Welcome to Florida ! What's up your anus ?

After signing the contract to work at the school in the Guajira, the school sent us to Florida to finish the paperwork and to gather everything we'd need for the coming year or two.  You see, after six months of traveling, the only clothes I owned included six dirty pit-stained t-shirts, some steadily unraveling jeans and shorts, and socks that allowed my big toes to breathe.  In addition, while there, we planned to get enough books and peanut butter to last.

So when we arrived in Orlando, Florida, we were full of enthusiasm.  We would soon be moving to a new continent, starting new jobs, and very importantly indeed, we were going to see and spend time with my family for the month of November.

Then we reached passport control.  His name was José or Juan or some such name.

- "Coming from Colombia, eh ?  Looks like you spent quite a lot of time there."  This came off as an accusation more than an observation.

- "Yeah, about three months, and it was amazing.  Can't wait to go back !"

- "Uh, did you say you were returning ?  To Colombia ?"  His eyes focused sharply on us now.

He was well-versed in Colombian culture; he had seen the films Blow, Maria Full of Grace, Love in the time of Cholera, Clear and Present Danger, and Romancing the Stone. He knew what comes off of planes from Colombia: cocaine (up nostrils and anuses), communicable diseases, terrorists, and crocodiles.

- "Yeah, we found jobs down there while traveling."

- "And those jobs pay better than in France or Sweden ?," he asked while glancing at our passports.  He knew all about jobs opportunities for foreigners in Colombia...drug-running, emerald-hunting, exotic-animal-and-plant-exporting, and mercenarying.  He just had to figure out which one we were up to.

- "Actually, yeah, they do pay better. We'll be working in the la Guajira."

- "I see..."  Suspicions confirmed !  A few beads of sweat were gathering on his brow and his finger started inching across his desk to the panic button.  Clearly he was outnumbered by these two mercenary terrorist mules flaunting their cocaine-filled anuses.  He was going to need back-up.

- "So, uh, what kind of jobs did you find ?," cracked his voice...he was stalling until back-up arrived.

- "Well, I'll be teaching biology and Pauline will probably work in the library or assist with the little children in kindergarten.  It's an international school."

- "Oh," he breathed, and a wave a relief swept across his body and his panicked finger recoiled a few inches. He grabbed his stamp and stamped our passports and said, "You may go."

So we walked to the nearest bathroom, where we quickly removed the pellets of cocaine we'd been carrying up our asses the past eight hours.

Sucker...




Just kidding !!!!  Ha !

Everybody Hurts, So Let's Go Dancing !

As you leave the cities behind, the music scene becomes decidedly more and more local.  I mean, they listen to salsa and vallenato and cumbia in Colombian cities, but at least they are also aware of other music.  They probably know who Lady Gaga or the Beatles are.  But in the villages of the back-country, the musical tastes are as narrow as their gyrating waists.

Pretty sure this isn't the song I'm hearing on the radio...
but apparently every Latin singer has sung a song
called Baila Baila at one point or another

And the themes of said music are even narrower.  Some of the songs we've heard repeatedly on busses, in homes, or in bars have titles (or refrains, can't tell which) such as Baila, baila, baila ! or Feliiiiz, feliiiiiz, feliiiiiz.  Everything you hear is upbeat, about love or dancing or, even, the love of dancing.  And they play to it the eleven, 24 hours a day.

And so I wonder if there are any songs made or listened to here that are sad or depressing.  Are there any that are angry or absurd or funny ?

I'm pretty sure Everybody Hurts by REM would be a major commercial and critical failure here...unless they change the beat and called it Everybody Hurts, So Let's Go Dancing !  If the Colombian counterpart of  Thom Yorke sang the song Exit Music, he most certainly would not "hope that you choke."  That is, unless 'the Choke' is the newest dance craze sweeping discotheques from Cali to Barranquilla.  Perhaps a cross between Merengue and the Hustle.

Even the Beatles, who may have been applauded for the themes in their songs I Want To Hold Your Hand and I'm Happy Just To Dance With You, would have been met with raised eyebrows when Norwegian Wood was released and absolute horror at the first listening of Eleanor Rigby....bu' bu' but, she's lonely...she's not even dancing !  I'm guessing these Colombians stopped listening before ever getting to I Am The Walrus.

I'm sure that if I dig, that one day I'll find some great Colombian songs with something of a raaaange of emotions.  And like Elton John said, ironically without a tear of sadness or sigh of melancholy, "sad songs, they say so much." So turn them on, Colombia.

Career Opportunities

I was always planning on finding a job during our trip in South America.  I just wasn't expecting it to happen like this.  Thought it'd be for a hiatus somewhere in Peru or Bolivia in the (geographic) middle of our trip or perhaps a longer stint toward the end of our trip in Chile or Argentina.  And since this is a new adventure, I was hoping for new experiences.  I had made a short list.

The first thought that entered my head was as mountain guide, leading the tourists up the mountains, down the valleys.  Or at the very least I could be a porter or sherpa, carrying the hikers' tents and food.  In both cases, I would get lots of exercise, get to know the Andes, and meet other hikers from far-away lands.  The problem with plan A is that, after several treks in Colombia and Venezuela, I realize that my body is none too happy above 4000m...without fail I start getting light-headed and heavy-stomached and nauseated.  So for the moment, I'd say I needed more experience in the big mountains before finding employment.

And besides, jobs in the-middle-of-nowhere nature are few and far between. Most jobs are to be found in the cities. Driving around any city, you'll see a dread-locked Argentinian couple juggling or riding a unicycle at every major intersection, 35 seconds at a time. I'm certainly qualified for that job. I don't even need an interview or to dress up for the job. And walking around the city, you'll see hundreds and hundreds of people selling every conceivable knick and knack.  And apparently all of them, vendors, jugglers, and dancers, are able to make a living doing it. Why not me ? If I don't juggle, I could at least can bake and sell cakes and/or Swedish nigger balls. We've already tried selling our baked goods with success in two Venezuelan towns. But the problem is that, in most cities, the days are hot and the roads are hotter. I'd be afraid my juggling balls or nigger balls would melt.

Teaching French would still be teaching, but something I haven't done before. And it'd most likely be indoors, possible even air-conditioned.  My accent sticks out, but at least I don't have that abrasive American accent.  And I know enough to teach a basic level.

In the end, we did find jobs in South America, six months into our trip, in the first country we visited, Colombia, in the last place we expected, in a colorful house in a tiny village near Medellin.  The job was neither in the mountains, nor selling baked goods, not juggling, not teaching French...

Here's the story...

After too long on the Caribbean coast, we finally returned to the mountains of Medellin.  There we stayed with Remi, a French friend, and his girlfriend Yanid. Remi worked for an NGO in Medellin.

The family of Remi's boss had a family house in a small colorful village outside of the city, where the family often got together. Remi told us of his intention to visit Guatape and the Franco family for the upcoming weekend and asked us if we'd like to join in.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Colombia, in the desertic region of the Guajira, Gerardo Franco was receiving phone calls from his mother. "Gerardo, sweetie, your aunt Susanna, uncle Alvaro, and cousin Manuel wanna come to Guatape this weekend. It'll be nice to see them again, won't it?"

"Yeah it will, mom, but let's just keep it small this weekend. I'm bringing my new boss, and I don't want the house too crowded."

"Of course dear."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Gerardo, sweetie, now your other uncle wants to visit, says he's gonna bring his new wife.  And the dog."

"Okay, mom, but no one else please.  My boss doesn't speak Spanish, and I don't want him to feel overwhelmed."

"Of course dear."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Gerardo, sweetie, it's your cousins Mariela and Juan David. They're asking if they can come. You know it's been a long time since we saw them."

"Yeah, I know mom," said Gerardo, feeling the inevitable unstoppable force of family. He counted the number of people coming, then the number of beds in the house. "Sure, mom, we still have space for my cousins."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Gerardo, sweetie, you remember Remi, he works with your brother here in Medellin. He'd like to come this weekend with his girlfriend, too. Surely they can come, can't they ? He's such a sweet boy."

"Yeah, he is mom. They can come, but no more mom. Seriously, the house is full and I want my boss to feel comfortable."

Two minutes later...

"Oh, I forgot, sweetie, Remi has two friends staying with him, a French girl and a Swedish boy, or what it Swiss, I never get those two straight. What do you say ? Friends of Remi's are welcome here aren't they, sweetie ?"

His cause lost, "Of course, mom, they all can come. See you on Saturday."

We arrived on Saturday, before lunch, and spent a few hours getting to know the family, taking a tour of the village, and eating some of mother Franco's cooking. In the early afternoon, Gerardo and his boss, Edward, showed up at the door. In the evening, we got to the family and Gerardo and Edward even better, made crepes for everyone, and took the night tour of the village.

The next day, Gerardo suggested that we walk past the big rock, up to the monastery on the hill. On the way, we talked even more, told jokes and riddles, and finally they asked me what did professionally, before the big trip around South America. "Well, I was an English teacher in France, but in the states I taught mathematics and biology." Gerardo and Edward exchanges glances and shared a knowing scheme telepathically.  "And you're certified to teach ?" "In Florida, yeah." Their eyes widened.

An hour later, Edward told me the school was desperate for a biology teacher and that he would hire me on the spot, right there, in Guatape. He filled me about the school, my salary, the perks, and the school would even fly us out there so that we could check it out and meet the staff and the students. I know I said that I didn't want to do a job I've already tried...but, damn, this one was just too good to refuse.



So when the contract is up, in June 2013 or later, we will have spent more than two years in South America, without getting any closer to our "destination" of Argentina or Chile.

The Colombian Tourist Board's current catchy slogan is, "The only risk is wanting to stay."  Got that right.