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.
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).
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.
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, 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.
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.
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.
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 ?
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.
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.
So I did some very brief research. Apparently, the Christ-child is all Martin Luther's 
