Baby Jesus

Put the baby down, Jul Tomten

I grew up in the States in a Swedish-American household. That meant, come Christmas, my brothers and I would receive gifts from our parents and Santa Claus and somebody else called Jul tomten, a beardy gnome that delivers gifts for Swedes during Christmas, known in Scandinavia as Jul ( = Yule in English).

I always thought that the spritely forest dude was a lot more original and interesting than that coke-drinking galoot that seemed to be ever-present and rapidly conquerng new territories to add to his domain.

Then I got to Latin America and found out that gifts are not brought by Santa, Father Chistmas, or any delightful local pagan figures, but rather by Baby Jesus.  Not Jesus. But, rather, Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus ? Didn't Baby Jesus cease to exist as soon as He had a Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13 and, thus, grew up ? Two thousand years ago.

So I did some very brief research. Apparently, the Christ-child is all Martin Luther's fault, uh, invention; he proposed the Christ-child (AKA Baby Jesus, Kid Jesus, Youngster Jesus, or Rugrat Jesus) in order to cockblock the Catholic gift-bearer Saint Nicholas, AKA Santa (anagramically known as Satan). And this Whippersnapper Jesus actually caught on in many Germanophone and Eastern-European countries and the vast majority of Latin America.

I get that religions and traditions and rituals and holidays are often chock-full of what a Brit might call ¨flapdoodle¨ or an American ¨baloney¨, and that true believers must suspend their disbelief and just have faith. But why, for Chrissakes, would He deliver presents 2000 years in the future on His own birthday ? Nah, for me, I´ll keep my tomten.

Fruity Names

If you're an American who has visited Britain or Australia, or vice-versa, you may have noticed that not all of our words match up, in particular when you're at a restaurant. In addition to the well-known cross-Atlantic synonyms such as fries and chips, and chips and crisps, quite a few foods have odd-sounding counterparts.

This dish with courgette and aubergine sounds so French, it must be good. Oh, it's just zucchini and eggplant. Shoulda tried the capsicum with swede. That's international cuisine !

In Spanish, or rather, in the various Spanish variations, the same scenario exists. With each change in currency, flag, and culture, so do the fruit names.

I learned my Spanish in Colombia, so I know that papaya tastes like vomit, guacamole is made of aguacate, yuca is the blandest food on the planet, pimenton (like capsicum above) is a vitamin C-rich fruit that come in green, red, and yellow/orange, and piña is necessary for a piña colada. For dessert, how about fresas and shortcake. Got 'em all ? Here's a quiz.

Now fill in the blanks with the Spanish synonym bank (answers below).

lechosa (Venezuela)    palta (Argentina, Paraguay, Bolivia)    frutilla (Argentina, Bolivia)     

cambur (Venezuela)     morron (Paraguay)     anana (Paraguay)     mandioca (Paraguay)

Lunch was really great, honey. I especially liked the stuffed _____________. The

_______________ however didn't have much taste. It could use some garlic, perhaps.

Whadya say we make some veggie sushi tonight ? We can use _______________. And

for dessert, a ______________ split with sliced _____________ and _____________.

But I threw out the ______________ because it tastes like vomit.

Lunch was really great, honey. I especially liked the stuffed morron (bell peppers). The mandioca (yuca, 

cassava) however didn't have much taste. It could use some garlic, perhaps. Whadya say we make some 

veggie sushi tonight ? We can use palta (avocado). And for dessert, a cambur (banana) split with sliced 

frutillas (strawberries) and anana (pineapple).  But I threw out the lechosa (papaya) because it tastes like 

vomit.

Radio Resistencia

If you live in the States and listen to the radio, probably every single word you hear is in English or perhaps occasionally in Spanish. A German-language hit pops up only once or twice per decade, from Nena (99 luftballons) to Falco (Rock Me Amadeus) to, more recently, Rammstein (Du hast).

But when was the last time anyone heard a song from another language on the radio ? Yeah, I know - it was Korea's Gangnam Style. But how about in French ? Belgium's Singing Nun hit the top of the charts in 1963. Since then, I can only think of the few verses from the Beatles' Michelle. These days, the French imports all sing in English : Phoenix, Daft Punk, Chinese Man. Likewise for the Swedes : ABBA, Roxette, Ace of Base, Europe (who finally counted down). So in a lifetime of listening to American radio, you might actually only hear three or four languages, or about 0.05% of all languages out there.

Although I am musically quite anglophilic, I'm sure English doesn't have a total monopoly on good music. Whoever heard of Zulu on the radio ? I haven't. But how about Serbian or Tamasheq (it's from North Africa) or Swedish ? What do these languages sound like when sung ? It certainly isn't the Swedish Chef singing, "bork, bork, bork." There must be some good songs in these tongues. Why don't we ever hear them on the radio ? Luckily, I happen to know a song or two in Serbian, Tamasheq, and Swedish.

What about in other countries ? What about South America, where 90% or more of the continent speaks Spanish or Portuguese ? I've been living or traveling here for over two years, and I've never heard anything other than Spanish, Portuguese, and English. Not a single song. No Aymara, no Quechua, no Guarani, or any of the hundreds of other languages spoken here.

And then we met Gustavo and Andres, two artists living in Resistencia, in northern Argentina, and who have a radio program every week. Gustavo immediately offered us a spot on his show, which worked out pretty well since his show was all about travelers and their musical likes.

And so, northern Argentina, used to hearing exclusively Spanish and perhaps some English or Portuguese hits on the radio, had the opportunity, whether they wanted it or not, whether they liked it or not, to hear a Swedish song, one of my favorites.  It's a Swedish oldie, by the late Dutch-born Cornelis Vreeswijk, called Somliga går med trasiga skor. This program wasn't the call-in kind, so I will never know what the Argentinians thought about Swedish people walking around with worn-out shoes.

The Post-Bolivia Photography Blues

The Post-Bolivia Photography Blues, or PBPB, is unfortunately a common and incurable disorder in which travelers visit Bolivia and then another country, any other country, and are unable to bring themselves to use their cameras because nothing compares to the beauty of Bolivia. Ever.

Isla del Sol

Hi, my name is Andrei Feldt, and I suffer from PBPB, not to be confused with Peanut Butter Pot Belly, in which fat men are compelled to rub their bellies with, that's right, peanut butter. For three weeks after my trip to Bolivia, I didn't touch my camera. I couldn't touch it. I crossed northern Argentina's famed Quebrada de Humahuaca, famous for its seven colors. Bolivia has hundreds. My camera was not impressed. It refused to photograph.

This disorder, much like Never-Nudity, sadly has not been included in the DSM-IV, but has been confirmed to afflict dozens of travelers.

Lake Titicaca, very blue

Waterfall in Torotoro NP

Just some little random village

Not even sure what this place is called

Pretty sweet marsh

Laguna Verde

Laguna Colorada

Climbing up Thunupa volcano

Looking down from Thunupa volcano

Photo fun in the Salar de Uyuni

Bolivians are sick !

When I travel, I try to eat at vegetarian restaurants as much as my budget allows because one I like the food and two I want to patronize those establishments and help them prosper.

Api, a delicious marbled Bolivian drink
made from purple and yellow corn

Usually in South America, they're hard to come by, found only in the bigger, more progressive cities. In Bolivia, of all places, we were blown away by the sheer number of veggie eateries in the country. You could actually choose between restaurants, and the majority of them were quite good.

Even more amazing is that 95% of the clients (everyone but Pauline and I) were Bolivians. Did Bolivians all of a sudden take a nutritional leap forward and say goodbye to their meat-laden and mostly fried diet ? We asked, to several people in each city.

"No," they all answered. Very few of the customers were actually vegetarians. "My doctor told me to eat vegetarian because of..." And they'd fill in the blanks with coronary and circulatory conditions, weight issues, and a variety of digestive disorders.

Bolivians are notoriously undereducated when it comes to nutrition. They generally think an avocado has more cholesterol (it has none) than a llama (they think it has none). Because there's little understanding of what's good and what's bad for you, they generally stuff themselves with foods rich in fat, salt, and sugar (yum !)...and avoid vegetables (ick !) if they can.

So finally, upon reaching the pinnacle of malnutrition, their doctors finally beseech them and preach to them to eat more vegetables. Finally.

Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Colombia anymore.

Colombians and foreigners all dressed up for Carnaval.

Every Latin American country shares some similar cultural traits. They mostly share a common language in Spanish, a common history of colonialization, and a common genetic makeup .

But to say they're all alike would be a mistake. The indigenous groups are different, their dictators, revolutions, and politics are different, their geographies and climates are different.

But one of the most striking differences we noticed when we arrived in Pisco, Peru when we happened upon a band playing in the central plaza of the town.

Get a load of those dresses !

A small crowd was watching. That's the difference right there ! They were watching. In Colombia, my dear Colombia, the crowd wouldn't just watch... they'd get up and dance.

No Colombian ever had to be in the right mood to dance. Even in Science class, my students would, at very random moments, stand up spontaneously and start to boogie.

I'm guessing that the sentence, "Okay kids, let's stop dancing and get back to the function of the kidney's loop of Henle," has never been uttered outside of a science class in Colombia.

Bolivian Book Exchange

Bolivia is a rather poor country. You can see it in the streets and on the price tags. But why is the country so poor if minerally-speaking, it's one of the richest countries in the world, nearly on par with the likes of South Africa and Australia.  And this is after the Spaniards raped the country of gold and silver for 200 years.

Frenchies hiking in Bolivia

You can't blame the dictators, entirely.  Everyone had 'em in Latin America. In spades.

Lack of tourism it ain't.  We saw enough of the French in Bolivia to wonder if there were any French left in France. And if more people knew about the natural beauty of Bolivia, they'd stop what they were doing to come here, too.

Copacabana

I did see one clear clue early into our Bolivian trip.  After finishing Watership Down, I was hoping to exchange it for another, slightly lighter book.  I was told that the national telecom company, Entel I believe it's called, had a book exchange in its office in Copacabana, on the banks of Lake Titicaca.

We entered. Not a book in sight.

-"Excuse me, señora, I'm looking for a book exchange, and I heard there was one here. Do you know if it moved or if there's another one ?"

-"What for ?"

-"Uhhh, well, I just finished this book," and I showed her the rabbit on the cover, "and I'd like to trade it for another."

-"To do what with it ?"

Wow, I had to resist the urge to give her a sarcastic or condescending reply. It would have been lost on her.

-"Actually, I want to read another book."

-"No, you can't do that here."

So I slunk away, a little saddened, as the señora returned to her business of texting someone. But in the end, I could only blame myself. The reason I ventured into Entel was because my guidebook informed me so. That's right, a book. What do I need that for ?

Lima to Cuzco : A Breathtaking Journey

Technically we started our trip in Pisco, which lies on the coast, a bit south of Lima. The next bus to pass by, and the only one to pass that evening was scheduled to arrive around 8pm.  It arrived at 10pm. It was nearly full, with only two seats left in the far back. Immediately upon entering we were hit in the face by a sledgehammer of a stench from the toilet.  As were approached our seats, we approached the source of evil...and like Kryptonite, it got stronger and meaner.

Pauline wrapped the arms of her hoodie around the middle of her face like a drooping turban. I stuck toilet paper up my nostrils. The odor, like water around a cardboard boat, finds its way in. I suffered in olfactory agony as my alveoli committed suicide and my lungs shriveled and my nose sought refuge in the relative potpourri of my steamy armpit of despair.

Morning came and I realized that my nose must have quit its job so that I may sleep a bit. I wondered, perhaps, if it had died. But within seconds of waking, my nose was back at the job, sniffing and smelling.

We were close to 4000m by now and the bus was winding sinuously around the mountain bends. The toilet door said "Solo Orinar". The urine was not alone in there. Number two could be detected by sight and smell. And some sick passengers had very clearly vomited (is that number three ?).  They couldn't leave there bragging, "nothing but rim."

At a sharp bend, the toilet door started to swing open against the back wall, clack !, and swing closed again, clack !, and repeat, each time letting armies of odors diffuse out like uncaged killer bees.

Finally, in the evening, a respite.  Two hours shy of Cuzco, the bus broke down allowing us to escape the gas chamber on wheels. Several passengers asked to have their luggage removed so that they could find other means of transport. The door no longer could be opened and eventually had to be open with a hacksaw through the thin wooden barrier.

And he hitched the first truck that passed. The driver smelled of dirty clothes and sweat...my nose and lungs couldn't have been happier.

Future unknown

This summer, we decided to visit a friend in Montreal, so we rented a car, and up we drove.  We arrived at the border in the morning, around eight. We were excited about visiting the alleged "nicer" half of North America, about getting a new passport stamp, and about seeing our friend from Montpellier again.

-"Passports," asked the immigration officer coldly from his booth. "What are you doing in Canada ?" This kind of hospitality might be expected in places like Uzbekistan, but was totally unforeseen here in Canada of Bowling for Columbine fame.

-"Uh, we're coming to see a friend. He lives in Montreal."   

-"Uh-huh, and what's your address ?" 

-"Uh, we don't have one. We're just traveling around for the moment," Pauline responded.

-"We're homeless" I added. Not helping...

-"And, how long are you staying here in Canada ?"

-"What's your occupation ?"

-"We don't have one of those either. Although normally we're teachers." 

-"We used to live in Colombia, I blurted. Shut up, Andrei.

-"Just three days," we replied, which he didn't quite believe.

After the monsieur informed us that we would not be getting any passport stamps, he handed us a pink slip of paper with our personal and vehicular information on one side and bruskly told us to pull up to the immigration office. On the opposite side of the slip read the hand-scribbled words, "futur inconnu." Future unknown.

Of course, these words were meant for the customs and/or immigration officials inside the building to give us a good ol' fashioned interrogation, which they tried to do, until they called and woke up our friend, who confirmed our story.

But the words had much more significance for us than the unhappy booth man could ever have imagined. Unknown future ! We could do anything. We have no job, no home, nowhere we have to be aside from a couple of flights in the distant slightly-known future. We could go anywhere, find work anywhere, even in Uzbekistan !  Just as soon as we return the rental car in Connecticut...we just might end up in Uzbekistan someday, where we'll certainly be given a stamp and visa.

The Colombian Exchange

I love to discover. Culture, geologic wonders, music, and food.  That's a big reason why I travel...to learn, to see, to hear, to taste new things. And when two cultures meet, the discoveries usually go both ways. When the Spanish came to the Americas they found potatoes, chocolate, guinea pigs, and syphilis. The Indigenous Americans discovered horses, sugarcane, and smallpox.

This is called today the Columbian Exchange. Without it, the Italians wouldn't have polenta, the Hawaiians pineapple, the Indians red hot chili peppers, or French youths their tobacco. Nor would Argentina have any gauchos without the exchange. And Colombia, without bananas or coffee from the Old World, would be totally dependent on their coca industry.

During my own travels, I've discovered Nutella in Europe, red bean paste in Korea, dulce de leche from Argentina, and terere from Paraguay.  On our first day in Colombia, I discovered a dozen wonderful fruits that I'd never seen before, such as lulo and guanabana.

But it just didn't seem right that I got to discover so much from the South Americans, but there was no exchange.  They weren't making any cultural or culinary discoveries from me.  I wanted to give them something from my culture, too, like the Spanish did 500 years earlier with pigeons, brown rats, artichokes, and bubonic plague.

And then, on my last visit to Mayapo beach, in La Guajira region, I was sitting at a table under a sombrilla with Pauline and some friends. Three older Wayuu women came up to us to try to sell us bracelets, of which we already had several each. We told them, "no, thanks," and they started to walk away until a shiny object of mystery caught one of the women's eyes. She approached the container, which glistened in the afternoon sun, with hungry curiosity, like a capybara. So we opened the jar, unveiled really, and offered her and her companions some of the chunky chunky peanut butter within.  Now, peanut butter can be found in supermarkets in South America. But it's quite rare outside of the major cities and is prohibitively expensive for most people.

All three tasted. I could see that they were delightfully puzzled as they tried to pry the peanut butter from the roofs of their mouths. And like a conquistador planting a Spanish flag into foreign soil, one bold woman lunged forward and plunged two fingers into the highly viscous paste to get some more before traipsing away cackling.  Discovery, indeed.

Choose Your Own Adventure : The Birthday Present

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE #76

YOU'RE THE STAR OF THE STORY

CHOOSE FROM SEVERAL ENDINGS

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

BY : HUNK GARRETT

Chapter 1

It's Tuesday, and Maria's birthday is only days away. Maria's in the 10th grade and her parents haven't been able to think of a suitable gift. They'd like to give her something more personal than money but have only come up with a blank.  She's changed so much lately and spends more time with her friends than at home. What do you give a girl for that very special birthday ?

If Maria's having her quinceañera, or 15th birthday party (for Latin countries), go to chapter 2.

If Maria's having her sweet 16 (for Western countries), go to chapter 3.



Chapter 2

After a long discussion, Maria's parents decided that they would just ask her. She wouldn't be quite as surprised, but they wanted to be absolutely certain that she gets something she wants for her big day.

-Say, sweetheart, what would you like for your quinceañera present ?

-Gee, I wasn't sure if you'd ask. I've been giving it a lot of thought. I just hope you won't get mad.

To choose "some money or new clothes", go to chapter 4.

To choose "rhinoplasty", go to chapter 5.

Chapter 3

After discussion, Maria's parents decided that they would just ask her. After all, they wanted to absolutely certain that she gets something she wants for her big day.

-Say, sweetheart, what would you like for your sweet 16 ?

-Gee, I wasn't sure if you'd ask. I've been giving it a lot of thought. I just hope you won't get mad.

To choose "some money or new clothes", go to chapter 4.

To choose "rhinoplasty", go to chapter 5.

Chapter 4

-Yeah, I've been thinking that I could also start saving up for college or for a car. And I could always use some new clothes.

-You know, We think that's a great idea. We'd love to help you with that.

Chapter 5

-Huh, rhinoplasty.  That's really what you want ? Really ?

-Yeah, I just think that it'll help me make friends and help me gain some self-confidence.

If you have Latino parents, go to chapter 6.

If you have parents of any other origin, go to chapter 7.

Chapter 6

-You know, that's a great idea. Let's schedule it for tomorrow so that you'll be prettier for your party.




Chapter 7

-Hmm, how about a frontal lobotomy, or maybe electroshock therapy may be more apt.  Because it's clear that there's something seriously wrong with your head, not your nose. Let's schedule it for tomorrow so that you'll be smarter for your party.

To send Maria to a clinic for a frontal lobotomy, go to chapter 8.

To send Maria to a clinic for electroshock therapy, go to chapter 9.




Chapters 8 and 9 have been unfortunately ripped out from the novel !

Catch-Veintidós

Here a little event that could have happened anywhere, but did happen in Colombia just before we finished up our contract.

Pauline got a little sick one afternoon.  With a mild fever, she took the day off in bed.  The next day, fever gone, she returned to work and was asked by her supervisor for a doctor-signed certificate proving that her first missed day of work in 18 months was really caused by an illness.  Where is the circle of trust ?

So she went to see the doctor, who refused to sign a form for someone who was feeling better. Sorry, I don't sign for the ex-febrile. Obviously, she should have crossed town in the 40 degree heat when ill and bed-ridden to receive, not medical treatment, but a signature.

Like I said, this little paradox can and does happen in most countries.  Just seemed like a nice little catch-22 to wrap up our time in Colombia.

Uuuuaahhaaahh (That's the sound of a yawn)

I always thought that I yawned because I was tired or because someone nearby had infected me. It was finally in Colombia that I learned the real story...

''Uuuuaahhaaahh,'' I said.

''Are you hungry ?,'' inquired the nearest Colombian.

''Hmm, I just ate lunch.''

If it were midnight and I yawned, ''Uuuuaahhaaahh,'' the nearest Colombain would always ask me, with surprise, ''You're hungry ? Really ?''

''Actually, I thought I was tired.''

''That's a new one to me,'' spake the Colombian.

According to so-called ''scientists'' and ''experts'', there are other more credible (or are they incredible ?) theories, such as for cooling down an overheated brain and stretching the eardrums. Or it could indicate epilepsy or a brain tumor...

But those Colombians know bet-  Wait, wait, did you just yawn during my article ?  Wanna sandwich ?

It's a Diminutive World, After All

Colombians have a funny way of talking.  Despite the fact that it's a big country (twice the size of Texas) of big mountains, big rainforests, big cities, and big boobs, the people don't have that big Texan need to dwell on all things large.  On the contrary, in nearly every uttered phrase in Colombia, you can find a noun, adjective, or adverb that gets shrunken with a wee -ito or -ico suffix when it passes a Colombian's lips.



For example, Colombians don't ask for a coffee, they order a cafecito con lechecita, roughly linguistically equivalent to a thimble-sized coffee with a shrew-teet's full of milk.  If they're a little hungry (tienen hambrecito), they're likely to order an arepita con quesito, or, literally, a pint-sized cornmeal patty with cheese from a runt cow (they'd call the animal a vaquita, not a vaca).

Of course, they don't always literally mean objects of dwarfish proportions, it's just, in my opinion, a more charming way to talk about familiar nouns.  In fact, only with baby animals (that I know of) is the diminutive literal.  Puppies and kittens would be called perritos and gaticos, respectively.


In all other cases, the diminutive is a friendlier nuance of the original.  If you'd rather not drink cafecito, well, then why not a juguito or a chocolatico calientico ?  We can eat junticos in a momentico.

Anything can be reduced in this country. The thin (flaco) can get even thinner (flaquito). Even the obese can and often do get verbally diminished. Tactless Colombians (there are many) will call out 'Hey gordito,' to get a colleague's attention.  Ouch.

It's a wonder (merveillita) that the country that linguistically reduces nearly everything also produced the renowned artist Fernando Botero, who painted and scuplted fat people, fat horses and birds, and even fat fruit. No, no, not gordo....gordito.

Mangled Myth : The Guajiran Origin of Fire

When I was young, I used to watch a cartoon on Sunday mornings called the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, about a flying squirrel and a moose who try to stop the evil Soviets Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale from evilly committing evil deeds.  But interspersed throughout the program were several other, shorter and unrelated cartoons.  One was called Fractured Fairy Tales, where a narrator tells a familiar tale (Cinderella, Hansel & Gretel, etc.), updated with unexpected twists.

Well, South America is a place full of legends and myths.  So I'd like to try my hand at updating and funkifying a myth from the Guajira, called the Origin of Fire.  This myth about the origin of fire is taken from Jose Enrique Finol's book "Mito y Cultura Guajira" (Universidad de Zulia, 1984).

It not only relates how the brave and resourceful Junuunay stole fire from the cave of the creator god Maleiwa, but also the origin of the firefly, and the dung beetle. It also signals the best kinds of wood to rub together to make a fire. So if you're ever stuck without a fire in the cold desert night of the Guajira Peninsula, seek out the caujaro tree and get rubbing.

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

In the beginning, there was no fire.  The people never prepared food and ate their arepas raw, their meat dried, and their smores unmelted.  They were forced to lick their cigarettes, which satisfied no one. 

These pitiful people lived in trees and caves and holes like animals.  They were afraid of darkness.  They went to bed at seven o'clock at night and never went to discoteques.  The Spaniards found them quite a bore.

The Wayuu creator god, Maleiwa, had fire.  He was the only one.  He kept his burning stones in a secret cave.  He went there to warm his hiney and his food, and to smoke his Marlboros.  We wasn't afraid of the dark, so He went dancing 'til dawn.  With the Spaniards.

Maleiwa didn't want the people to have fire.  They might make steam engines and bananas Foster and Molotov cocktails.  No, these humans could not be trusted.

But one chilly night, when Maleiwa was warming His divine bones next to the fire, a young man named Junuunay came towards Him and the cave entrance, trembling.  Maleiwa was not happy.

"Hey you, trespasser ! Don't you know this cave is a no-go zone? It's where I keep my awesome magic fire-stones, fool !  My tush is already getting frosty, thanks to you !  Leave me !"

"No, have pity on me," Junuunay answered, pleadingly.  "It's colder than a witch's titty outside, and I lost my opposum loin cloth and iguana-skin boots in the village poker game.  I only wish get a wee bit of warmth on my skin and in my bones.  And then I will leave.  If you've got any whiskey, I'd love a sip, too. 

But Junuunay was quite the sneak; he used all of cunning tricks to convince Maleiwa. He made his teeth chatter, he gave himself goose bumps, he shivered like a lizard, and he rubbed his hands together until, finally, Maleiwa felt sorry for this hapless fellow and decided to let him in.

Both of them were rubbing their legs, rubbing their hands, and blowing into their hands.  Gettin' warm.  Junuunay's boldness grew with his warmth.  Suddenly, Junuunay exclaimed, "Maleiwa, look out !  It's your wife and she looks pissed !"  Maleiwa got scared and looked off into the distance.  Using this distraction, Junuunay grabbed two fire-stones, threw them in his satchel and bolted into the night.

Maleiwa, who wasn't married, realized He had been tricked and robbed.  His urge to punish humans rising, He set off after Junuunay.  "Ooohh, I'm gonna transform that varmint into an insect and make him eat dung."

Junuunay was a fast runner, but not nearly as quick as the creator god.  And so he gave one of the fire-stones to his friend Kenaa.  Kenaa took one of the stones and ran away unseen.  You see, he was indistinguishable from the other humans during the daytime, but at nighttime, his stone shone and gave away his whereabouts. So the next night, Meleiwa discovered him and turned him into a firefly to punish him.  Maleiwa liked to turn people into insects...which is why there so many insects in this part of the world.

Junuunay, also a fan of insects, found Jimut, the talking grasshopper.  "Hey buddy, the almighty Maleiwa is on my tail 'cause I stole some fiery rocks from His lair.  Here, take this last piece and hide it."

Jimut was called the talking grasshopper because he could understand the Wayuu language.  But he was a mute.  He just shook his little head and jumped in a Caujaro tree.  Then he jumped to another Caujaro tree and to another, spreading the magic of the stone to all the trees.  He also burned down a few forests in the process, starting the irreversible desertification of the Guajira.  Thanks Jimut.

One day the people saw Jimut, the mute talking grasshopper, in the tree, rubbing two sticks.  Small grasshopper-sized sticks. They tried it, too, and a flame appeared.  The people were so happy that they had fire.  Now they could cook their meals, smoke their Pall Malls, or burn down their enemies' huts.

Well Maleiwa did turn Junuunay into a dung beetle as promised, which made the creator feel real good for awhile.  But the mute talking grasshopper was already an insect and thus immune from Maleiwa's favorite spell. And, Maleiwa, with a Jehovian temper, was fed up with this insect-infested peninsula where the ungrateful inhabitants didn't even make monuments in His honor. He was feeling mean, so called up His friends the Spanish and asked if they were interested in acquiring some real estate on the coast.

And he left the Guajira to relocate to a great little island known as the Tierra del Fuego.  Sounds cozy.

My Little Negro

Imagine this disturbing scene, if you can :

A car pulls up to a curb and rolls down the window.  The light-skinned driver shouts out to a black man who is walking on the sidewalk, “Hey, my little negro !, come here !”.  And the black man hurries over to give directions to the white driver, at which point, he might say, “thank you my little negro” and then he drives away.

In what time period would you place this scene ?

There are cars, so logically it's gotta be sometime after the 1920's. With civil rights movements happening around the globe (except South Africa), it certainly couldn't be after the 60's.

Surely, you decide, this is a scene from the 1940’s or 50’s.  But nay, this a scene repeated day in and day out here in Colombia.

But the locals swear they’re not racists.  ''Mi negrito'' and ''mi negrita'' are terms of affection !  Incredibly it bothers no one.

Try calling out the same terms of affection in the some city in the States and see if anybody minds.

The Boys from Colombia

The Spanish word for monkey is "mono".  Except for in Colombia, where they use the word "mico".  The word "mono" does exist here, it just has a different meaning : blond.  Colombians will describe me with the term "mono", even before they see me in a tree.

How did this mix-up happen ?  Well, I have a theory. You see, we spent part of our Spring Break in Tayrona National Park where the Sierra Nevada mountains crash into the Caribbean Sea.  And while there, we saw the most curious little primate, the Cotton-Top Tamarin.

Obviously, Franz Liszt's henchmen pianists Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns and Charles-Valentin Alkan took some samples of Liszt's DNA and semen with them to South America so that they could recreate the genetics and life of the Hungarian piano-playing virtuoso.

And then some cheeky monkey stole the samples, obviously ! 

See the family resemblance ? The monkey below is trying to play the tree trunk !

[Written in 2012]

Mr. Handsome

I've never entered a beauty contest before unless you count all of those second-place finishes I won playing Monopoly.  Until recently.  And even for this contest, I had no idea that I was a contestant.

During the most recent school assembly over at the colegio, the students announced the results of a school-wide survey.  Category 1 : Most Handsome Teacher.  What is this ? Then I heard my name, what ?!

I realized that contests of beauty were more important in this part of the world that say, anywhere else in the world, but I would never have thought that the kids here voted on which teachers they thought the best-looking (There was also an award for best-looking female teacher, which went to a tall blonde American).

Looks like all of that collagen that I shoved in my lips and the buttock augmentation really did the trick !

[Written in 2012]

In Your Country...

In Europe, mostly along the Southern and Eastern fringes, there exists some confusion.  Is IKEA from Switzerland ?, does Sweden make chocolate ?, do moose and reindeer pose a threat to those who ski in the Alps ?

In South America, there is no such confusion. Everyone agrees that the wonderful country of Swedzerland is a rich, politically neutral North Central European nation.  They make safe cars and noisy clocks, but their greatest invention, in the culinary realm, is obviously the chocolate moose.

Part of this misunderstanding is due to names.  These two countries have very similar names in Spanish : Suiza and Suecia...which is which ?  My Colombian ID labeled me as Swiss from Suiza.

The other part of the misunderstanding is that South Americans are notoriously bad at geography.  It apparently runs in the hemisphere. One man asked me if France was next to Argentina.  If you squint.

Recently, when crossing the border between Bolivia and Argentina, the official took a look at my Swedish passport, written in Swedish, English, and French.

''Ahh, your country is Swedzerland ?''

''No, no, Sweden, Suecia...Suueeciaaa.''

''Okay, Swedzerland,'' and he starts typing my new home nation onto his keyboard.

''No, not Suiza. Suecia.  Vengo de Suecia. Ese Oo Ay C E Ahhh.''

South Americans are generally very friendly and are eager to start up conversation with foreigners.  But it's at this point in the conversation that most give up.

''Pauline, how is France doing during the crisis?''

''And Andrei, is it very cold in, uh, in your country ?''

The Second Coming of the Blog

After four months of traveling in Colombia, the States, Peru, Bolivia, and now Argentina, I think I have gathered a enough stories to jump start the comatose blog.  I still have a few stories unfinished from the Colombian and Venezuelan era, which may have to be inserted as flashbacks.

So as long as I have reliable internet service, I'll try to put up a new article every week or so.  Hope you enjoy them...