beauty, but had clean white-ish sand and small gray or hazel-ish waves that we thoroughly enjoyed.  And when the tide started to rise, we did like on all the other beaches...we made a castle.  Not any prettier or artisitic than our other creations, but this one was considerably larger.  And heads turned.  The other beach-goers, all locals, came to gaze upon our piled sand.   And to take photos.  It made me smile, and at the same time, feel a bit uncomfortable.  In a sane world, childishly-made sand castles should not be seen as exceptional or photo-worthy.  Except by the proud builders, of course.


But there was a group of four boys who stayed distant.  They watched us and the castle off and on for over an hour, but never came within 30 meters.  The boys were keeping their distance, but a storm was fast approaching.  By the time the rains began, most of the castle had been washed away to sea.  But a few parts resisted.  Beaming with architectural pride, we abandoned the surviving towers and walls to the elements and ran for cover.  As I ran, I glanced over my shoulder and saw those same four boys, their wait now over, dash to the castle and jump on and crush the remaining walls and towers.  Then they jumped for joy for their victory and ran to find shelter of their own.

The Super Fans

Setting : There are four overweight mustachioed men wearing dark sunglasses and mullets sitting around a rectangular table at a sports bar.  They are all drinking Polar beer.  On the walls are photos of Venezuela's football team, their baseball team, Simon Bolivar, and Hugo Chavez.  Inexplicably, they all speak English with a Chicago accent.

------------

- "Welcome back to da Super Fans, I'm Usnavy Ramirez, and we're here live from Bolivar's Bar in Caraca.  With me as always is Bladimiro Gonzalez" (he waves), "Yerry Gomez" ("yo!"), "and Yerry's brudder Unicef Gomez" (belches).  "Yesterday, da Vinotinto beat Messi and the Argentinian football team one - zilch.  Yeah, I'm as shocked as anyone.  I mean, I was expecting at least five goals.  Whad'you think'a da match, Yerry ?"

- "Well after their loss to the Ecuadorians, I had myself anudder heart attack." (Yerry winces with pain and touches his chest)  "So with this win, I can't complain.  Unicef ?"

- "Me, I'm a-looking forward to their match next month against our neighbors, Colombia.  You guys know how much I hate those Colombians.  But the boys are lookin' strong so I expect a three - zero win."

- "Oh come on, Unicef," starts Bladimiro.  "You show those Colombianos too much respect !  My money's on five for da Vinotinto - negative one for the Colombians." And Bladimiro drains his beer.

- "And how," asks Usnavy, "would it be possible for Colombia ta get negative points, Bladimiro ?"

- "Da Vinotinto would find a way."

- "Hypot'etical match-up : da Vinotinto take on world champs Spain.  Whad'ya say Yerry ?"

- "Three to zip."

- "Bladimiro ?"

- "four - two.  The Spanish played a good game and scored two goals."

- "And Unicef ?"

- "Five - oh.  Da Vinotinto's defense is like a wall, can't go t'rough it."

- "Well said, Bladimiro.  But this isn't the first time us Venezuelans have faced the Spanish.  Remember ?  Remember when Simon Bolivar, " (He looks up at Bolivar's picture and makes the sign of the cross) "whipped about 100,000 Spanish soldiers ?  So here's another hypot'etical : Bolivar takes on the whole Spanish football team by himself."

- "Well that's easy, 17 to zero."

- "14 - three, ol' Simon shows pity on the Spanish this time."

- "36 to nothing."

- "Okay, okay, last hypot'etical for dis show : Bolivar's resurrected body against God in a baseball game.  Now remember, God's a great ball player."

- "Six - four, it was a close one."

- "Well, I'm just a-hopin' that this game does not take place on Venezuelan soil, for it would surely spawn devastatin' hurricans and continent-ripping earthquakes.  Bolivar seven, God six.  Bolivar gets a two-run homer in the ninth."

- "14 - zip."

- "Well, that's all we have time for this evening, but please join us next week when we discuss armwrestling between Chavez and Bolivar.  Goodnight !"

Flashback : Down and Out in China, part 1

Pauline and I often discuss what the next step will be.  After our tour of South America.  We both realize that plans for the future, while not being entirely futile, have a funny way of never being realized.  Somewhere between right now and "the future," a million obstacles can get in the way.  And those obstacles can be good things !  You could find a new job, new city, new love, new mission in life...all before you ever get to the future.

And on that note, I thought about one of my first big life-shifting plans...to teach in China for a year.  Well, that never happened, as most of you know.  I've told the story a hundred times, but I'm not sure if I've ever written it down.

So here's a story that didn't happen this year, and has nothing to do with South America.  It started back in December 2003, while I was traveling in Honduras and Nicaragua.

Traveling with my brothers and some friends in the winter of 2003 in Nicaragua, we were spending Christmas in a little farm next to a little village, on a volcanic island in the middle of the largest lake in the country, Lago de Nicaragua.  And on Christmas morning, five or six of us attempted to climb to the rim of the dormant volcano.  At the other end of the island lay his active brother.  Two-thirds of the way up to the muddy, steep, and switchback-lacking trail, I felt a loss of essence, as Jack D. Ripper would say.  I was suddenly short on breath and energy.  While not a mountaineer, I was certainly at home scrambling and rambling up and down and around forests, hills, or mountains.  It was at this point, just moments before my brother Christian impaled his arm on a branch while slipping on the muddy trail, that I had my first brush with the disease that would later put me in a Chinese hospital bed.  Of course, I had no idea of what was to come...

Over the next nine months, I had more and more of these energy-less bouts.  But again, I never once thought that they could be related.  I forgot about the latest moment of lethargy until I had the next.  And then the future changed.  Inspired by my brother Ian (he had taught for a year in Korea), I left my job in Florida and agreed to work for a year in China, Jiangsu Province.

My first stop was Los Angeles, where I would spend a few weeks with my friends Jess and Minh before crossing the Pacific.  In that time, we made a grand circle tour of the American West, from L.A. to Las Vegas to Aspen toWyoming to Boise to Portland and back to L.A. again.  It was during this trip that the headaches started.  And the difficulty focusing at night.  And the hiccups.  Yeah, that's right.  I started to have hiccups, every day, several times per day.  Still, I did not put two and two together.  Didn't see the connection.  Or maybe I just didn't want to miss my flight to China.

I arrived in the Shanghai airport in the afternoon where the English teacher Mr. James (he was Chinese) and the school's vice-prinicpal met me.  They had made a sign : Mr. Andre' Feldt.  It was very sweet.  Then, we all took a bus to my new home town, Huai'an.  We arrived late into the night.  I was showed my apartment.  It was a spacious place with four or five rooms plus kitchen and bathroom, but unfortunately, it was located on the, wait for it...., sixth floor !  No elevator !  That moment I had on the volcano in Nicaragua was now every morning, afternoon, and night...just to go to and from work.

On my second day, I visited a clinic for a routine check-up.  The result : there's something wrong with your liver.  Well, what is it ?  Can't say yet for sure, but the results indicate that there's something wrong with your liver.  That was the last time I heard about my liver.  My disease neither originates nor harms the liver...

For the following two months, I taught at the middle school, a mere 400 meters and six flights of stairs away.  I taught 18 classes per week with on average 60 students per class.  Let me clarify : 60 Chinese students.  In terms of discipline, that's equivalent to three Western students.  With each day, I grew weaker and weaker.  My hiccups grew stronger and more frequent.  The chalk grew heavier, and my will wanted a nap.

Usually, I ate thrice daily at the school's cafeteria.  I was very excited to try new foods, even if they were the Chinese equivalents of mystery stew and leftover mixed veggies.  They were still delicious.  But unfortunately my eyes were always bigger than my stomach.  I never finished any of my meals.  And they grew smaller and less caloric with each day.  After two months in China I was down ten kilos.  I was in bad shape.  And the worst was still to come.

So what did I do ?  Go to the hospital ?  Twenty-four years of uninsured American living had taught me better than that.  A pharmacy then ?  Where I come from, those are only for developing photos.  The airport ?  I took a trip alright.  With my friend Rob, who also taught English at the school.  We took a weekend trip to the mountain to climb a sacred mountain, Tai Shan.  Only 1,500m tall, 7,200 steps, and two hours of hiking for a fit hiker.  I was not a fit hiker.  This mountain almost killed me.  By 6,000 steps, I felt like I was on top of Everest : one step, breathe breathe breathe, one more step, breathe...  By 7,000 steps, Chinese soldiers were offering to carry me to the top.  No, no, I had far too much pride for that.  And by 7,200 steps, I had spent six hours climbing.  I had made it, and without any help.  And of all the mountains I have ever climbed in my life, this one remains the toughest, despite its short stature, steps and guardrails, and helpful Chinese soldiers.

Up on top, we found picturesque temple after picturesque temple, beautiful arch after beautiful arch, and tacky gift shop after tacky gift shop.  We arrived at 6h00 in the evening, just as the sun started to brush against the horizon and the tourists were making their way back...on foot or by cable car.  There's a cable car here ?!!!  So much unnecessary pain !  It was hard to breathe and harder to walk.  Rob wanted to explore some temples at the far end of the complex.  I mentioned that I'd like to descend with the cable car before it closed for the evening, but I was too weak to force the issue.  Besides, I wanted to see the temples, too.  So, I shuffled after Rob, and together, we admired the architecture with the sunset in the background.  And then hurried back to find the cable car empty, unmoving, and closed for the night.  Missed it by 15 minutes.  That left only one way down...and the Chinese soldiers weren't there anymore to help me.  I collapsed in despair.  It was November in northern China and the temperature dipped in sync with the sun.  I was freezing and sapped of my will to live.

While in my stupor, Rob had found us a room for the night.  The info barely registered.  I just followed him, slowly, to the building and fell on the bed where I lay half frozen, half sleeping through the night.  Fully clothed, I went to pee in the wee hours of the morning and stepped in the giant puddle that was the bathroom floor.  My thick socks soaked up every drop they could, and I walked back to bed.  I couldn't even fall back asleep.  I wanted to cry.

But sleep did come, eventually.  I awoke at first light and felt marginally better.  Rob was already up and out the door.  I sloshed my feet into my shoes to join him.  And then, when I opened the door, all the pain seemed worth it.  It had snowed all night.  The whole temple town was covered in half a foot of snow.  And better yet, it was too early for the first tourists to arrive.  The snow was untouched.  We took a few photos, and enjoyed the moment.  But as wonderful as it was, we weren't going to mill about all morning; I was in bad shape and needed to get home.  The cable car was as glorious as in my dreams...took mere minutes to return to the city.

And you can read the conclusion here : Down and Out in China, part 2

Flashback : Down and Out in China, part 2

Make sure to read part one first : Down and Out in China, part 1

Sunday night, we were back in Huai'an.  Monday morning, I was in Huai'an Hospital #1.  The nurses put me in a plastic chair in the middle of a large room.  In the room, there were 30 other plastic chairs, half of them filled with babies and their mothers.  All of the babies were crying.  Were the nurses sending me a message ?  Most of the babies had needles in their bald heads.  Some of the babies were peeing and defecating on the floor.  I had an IV drip in my arm.  I sat there for three hours, uncomfortably.  So I left.

The Chinese could see that I was not well.  "Feeble" was the word the Chinese English teachers used.  But when I stated that I suspected something serious, they just smiled a knowing smile.  "Nah, you just need to eat some meat !"  This was the most common response...the most common cure that I was suggested.  Others included "close your window to keep the miasmas away," "drink only hot water," and "you need to wear a thicker jacket."  But the best explanation that I ever received was this : "Illness is like a tiger; if you're afraid, it strikes.  If you're not afraid, it will leave you alone."  I must have been petrified.

The next day was my last day at work.  I couldn't lift the chalk, I could barely lift my own weight.  The following morning (or was it the evening ?), I was talking to my mom on the phone.  I have no memory of this conversation.  She does.  She said that after a few minutes, I told her that I was too tired to talk at that moment but that I would call back soon, and I hung up.  Just afterwards, I called up a Chinese friend (this I do remember).  He was always beating me at ping-pong, stating triumphantly : "You are not my rival !"  But he was very nice, very helpful.  He spoke to another teacher and together they took me to Huai'an Hospital #2.  I was prepared for the worst.  Fortunately, hospital numbers are not an indication of quality, because #2 was clean, modern, comfortable.  I shared a room with a Chinese patient.  Had no idea what his name or problem was.  But he was very nice.  He laughed through every second of Mr. Bean.  And he even gave me a shave when I was too weak to do it myself.  The doctors visited me often to practice their English.  The nurses visited me because I was a celebrity in #2.  I had an IV drip in my arm.  I lay there for days, comfortably.

Meanwhile, in Florida, my mother was envisioning my lying on the floor, near death, and no one around to hear my muted screams.  She called several times that day and the next, with increasing frequency.  She knew the name of my school, but couldn't speak Chinese.  So, naturally, she visited all the Chinese restaurants in town, asking if they could make the call...but, unfortunately, they only spoke Cantonese, not Mandarin.  Next she asked my brother Christian if he knew any Chinese people.  My brother studied engineering so he must know a few.  Yeah, he knew a few Chinese.  But none that spoke Mandarin.  The next day, she got word that a friend of my brother's advisor spoke Mandarin.  Success !  So he called my school, and got the number of #2.  And then made a phone date rendez-vous for my mother and me.  On my third day at hospital #2, my mom called.  I'm pretty sure that if she hadn't found a Mandarin speaker, she would have learned enough of the language to make the call herself.  Yeah, that's right, she's a superhero.  I remember feeling happy to speak with her, and being positive about my stay in #2.  I had walked for 100 meters that day and thought those few meters were the beginning of the road to recovery.  But she urged me to get out of China.  She was scared, too.  Maybe my "tiger illness" was contagious ?

The next day, the doctors came in with a diagnosis to prove my mother right.  "You have," wait for it..wait for it, "stomach flu"...dun dun dun !  At that moment, I knew that death awaited me if I stayed.  So I gave Rob my credit card and asked him to buy me the first available ticket for the next available flight to Stockholm.  And I left the hospital in the morning.  During the day, I packed my bags, vomited, said goodbye to my soon-to-be ex-colleagues, vomited again, and went to bed.  Early in the morning, Rob and I were driven to Nanjing airport.  We said our goodbyes, and airport staff rolled me to the plane, where I sat uncomfortably for several hours before arriving in Beijing to change planes. 

The doors opened.  I waited for the other passengers to leave first.  I was as mobile as my 99-year-old grandmother is today.  That is to say, she can walk, short distances, but needs to hold on to firm objects for support.  When the coast was clear, I stood hesitantly, and made my way to the door.  I looked around.  And again.  And saw no wheelchair.  Well, this could be troublesome.  I only had an hour to make my new flight.  No time to consider "what-ifs"; I started walking.  I walked 100 meters.  200 meters, breaking my record at hospital #2.  300 meters, my concentration and strength waned.  400 meters and I was getting dizzy.  And then I fell with a crash.  I looked around.  And again.  And I waited.  I saw a bunch of Chinese people walking around me like some wind around a Bernoullian wing.  And no one stopped.  Well, no time to consider "what-ifs"; I started crawling.  Intensity of a soldier, motor skills of a three-month-old.  After an eternity, and some burning elbows, I arrived at a horizontal escalator.  And I rode it, horizontally.  At the far end, I found an airport info kiosk.  "I need help," I asked.  "I need to get to my flight."  She called the airport clinic.  They brought the airport gurney and took me to the clinic.  There, the doctor, who spoke English, plainly stated that I would not be allowed on the plane.  "Bu-bu-but I ha-ha-have to get on that pl-pl-plane," I stammered.  I said that I would sign any document necessary to get me on the plane...and sign I did !

So they whisked me away straight to the plane, no lines, no waiting, only cursory glances at my papers.  The flight attendant took one look at my condition and asked the neighbors to change their seats.  At least, that's how I imagined it.  Could very well have been the neighbors who asked to distance themselves from me.  Anyway, within minutes I was sound asleep and didn't wake again 'til our arrival at Arlanda airport outside of Stockholm.  When I stepped off the plane I was relieved to see airport staff with an empty wheelchair...for me !  My dad waited for me inside, and we immediately went to the hospital to deliver my bodily fluids for testing.

The next day, we came back and several doctors interviewed me.  The 2nd or 3rd one made a very important observation; he said that, as a Swede, I shouldn't have such dark skin.  Dark blotches on my face and back were one of the symptoms of my disease.  And then on a hunch, he checked the cortisol levels of my blood.  Not so much as a nanogram, it was untraceable.  And then he knew.  I had Addison's disease, which is an auto-immune disease whereby my immune system attacked my adrenal glands, and for no good reason !  And all my cortisol- and aldosterone-producing cells were killed off.  Good thing I got to the hospital in Sweden, 'cause accorinding to the doctor, I was down to my last week or two of life.  So I spent the next five days in the hospital, with an IV drip in both arms, pumping in toxic levels of those hormones.  After two days, I could eat and walk.  After three, I could bathe.  After five, I was new again, and so I left the hospital, and lived in Sweden for the next two years where I learned Swedish and got to know my grandmother.  The only lasting effects of my experiences in China and with my disease are my deep gratitude towards Rob, a need to take pills daily, and one kick-ass story.

69

Since leaving the Andes for the hot plains and coast, Pauline and I have developed a little ritual that we do right before going to sleep.  She turns around so that her head lies near my feet and vice-versa.  And she starts to massage and rub.

- “Oh, yeah.  Oh, that’s good.”

- “Do it to me, too,” she insists.  “Right there, don’t stop, aaahhwwwww.”

- “Harder, baby, harder !”

- “The other side, on the other side.”  She’s frantic.  “And use your nails !”

- “Scratch harder !”  I’m in ecstasy and agony at the same time.  “There’re a few more bites on my heel, don’t forget those.” 

This goes on for about 15 or 20 minutes, and when all the bug bites are red, swollen, and numb, we finally doze off to sleep...and dream bug-less dreams.

Mr. Subliminal Anagram

Back about twenty years ago on the American TV show Saturday Night Live, there was a recurring segment by Kevin Nealon called Mr Subliminal, in which he quickly and under his breath tells you what he's really thinking.  So this is a little homage to that character.  But I've tried to take it one step further.  They say that anagrams can reveal something intrinsic about the subject.  So all of the subliminal messages in the text are also anagrams.  Some work really well, some are rather weak...but hell, this was my first go at anagramming !  Enjoy !

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Lots of folks know that Venezuelans are among the friendliest and most helpful anywhere.  They might also be aware of the amazing diversity and beauty of Venezuela's countryside (A Seductive Zen Rules Yon), from the mighty Andes (Highest Yet, Damn !) and the burning hot plains (Hi Lost Pan) to the piranha-filled delta (Flatland Hide A Peril) and the azure coastlines (The Ocean Lazes; I Rust).

However, I'd like to discuss Venezuela's governement.  It seems this government does not have quite the same reputation as Venezuela's other great resources.  And that's a bit unfortunate.  It's true that this Bolivarian Republic (A Probable Civil Ruin) has had some controversy.  But the president seems to have won over more than half of the population, known as Los Chavistas (So Act Slavish), with his measures.  Presidente Hugo Rafael Chavez (Havoc+Fear+Zeal = Ugh !) has done all in his power to help this country out.  For instance, he created a new time zone so that the people have an extra 30 minutes (Hi Nutty Timers !) per day.  Also, he's changed the official exchange rate between the national Bolivares (A Insolvable Ration) and other currencies.  And if there were any dollars to be found, they'd be mighty cheap.  He's changed the name of the country, making it more Bolivarian (Bravo, Oilier Man).  And let's not forget about the flag (he added a star (A Tsar Added)) and the coat of arms (now the horse runs to the left (So, The Left Turn ?).  And most importantly, he loves this country so much that he'd like to help it his whole life...by becoming president for life (re-enlisted ripoff), which would put him in a class of such dynamic world leaders as Fidel Castro, Papa Doc Duvalier, Josef Stalin, and Kim Jong Il., but at least we can say that Chavez is NOT a dictator (Tzar And Vote Is Chaotic) !  

The Guajira

My flip-flops died last week.  Or maybe the week before.  I can’t remember.  But I do remember where they died.  The Guajira : a remote peninsula at the top of South America shared between Colombia and Venezuela.  90 % for Colombia, 10 % for Venezuela.  The Colombians are in awe of her.  The Venezuelans fear her.

The peninsula is a desert.  Two types of cacti grow there.  One grows tall and straight and is planted in a row to make a fence around the yard.  The other is far less impressive.  That’s about the extent of the flora.  Less robust cacti wilt and wither in the hot sun.  I don’t feel so bad about the death of my left flip-flop.  The right one didn’t die…but he couldn’t go on without his partner.


The animal life includes lizards that eat insects and insects that bite the Wayuu Indians, the tourists, and the mangy dogs.  Looks like we’re at the bottom of the food chain…along with the mangy dogs.


The Wayuu, cousins to the Arawak, was one of the only indigenous groups in Colombia or Venezuela never to be conquisted by the Spanish.  Fierce by reputation, they also gave Simon Bolivar a hand in expelling the despised Spanish.  Even today the governments of Colombia and Venezuela have little say and less control over peninsular affairs.  But the Wayuu aren’t quite so fierce these days.  They still fish and herd goats like always (fiercely ?), but now they spend a lot of time weaving baskets, hats, and hammocks for tourists.  They also own posadas (inns).  There are more posadas there than tourists.  I don’t blame them for the death of my flip-flops; it’s the land that’s fierce.


The land jumped out of the sea millions of years ago and got baked by the unforgiving sun.  The earth got hard and jagged.  My flip-flops felt every uneven stone.  Yes, life got hard when the land left the sea.  But, damn, this land’s got some fine vistas…cerulean coastline and copper sunsets every day.  Seems like it was worth the change of address.  Except for my flip-flops.
 

Talking Delta Orinoco Blues

Down the Orinoc' in a tippy canoe
Down to the delt' to that watery zoo
Snakes and caimans and a coupl'a birds
A few Warao Injuns and the tourist herds.
(Kansas it ain't
I can't complain...)




Bigger 'an Belgium, smaller 'an the Brit Isles
With crisscrossin' channels by the miles 'n' miles.
It'd take days 'n' weeks to cross it
Won't somebody turn off this leaky faucet ?
(Getting my feet wet,
And I ain't even off the boat yet !)






Always three-fourths drunk, our guide was James
Mumbled, stumbled, and made odd claims
Pay him his due, some rum and cokes
And watch him entertain the tourist folks.
(Drinks just one a day
Just enough to teeter
Just an eensy weensy liter.)



The cook's our man, King of the Kitchen
His name's Elvis, but he's known as Pigeon.
Try his bread, his big flat yummy buns
But avoid his salad, if ya don't want the runs.
(Coo, coo,
Damn good coook...)



There's a cabybara on shore, loves to chew
Your clothes, laces, and straps.  Thumbs, too.
Take the plunge when the weather gets hotter
There're are few hungry piranhas lurkin' in the water.
(Thumb- and bloodsuckers,
Show me your puckers !)




The mosquitoes in these parts are bird-sized
Tourists with type-O are the sweetest prize.
At dusk, the feared mosquito army pounces
Each one has a blood quota of 9 ounces.
(Buzz buzz
A mosquito 'twas.)



The local indigenous live in stilted huts
No walls and no doors in a house without guts.
Inside is mom, dad, 'n' sis 'n' a coupl'a floppin' fishes
And on every roof you see satellite dishes !
(Watchin' the reality shows,
Watchin' the soaps,
and the baseball pros.)

Say CHEESE !

France is the King of Cheese.  It's undisputed.  They say in France that there's a different cheese for every day of the year.  There are more kinds of fermented curd there, from more mammals' milk, using more bacteria and molds than anywhere else in the world.  And most of the time, they don't even practice safe fromage-making; yeah, that's right, they do it with unpastuerized milk.  Louis Pasteur, full of more mold and bacteria than all the cheese of France, just rolled over in his coffin.

And so it was in France that I learned how to eat and love cheese, proper cheese...from the soft Trivial Pursuit wedge-shaped cheeses like Brie and Camembert to the hard cheese from the Alps (Beaufort), the Jura (Comté), and the Pyrenees (Ossau-Iraty); from the deliciously banal chèvre (goat cheese) to the ones-of-a-kind Roquefort and Mont d'Or.

And as importantly, I learned that cheese can be combined with some rather unexpected foods and produce some mind-blowing combinations.  For instance, chèvre tastes great in the conventional way, on a baguette, with tomato, cucumber, and lettuce; but that's too easy.  For a sweeter snack, pour some honey over the chèvre.  I'm drooling.  Likewise, try eating the Basque cheese Iraty with some cherry jam.  Never would have thought of that on my own !

So your humble narrator, a true turophile, arrived in South America with his mind open and palate ready for new experiences... There was a landslide happening on my nutrition pyramid due to a sudden lack of cheese.

Well, Venezuela and Colombia don't have enough cheeses to eat a new variety every day, but perhaps one per month.  That's a start.  Here's a list of the cheeses I've met personally during my random inspections in the supermarkets.  Most of these cheeses edible, most of them forgettable.

• Queso de Mano (Hand cheese) : Several images come to mind, all of them disturbing.
• Queso Blanco (White) and Queso Amarillo (Yellow) : Very descriptive.  I'll take the white one.  Yeah, that one over there.  No, no, a little whiter.  Well, that's too white !
• Queso Guayanés (from Guayana) and Queso Llanero (from the Plains) : These come from two cow-filled regions of Venezuela.
• Queso Ahumado (Smoked) : They'll smoke anything here.
• Queso de Año (Year Cheese) :Is this its age or sentence ?
• Queso Costeño (Coastal Cheese) : The only coastal mammals I know of here are whales, dolphins, manatees, and otters.  They are all suspects...
• Cheese in a pressurized squirt can : This should disturb all peoples save Americans.
• Queso de Castor (Venezuelan Beaver Cheese) : Does not exist...yet.

If you'd like to place these quesos on bread, or arepas, or cachapas, fine, no problem, enjoy !

Just as the French like to experiment, try new combinations, these Northern South Americans are also fond of experimentation with queso.  They put their cheese, often after shredding, on fried platanos, alongside guava jelly, on pancakes (please tell me this a war crime), and (my fingers hurt just typing this) on rice pudding. Rice pudding.  So innocent : just milk, rice, and sugar.  It never hurt anyone.  If you wanted to add anything else, just mix in an egg or add cinnamon or raisins, but for the love of all things sacred, leave the cheese in the fridge.  And maybe Mr. Pasteur will stop his somersaulting.

[update]

"Everyone in Colombia drinks chocolate with cheese ?"

In Medellin, I witnessed perhaps the most savage and heinous act thinkable against cheese.  We were eating at a cliffside eatery overlooking the valley below.  My friend ordered some hot chocolate; it was a chilly night.  He also ordered some a plate of chicken, and beans, and cheese, and bread.  Then, he picked up the cheese, but did not put it in his mouth, no.  He put the cheese in his hot chocolate.  I asked if he had accidentally dropped the cheese.  It was a greasy cheese, and accidents happen.  I told him that we could buy another, not a problem.  He gave a me a curious look, and said "no, that how I like to drink it."  Remember the look that Braveheart gave to Robert the Bruce when he was betrayed ?  Yeah, that was the look I gave him.  He shrugged, "what, it's good," as the cheese started to melt and globules of cheese fat started to float on the surface.  So, I told him that he was a sick man.  Then he calmly stated that everyone in Colombia takes their hot chocolate like that.  I think I blacked out after that...