tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77297281695165491082024-03-05T11:49:43.247+05:30life on a one-way ticketElizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-13250108120963886982011-06-18T02:39:00.003+05:302011-06-18T02:40:43.259+05:30Spice It Up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gOi3TVFcv1ksnpIRO5AVrTuYapYkFDZFcLu1NBXqy0onODLlzMtu01h_wjDqhBpvgiHKJ3muTPTDv6udWSgml5zXS68aXvsk-titC_JrqgzjaGR5-7gnH7_LQRJa7U_oHPWaxYP-JqU/s1600/17.06+plants.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gOi3TVFcv1ksnpIRO5AVrTuYapYkFDZFcLu1NBXqy0onODLlzMtu01h_wjDqhBpvgiHKJ3muTPTDv6udWSgml5zXS68aXvsk-titC_JrqgzjaGR5-7gnH7_LQRJa7U_oHPWaxYP-JqU/s320/17.06+plants.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619299123805326322" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman', serif;">While visiting the local nursery in search of flowers and plants to brighten up the hostel, Miles and I built up a collection of our own. The first plant we bought was basil. This was very exciting because the basil from the store comes in a big bunch that you couldn’t possibly use all at once and goes bad absurdly quickly. I’d started to feel guilty every time I bought it, already knowing that so much would go to waste. The second trip brought home a rosemary plant, but the third purchase was far and away the most exciting.</span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">We bought a chili plant! And . . . wait for it . . . they’re spicy!!! I flipped when I saw the plant but when Miles asked the lady about it she told us they were decorative chilis. Huh? Does such a thing exist? Then it came out that there was one customer who said she eats them. Good enough for us, we decided to take our chances. Not only are they edible, but they are the perfect spicy chili for the missing half of my Thai cooking repertoire. No surprise though that to a Colombian palate the spice content would classify the chilis as ‘decorative!’</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-74315043539357994542011-06-18T02:28:00.002+05:302011-06-18T02:28:27.625+05:30The Friendly Paisa<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A constant conversation among guests at the hostel is how nice Colombians and especially people in Medellín are. Travelers observe a distinct difference between Colombia and many of the other countries they’ve traveled through either on their way down or up. Aside from the fact that Colombians have generally not followed the common trend of taking advantage of foreigners, they also go out of their way to help you and ensure that you are having the best possible experience in their city. In Medellín I think that citizens are especially cognizant of their dark history and are eager to ensure that visitors are exposed to the new and improved version. This city has something to prove as it enters the global consciousness as a travel destination rather than the playground of Pablo Escobar.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My favourite friendly Paisa story is a time when Miles and I were searching the center without success for a table lamp. We asked in one store that didn’t have what we were looking for. Rather than sending us on our way, the woman came out from behind the counter and escorted us two blocks to another light shop that she thought might be able to help. Talk about going above and beyond! We hear similar stories from guests all the time and judging by this, I’d say locals are doing an excellent job of promoting their new image.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-52896529187256176522011-05-29T01:26:00.000+05:302011-05-29T01:28:25.658+05:30Proof.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuIcF1b_YHySpINkWjiNbv3_0p9cUVR3IYjFjbN8WqUH8gExoAHjMCtzX_XnKId3KOnqXhjt6cHxyp1Kalxb7iaEWflA6Mlmx_7qY0KGJ4J5sNYerORSsk7ae0Li9oUYBpvOt8C0KrhE/s1600/28.05.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSuIcF1b_YHySpINkWjiNbv3_0p9cUVR3IYjFjbN8WqUH8gExoAHjMCtzX_XnKId3KOnqXhjt6cHxyp1Kalxb7iaEWflA6Mlmx_7qY0KGJ4J5sNYerORSsk7ae0Li9oUYBpvOt8C0KrhE/s320/28.05.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611858629195281410" /></a>Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-75181766090183750562011-05-29T01:17:00.001+05:302011-05-29T01:19:41.507+05:30T&A<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV0Tq38XnyfwI0lLEu9byBKEpO4LUB8Sdpdlw__K1G3TSi5gWXyUbSsHeCqjw-HCEGFJAadvDp3hx68amgDzID880NHq73TslPo8C86SpZ-Ddm4PSxEh7GeybdvMAf0Yi817zHdMUkMg/s1600/28.05+T+and+A.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbV0Tq38XnyfwI0lLEu9byBKEpO4LUB8Sdpdlw__K1G3TSi5gWXyUbSsHeCqjw-HCEGFJAadvDp3hx68amgDzID880NHq73TslPo8C86SpZ-Ddm4PSxEh7GeybdvMAf0Yi817zHdMUkMg/s320/28.05+T+and+A.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611856514732367074" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Alright, it is finally time for a long overdue blog about T&A, also known as ‘tits and ass.’ The women out here have these unbelievable bodies, I go to the gym and am in awe of the other women working out there. I walk down the street and there’s booty everywhere, and cleavage spilling out of tiny hot pink shirts. It’s hard not to do frequent double takes and it’s easy to see why Colombian women, and Paisas in particular, are renowned for their bodies. However, if I’ve learned one thing after eight months in Medellín, it’s that if it looks too good to be true, it’s not.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">First let’s talk implants. Colombia is a top destination for plastic surgery and that applies to breasts and bottoms as well as the usual facelift variety. What do you expect from a country with a long-running TV show called “Sin Tetas No Hay Paraiso” or “Without Tits, There’s No Paradise.” And when they turned the show into a movie they actually gave the actress a boob job as part of the deal! So silicon is big, and is even a somewhat common present for girls’ quiñeras, (15</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> birthday celebrations). I find that one of the most ridiculous facts I’ve heard down here. Who is done developing at 15?! No wonder my friend who used to work in the ER told me that it not at all unusual to receive female patients with irritated silicone busts or leaking silicone butts. People actually lose legs that way and mortalities are not unheard of. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This brings us to the safer, cheaper, and more accessible option: padded underwear. That’s right, women actually wear underwear with butt pads to enhance their curvature. A favourite pastime of mine is the real or fake guessing game. This is a little greyer than the equivalent game in Thailand regarding transvestites, which was the surgery of choice in Bangkok, because our general rule was if you have to ask, then she is. But here, some women really do have incredibly curvy bodies, the plastic surgery is state of the art, and even padded asses often look proportional, so it can be difficult to make a final call. My trick is to examine the ass to thigh ratio and look out for the ‘shelf effect.’</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As amusing as it often is to view such an interesting cultural phenomenon, ultimately I find the whole situation very sad. Why are 15 year olds getting breast implants? In an already competitive world, how are “normal” (read: natural) women supposed to compete with the supermodel and cartoon pinup bodies that are literally </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">created</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> on a daily basis? Why do women feel the need to wear ass pads even to the gym? The US definitely isn’t known for promoting healthy self-images to young girls, but I would imagine that this society could be very difficult for a young girl to grow up in.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-5016241701556780342011-05-29T00:47:00.001+05:302011-05-29T00:47:33.133+05:30Hey, Monkey!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Speaking of offensive ways to get people’s attention, I never wrote about one of the most surprising forms of address down here. This would be when I walk down the street and someone asks me for the time, directions, anything, and they get my attention by calling “Mona!” or “Monkey!” Yup, that’s right, I get called monkey on an almost daily basis. And although my first inclination on hearing this isn’t to turn around with a smile on my face, I’ve learned that there is absolutely no ill-will borne with the word. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s not a foreigner/local thing either; anyone who is light skinned will likely be referred to as mona/mono. I have no idea what the history behind this term is, but I did recently find out that Colombians actually use a different word when talking about the animal. And I do think that any Colombian leaving the country should be forewarned that referring to people as monkey will likely not be as well-received elsewhere!</p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-61939258203461002722011-05-29T00:38:00.000+05:302011-05-29T00:39:04.430+05:30Hey, Woman!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Miles and I finished our night out with empanadas, the Medellín equivalent of hotdogs in Seattle, pizza in New York, and falafel in London. I was so thoroughly engaged in my empanada that I missed the exchange between the woman behind the counter and two customers, which Miles described to me later. Two guys came up to order and yelled “Oi, mujer” or “Hey, woman!” to get the employee’s attention. The woman turned around with an expression that made it clear she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard and said “What?” The guy had the gall to repeat “Oi, mujer” one more time. The employee served them but was obviously very displeased at being treated so rudely.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I completely understand how “Hey, woman” would be offensive. Especially given the tone in which it was delivered, reminiscent of a “Hey, woman, get back in the kitchen” type comment in the US. What I find strange is that the polite way to get a female server’s attention is to call out “Niña!” or “Girl!” This is the case regardless of age. Even though I know that this form of address is totally acceptable and expected, I still find myself reluctant to call out “Niña” to a woman who is clearly my senior. But at risk of offending an unmarried woman by calling her “Señora,” I find my hands tied. I do know, though, that based on the woman’s reaction last night, you can be sure I won’t be calling out “Mujer!” anytime soon!</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-90908463035437438482011-04-06T02:23:00.000+05:302011-04-09T02:23:39.580+05:30Bogota<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Having been in Colombia for six months, I finally made my first visit to the capitol, Bogota. And . . . I loved it. I love Medellín too, of course, but Bogota has a completely different vibe. It reminded me a lot of international capitals and therefore of the west/the U.S. if that’s not too un-PC of me to say. Bogota reminded me of many American cities: the state of the roads, the Big Dig in Boston; the layout of the city, D.C.; the ready availability of culture and music, New York; and the fashion reminded me of bohemians and hipsters.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our time in Bogota was filled with live jazz, salsa clubs, mouthwatering martinis, international food, a flea market, plazas, museums, and general wanderings. We took a few days from the city to head out to Villa de Leyva, home of the largest town square in all of South America. Although the square <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was</i> quite big, we were more impressed by the first Colombian wine that we’ve encountered. The Marqués de Villa de Leyva absolutely shamed Gato Negro, which has become our wine of choice in Medellín. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">All in all a great trip, and since I didn’t freeze my butt off as expected, I see return trips in my future.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-26058191272189595412011-03-13T07:19:00.003+05:302011-03-13T07:54:28.993+05:30How Old?!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In all the countries I’ve lived and traveled to I’ve become accustomed to a variety of different styles and fashions. Some of these I reject wholeheartedly: whitening cream; some I give into through lack of alternatives: anti-wrinkle deodorant; and some I choose to imitate: straight, black hair. However, I must admit to finding a current trend in Medellín to be one of the strangest I have yet encountered.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Older women want to appear younger than they actually are. Okay, okay, not that unusual. And younger women want to appear older? Seriously, the fashionable hairstyle among the twenty-somethings is gray streaks! At first I thought they were colored streaks that had faded out, but the phenomenon is so wide-spread that I have no choice but to believe that these girls actually want gray hair. The only reasonable conclusion I can draw is that, in an attempt to differentiate themselves from and rebel against their mothers’ generation, young women are left with no other option than to adopt an older look.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So the reason 20 year-olds must style themselves as old ladies may be because the older ladies have styled themselves as 20 year-olds. They wear the exact same clothing and their hair is long, streaked light brown and blonde, and flipped out in a Farah Fawcett manner. Add to the mix the incredible bodies that Colombians are known for and you’ll understand why, from behind at least, I have mistaken more than one 17 year-old’s mom for his girlfriend. I think this is one fashion trend I will have to give a miss!</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-33354308355892033962011-03-08T07:20:00.000+05:302011-03-13T07:22:13.940+05:30WANTED! Alive<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9r7tFUNE999MzjwTvMrfbqxcthuZC-P1-JhQmTGsI0XwuLvoAzk1ZMAu72iRGj7hD_9_cW1jJN7CzAn81dZjIaI98DrLV50Aucwh6RIM3pZRtl55-IqDSBi38EQCKJAvFhlgR0Npzd4/s1600/03+Bowie.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9r7tFUNE999MzjwTvMrfbqxcthuZC-P1-JhQmTGsI0XwuLvoAzk1ZMAu72iRGj7hD_9_cW1jJN7CzAn81dZjIaI98DrLV50Aucwh6RIM3pZRtl55-IqDSBi38EQCKJAvFhlgR0Npzd4/s320/03+Bowie.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583376141371014882" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After 24 hours of searching and worrying, Miles made the prescient statement: “It’s like someone just took her!” He was referring to our 7 month-old kitten Bowie who disappeared from the front of the hostel on Saturday night. Two days later, after plastering the neighborhood with signs that unintentionally looked like old western WANTED! posters, we got the longed for call. Bowie was safe and sound two blocks away.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Apparently these neighbors had seen Bowie on the street, noticed that none of the businesses were open and nobody was up in the houses, figured she was a stray, and adopted her. Hm. I’m so thankful that they called and returned her that I will only state very briefly how odd it is that they did not notice the brightly lit hostel with an open door and music playing from the bar less than 10 yards from where they found Bowie. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It’s fitting that when we went to collect Bowie, the first thing they said was “Your cat is CRAZY!” There’s a reason we were </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">this</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> close to calling her “Loca.” Truth is, Bowie is up in our business ALL the time. She attacks the laundry as I hang and fold it, races under the sheets as I make the bed, sits on the sink while I do the dishes, rolls in the dust as I sweep, drapes herself across my shoulders while I study Spanish, stages surprise attacks from around corners, and nibbles on our feet while we sleep. Needless to say, the apartment felt completely empty without her and I suppose I can forgive her the next few scratches. Welcome home, Bowie!</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-13265361727831119502011-02-16T07:18:00.000+05:302011-03-13T07:24:22.565+05:30A Little Direction<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I always figured I would go to grad school, I just didn’t know what for, and that seemed like a pretty important aspect of the decision. It was actually Miles that made graduate school seem like a realistic option for me. When I met him two summers ago he had a one-way ticket to an internship in Argentina and I had a one-way ticket to a volunteership in India. Our paths seemed similar, aside from that pesky opposite side of the world factor, except that having just completed his Masters in Public Diplomacy, Miles seemed to be one step ahead of me. Well, he is a year older!</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Although Public Diplomacy was not my exact interest, it was far closer than the law/medical/business degrees the rest of my friends were pursuing. Not to mention the Political Economics PhD, yes, Nikhar, I think you’re crazy! And what Miles was doing post-degree certainly seemed more in-line with my interests. With this nudge in the right direction and a conveniently timed Nonprofit Grad Fair followed by jumping into the deep end of the grassroots nonprofit world via RDF in India, I found my grad school direction: an MPA in Nonprofit Management. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, applications are in and fingers are crossed. Send a little luck my way and stay posted for the final decision!</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-85638697605576288232011-01-21T22:03:00.000+05:302011-01-25T22:03:53.829+05:30A Final F*** You<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: medium; ">It’s our last two hours in Ecuador and Miles and I are enjoying a nice, quiet lunch in a restaurant just outside the Quito airport in between flights. We finish our meal, Miles leaves the table for a few minutes, and a woman asks me a question in mumbled Spanish. As I struggle to understand, she seemingly gives up and leaves the restaurant. I’m still puzzling over the interaction when Miles returns and that’s when we notice the missing bag. Miles sprints outside and talks to the security guard who had been giving a passerby directions and therefore only vaguely aware of someone walking out past him. And just when we thought we’d made it out of the country without our own theft story, we’ve been hit by a three-man sting operation.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Fortunately for us, these Ecuadorian thieves are not as smart as they are ubiquitous. I’m not sure exactly what they intended to do with a backpack full of damp and dirty traveler’s clothes but it’s lucky for us that they opted for that bag. In the end, Miles lost his clothes, gifts, and apartment decorations that we’d bought but retained passport, iPod, camera, and wallet. He managed to remain very Zen about the loss of his material possessions, but I’d say we were more than ready to return to the tranquility of our home in “big, scary Medellin.” </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-38116497676446378082011-01-14T22:02:00.000+05:302011-01-25T22:03:04.861+05:30Reverse Reputations<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: medium; ">After two weeks experiencing the general sheistiness that characterizes much of Ecuador, while listening to travelers’ ill-informed and negative views of Colombia, Miles and I have come to the conclusion that the reputations of the two countries are completely reversed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The first indication that Ecuador would be a bit sketchy came from the Rough Guide warning against taking night buses. Having traveled by night buses all over Asia and with no trouble in Colombia, we at first questioned the warning but soon heard several stories from other travelers that confirmed the danger. Nearly everyone we met had tales of stolen bags or belongings along with a few more sinister stories about late night hijackings. I have never seen an in-country reputation put travelers so on edge; we actually saw two girls ride with their giant backpacks on their laps for an entire four-hour bus trip in the middle of the afternoon. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Add in the numerous people trying, and often succeeding to cheat us at nearly every payment, and you can see why Miles and I were taken aback that people happily traveling in Ecuador still expressed wariness with regard to Colombia. It just goes to show how much work still needs to be done on Colombia’s part to move away from the bad reputation still lingering from earlier decades. I know that Miles and I did our part by acting as ambassadors of the new and improved Colombia, and perhaps handing out a few Wandering Paisa business cards here and there . . .</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-12345077241075370572011-01-13T22:00:00.001+05:302011-01-25T22:02:22.198+05:30Quito<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg0b6wGi4Hnpzj8B8VY67ohdjijepqBbikabkdnIqCVKilsasvzyOdVsopIkVOeH4LXjDhLih51EDTqGzdT7_U-txAEb0n9iAY9nz9QN99KcxM9KwPJLjnzGWvBZHHnq_COoBku9oX7Q/s1600/13.01+me.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg0b6wGi4Hnpzj8B8VY67ohdjijepqBbikabkdnIqCVKilsasvzyOdVsopIkVOeH4LXjDhLih51EDTqGzdT7_U-txAEb0n9iAY9nz9QN99KcxM9KwPJLjnzGWvBZHHnq_COoBku9oX7Q/s320/13.01+me.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566162051791127442" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Quito grew on us. First impression was that it was dirty, ugly and sketchy. However, with a little exploration and excursions into other neighborhoods, we soon changed our mind. The Old Town was loads of fun to walk around, filled with plazas and churches. Following up on a story we had learned about in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The General in His Labyrinth</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, we visited the museum of Manuela Saenz, the lover and two-time savior of Bolivar the Liberator. From there we chose Compañia as our requisite church and were not let down by the massive amounts of gold covering the interior.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Next site was the teleférico, Quito’s own version of the Medellin gondola advertised on The Wandering Paisa business card. However, this teleférico has a completely different vibe. It’s definitely a tourist attraction as evidenced by the high price, lack of local riders, and sluggishness. Fortunately, the immense height attained at the top makes it entirely worthwhile. We initially disembarked into cloud cover but they soon cleared and while meandering up the slope a ways further we were presented with a series of breathtaking views of the city below us. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">No trip to Ecuador would be complete without visiting the Equator, so Miles and I hopped a bus to “The Middle of the Earth.” The site was incredibly tacky and tourist-oriented but we made the most of it, balancing an egg on a nail and checking that we really did weigh about 10lbs less. Then we visited a nearby Incan ruin, my first yet. However, even without having seen the more impressive ruins in Peru, I couldn’t help but think that the pink rocks looked more like a lovely garden wall than the foundations of an Incan prison . . .</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On our final day we visited the Chapel of Humanity, a museum site designed by and filled with the works of Guayasamin, Ecuador’s most prominent artist. In this chapel, Guayasamin presents the viewer with a social commentary via paintings of varying states of humanity. They are largely quite gripping and intense, often politically motivated, and sometimes gentle and tender. Beautiful and moving, the museum was the perfect finale for our Quito visit.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-57520254045205284872011-01-08T21:52:00.002+05:302011-01-25T21:58:22.475+05:30Ecuador<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79Vllcgg3VGLTbrtzsu3UL55w9PYjNZaxkTHqw2KOzYvSc0nutXUyQc3vdsBIzRwEHeBHubFtYP0hT6Ah_J4ewPsTIV8Ws6eE7SODlTbB6NY2QI4qlcpGohAF7ozWwXzlXnNV4WIquwA/s1600/8.1+Ecuador.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79Vllcgg3VGLTbrtzsu3UL55w9PYjNZaxkTHqw2KOzYvSc0nutXUyQc3vdsBIzRwEHeBHubFtYP0hT6Ah_J4ewPsTIV8Ws6eE7SODlTbB6NY2QI4qlcpGohAF7ozWwXzlXnNV4WIquwA/s320/8.1+Ecuador.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566160380249298610" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman', serif;font-size:medium;">In the first morning, on the road from the boarder, I recognized in Ecuador my previous images of South America. Images informed by a photograph of indigenous Peruvian women wearing bright clothes and men’s felt hats, the callow-lilies in Diego Riveira’s paintings, and descriptions of the landscape gleaned from Isabel Allende’s books and Pablo Neruda’s poems.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Landscape-wise, Ecuador is actually quite a good representation of South America, despite being one of the smallest countries. There are three distinct areas, the coastal beaches, the Andes down the middle, and the beginnings of the Amazon in the east. It was the perfect holiday destination as we managed to cover all three areas in only two weeks while maintaining a relaxed pace. And with Colombia functioning as my home, Ecuador provided my introduction to the South American travel I had imagined.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-3443027143117786102010-12-21T18:59:00.001+05:302010-12-21T19:02:54.881+05:30If You Build It, They Will Come . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LM_hZBegGK-GfJ4kHCTKkV6ACklhTP292skcuB66w0xf4o4ZX-JVSPgu9_h9Q5KSU331HPvOjLJCGcdOMyUs4V-fU9gf-ByFl6w6A0gVkUxDJfg_LtsKa0lYfBT6CtCIDikOsEFVD2g/s1600/21.12.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LM_hZBegGK-GfJ4kHCTKkV6ACklhTP292skcuB66w0xf4o4ZX-JVSPgu9_h9Q5KSU331HPvOjLJCGcdOMyUs4V-fU9gf-ByFl6w6A0gVkUxDJfg_LtsKa0lYfBT6CtCIDikOsEFVD2g/s320/21.12.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553127723754224242" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And so they have! Although there have officially been four guests thus far, this is the first time that The Wandering Paisa truly feels like a hostel. A group of eight travelers from various countries arrived this evening. They came to Colombia by boat from Panama and were caught in a storm on the way, running out of food and without proper places to sleep on their unexpectedly extended journey. Talk about an easy crowd to please – as they explored the hostel there were exclamations all around: Hot showers! Laundry! Coffee! Pillows!!!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What’s amazing after all this time with only Miles and I in the hostel, is to see how all the space is being used. It’s exactly as intended with people lounging in hammocks, hanging out in the castle, reading and writing on the balcony, chatting in the reception, and cooking in the kitchen. Every area is comfortable and usable and the guests are making the most of it all. The guests are shopping at the nearby grocery stores, testing the neighborhood restaurants, and exploring the city by metro. Everything is confirmation of the reasons that Brent and Miles chose this location and the countless other decisions that have been made over the past months. Finally, The Wandering Paisa is a fully operating hostel!</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-62751821124619095672010-12-19T22:04:00.001+05:302010-12-20T10:41:50.485+05:30The Grocery Store Experience<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Could you swing by the store and grab milk on your way home?” is a phrase that you will never hear in Colombia. Not because Colombians don’t go to the store or because they don’t drink milk but because it is a near impossibility to “swing by” the store. That phrase implies a quick in and out, grab the one thing you need, make a beeline to the “under 10 items” register, and you’re out of there. Five minutes max. In Colombia, or in Medellin at least, or in my neighborhood at the very least, going to the store is a full event of a proportion that requires it be penciled into your day planner.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It’s the checkout lines that get you. There is absolutely no sense of urgency among the workers, regardless of how long the line snaking away from their register is. If you’re unlucky the shift change will happen while you’re waiting and could take up to ten minutes. Alternatively, every single person in front of you could be paying their bills as well as buying groceries, doubling the number of transactions required. And heaven help you if a manager is needed. I saw a couple the other day who had the right idea for relieving the annoyance of waiting - they were casually drinking a yet-to-be-purchased beer while in line!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There is, however, a marked difference between the service at Carrefour, Makro, and Exito. Carrefour is a French chain, I think Makro is Dutch, and Exito is Colombian. Colombia seems to have a whole different spin on CSR that is much more involved and effective than what I have observed in India and the US. They go to great lengths to improve the lives of their employees, including helping everyone to buy their own houses. It’s understandable that benefits like this would make employees much more invested in their work.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another local chain that takes an active role in improving the lives of its employees is Crepes & Waffles. This chain of restaurants only employs single mothers and assists them with schooling, housing, and other investments that help them to support themselves and lead stable lives. The types of CSR practiced by Exito and Crepes & Waffles seem much more admirable to me than large US corporations who might organize a day volunteering at the local food bank or planting trees once every few months.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-42606017035471496552010-12-06T23:23:00.001+05:302010-12-06T23:23:39.756+05:30Living In and On the Minimum Salary<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Miles and I are apartment hunting right now. In the $300-350 range we’ve found some amazing deals and one of the initial problems was finding apartments that weren’t about 3x the size of what we need. Obviously, by western standards, these apartments are incredibly cheap, but knowing that the average apartment we’re looking at is 650,000 pesos, which is about 100,000 more than the minimum salary in Colombia made me wonder what more affordable housing is in Medellin.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I asked Federico how much the average Colombian living on minimum salary would pay for a house, he said about 150,000 pesos. Add in 200,000 for transport, which especially adds up if you have to take two buses to get to work. The buses are operated by private companies, meaning that you pay every time you get on a bus rather than receiving a transfer like we do in Seattle. For this reason, many people own motorcycles, but of course gas is expensive too. Now add maybe 200,000 a month for food and you’re already at 550,000, the minimum salary. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Even if both partners work and share the house with other family members, it’s very little money to live on. Then imagine throwing children into the mix – clothes, shoes, books for school, etc. However, despite the difficulty of getting by on the minimum salary, I suppose these workers are still luckier than many, given that Colombia has the interesting combination of both one of the highest minimum salaries and one of the highest unemployment rates in South America. </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-23297090226702282512010-12-06T22:18:00.000+05:302010-12-06T22:19:28.192+05:30Limpiar: (v) to clean<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It took three tries to get a hostel cleaning lady we’re happy with. The first one earned her dismissal when she was loathe to clean the kitchen because “it’s only going to get dirty again.” Wait a minute, isn’t that the point of hiring someone to clean? Especially in a hostel with a capacity of 34, it’s crucial that the cleaning staff be willing to clean the same areas everyday and sometimes twice a day. Marybel, the new cleaning lady, is a gem who proved her ability to take initiative and her understanding of the term “deep clean” when she took a garden hose to the hallway walls and ceiling on her first day. With her help, the inches of construction dust in which we have been living have been all but eradicated.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Despite my obviously inferior Spanish, each cleaning lady we’ve had insists on reporting to me rather than Miles. Clearly, as the woman of the house, it’s my responsibility to provide direction regarding the cleaning. The result is that my current flashcards consist of words like dust, stain and mop. I suppose managing housework is as good a way as any to increase my vocabulary! </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-71025424136109786762010-11-28T22:15:00.002+05:302010-11-28T22:16:31.362+05:30“The City of Eternal Spring”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzCACDpGTZxzStaJOBayEYJlMtLxT72EKeydCXlc4e2NMc9kI_bsrJMKQqq0CbsWePQSM8sapy9hqt06KEnbs8jdGL5C8ZacCXVjtsIM1XorkREhc1fZW47wX2iJhwn_Q9THjz-GlZlw/s1600/23.11+spring.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzCACDpGTZxzStaJOBayEYJlMtLxT72EKeydCXlc4e2NMc9kI_bsrJMKQqq0CbsWePQSM8sapy9hqt06KEnbs8jdGL5C8ZacCXVjtsIM1XorkREhc1fZW47wX2iJhwn_Q9THjz-GlZlw/s320/23.11+spring.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544642946819626850" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Right. Apparently “spring” in Spanish is the equivalent of monsoon! This weather is so reminiscent of the rainy seasons in both Thailand and India that I could almost believe I were in either place when I sit here. I’m on the newly green veranda right now and although sitting ten feet inside the roof, am still getting sprayed. The thunder is rumbling and cracking overhead and the lightning is beginning to flash. There’s barely a pause between the two; the storm is literally right above us and I think this valley must have excellent acoustics because it is impossibly loud.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This rain happens every single day and you can watch the dark clouds roll across the sky and see the misty silver rain envelop the valley. It keeps the vegetation green and the air clean and fresh, but this constant rain is also causing mudslides and flooding all over the country. Apparently this weather has been constant since July and, Miles assures me, is quite uncharacteristic. It’s the result of La Niña and El Niño occurring in the same year, the weather patterns that are probably responsible for the unseasonable snow that Seattle is having right now. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But who doesn’t love a good thunderstorm? And Bowie doesn’t seem to mind, accustomed as she is to the daily hammering, drilling, etc. that forms our daily soundtrack at the hostel. Plus, what better way to discover the less than watertight sections of the roof?! Even so, with my hot-blooded tendencies molded so carefully by a few years in the tropics, I’ll welcome the “springier” side of this city when it finally arrives. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-38817873943369899342010-11-28T22:13:00.003+05:302010-11-28T22:15:31.809+05:30Operation Fluency<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oFBpqNvgNCNqnxtugm0jIstoWyXU0HEHD1BBk-TUXYw9s7owfjubz01toGj8RFHWC6nVhhKXvBYMAqzjzDKmSFHqK7D1N0NdMdv5Z7LzNuMAPLh44von7JdTNc_r-IW5vkMf9l6gYPE/s1600/23.11+spanish.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9oFBpqNvgNCNqnxtugm0jIstoWyXU0HEHD1BBk-TUXYw9s7owfjubz01toGj8RFHWC6nVhhKXvBYMAqzjzDKmSFHqK7D1N0NdMdv5Z7LzNuMAPLh44von7JdTNc_r-IW5vkMf9l6gYPE/s320/23.11+spanish.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544642511790714370" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Call me a nerd, but I LOVE learning languages. I can’t even tell you how excited I am to be learning Spanish. There was a time in Thailand when I somewhat dejectedly accepted the fact that I would never know another language as well as I did Chinese. After all, I‘d had the benefit of university courses and full-immersion language programs to help me. But oh, how times have changed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Spanish and I, we’re going to be best friends. Best friends forever, even. BFFs. I don’t just want to get by in Spanish, speaking enough to order food and direct a taxi. I don’t just want to formulate broken sentences, stringing enough words together to have the same simple conversations over and over again about my family, work, and where I’m from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t want to only know the conjugations of verbs in the forms that I use and need most frequently. In fact, I don’t want even a part or a little bit of anything . . . I want it ALL. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I want to casually read the newspaper with my cup of coffee in the morning, skim a Garcia Marquez short story in the afternoon, and dip into Cervantes’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Don Quixote</i> before I fall asleep at night. I want to make grocery lists, write emails, and keep my journal in Spanish. I want to know every conjugation of every verb and use flawless grammar. I want to always know the exact words to express my sentiments and never need to substitute one that only half means what I want to say. I want to wax poetic about the weather with the checkout lady at Exito, delve into human rights with taxi drivers, and debate politics with the fruit vendor down the street. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, I’m not there yet, but a girl can dream. And in this case, I truly believe that I can make this dream a reality. Maybe I only just learned the past tense, get lost if a conversation takes an unexpected direction, and fall over even the words and phrases that I do know when put on the spot, but I’ll get there. I’ve only been here for two months and really learning Spanish for one. And I’m making progress with the help of my teacher, Ruben, and his infinite patience with my long pauses and probing language questions; Miles and his tolerance of my adding basic Spanish queries to the barrage of questions he is faced with and explanations he has to give at the hostel everyday; and my dearest friend Collins, Spanish Dictionary extraordinaire. It’s only a matter of time . . .</p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-77996277946564404652010-11-28T22:12:00.001+05:302010-11-28T22:13:25.816+05:30Farewell, RDF<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif; ">There’s been a spell of quiet on my blog as I’ve focused on finishing my work for RDF and settling into Medellin. I worked remotely for RDF through the end of October and ended up running over one week into November. This was mostly writing and finishing as many projects as possible given my early departure from the organization. I wrote the content for the website, drafted a volunteer information packet, wrote new items for a flashier version of the Annual Report, and wrote a report on the Washington University program from the summer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All of this work was with the intention of putting as much of the knowledge that I gained over the last year down on paper to serve as a guide and reference for future volunteers and employees. Nearly everything I did at RDF was from scratch since I was filling positions that hadn’t previously existed, there was very little documentation, and few systems were in place. Hopefully, this will allow for greater productivity and less reinventing of the wheel.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As much as I loved my work with RDF, I have to say I’m relieved to have officially finished. I’ll continue to be available in a consulting type position whenever necessary for volunteers in the future, but my official responsibilities are over. I found it difficult to stay as involved and inspired as usual during the last month of work. Of course, part of this is due to the conflict between needing to be at a computer working and wanting to explore this new city, culture and language. However, I think a larger factor was that, although I often perform best when left to my own devices, I also thrive off of contact with and feedback from others as well as inspiration from my surroundings. Most of all, I detest feeling as though I’m not performing at my best. Although I enjoy when my environment challenges me to perform better, I’d rather not fight </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">against</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> it, especially an environment as lovely as Medellin. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So here’s a final farewell to RDF, in a working capacity, and a thank you for the incredible amount of knowledge that I have gained about the inner working of nonprofits, life in rural India, and myself.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-57611218185942182162010-10-10T01:15:00.000+05:302010-11-15T01:19:25.509+05:30Medellin: Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTovdxrgY8E4sA90S6uKKI-nshoqNKztBB9QgTYCBV-_SkFvlM3VbAOEjY1CfW0obha_CQIK85F8RetIuF-NR5z6th2sQ-_nrg-1SMeDHPDiq5WBm6PS3dAhEMp5-jjj4v-1rHg5dMnQ/s1600/10.10+Mudslide.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHTovdxrgY8E4sA90S6uKKI-nshoqNKztBB9QgTYCBV-_SkFvlM3VbAOEjY1CfW0obha_CQIK85F8RetIuF-NR5z6th2sQ-_nrg-1SMeDHPDiq5WBm6PS3dAhEMp5-jjj4v-1rHg5dMnQ/s320/10.10+Mudslide.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539494873761934786" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a quick stop in Bucaramanga for Miles to buy one of their famed guitars, we bused back to Medellin. Ha, if only it were that easy! We woke up in the morning to find ourselves part of a long line of trucks and buses parked on the side of the road in the mountains. We waited patiently for a few hours as somewhere up ahead, workers cleared the mudslide that had blocked the road during the night. Then, as the first pangs of hunger hit, we were spurred to take action. Along with two fellow passengers we shouldered our bags and walked the mile or so to the site of the mudslide where we joined other travelers, including a group of nuns, scaling the hillside around it. Once on the other side we were able to get on a bus and finally made it to Medellin, only six hours later than expected!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I often think that a place really feels like home the first time I come back to it. So here I am, only two weeks into my life in Colombia, returning “home” to Medellin for the first time. And despite the fact that I’ve only actually spent five days in Medellin, the sight of the redbrick city set in a valley among mountains already feels familiar, and it’s good to be home. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-89843110308293433192010-10-07T01:06:00.003+05:302010-11-15T01:15:14.960+05:30La Guajira: The Land of Death and Dreams<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DacS2VRIbwGrN7UTWhautAfHSvHuUimNOWwZPENLstf5XSTKFiT37qa-iWFUrCff5_rHf5QFQxKnClpAPkCpWPOmWFDJ6G2I_i6Zc-dIfuh9WvUfeoBlydaxpdBM9_ob-i3zMtrrVZE/s1600/7.10+Guajira.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DacS2VRIbwGrN7UTWhautAfHSvHuUimNOWwZPENLstf5XSTKFiT37qa-iWFUrCff5_rHf5QFQxKnClpAPkCpWPOmWFDJ6G2I_i6Zc-dIfuh9WvUfeoBlydaxpdBM9_ob-i3zMtrrVZE/s320/7.10+Guajira.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539493258170716146" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a few days relaxing in Santa Marta we moved on to Riohacha, a new city for Miles. Riohacha is the capital of the northernmost state of Colombia, La Guajira: Land of Death and Dreams. How could we not visit an area with such an enticing moniker! Our plan was to rent motorcycles and head into this “most mysterious place in Colombia” with nothing but the bags on our backs. Ah, how naïve we were.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As our Jeep was expertly steered by our local driver through a cacti forest between the paved road and our coastal destination of Cabo de la Vela, we were exceedingly grateful that motorcycles had not been available in Riohacha. It had been raining all night and the mud and water had collected to the point that we were fording rivers, fishtailing across muddy flats, and gripping the seats to keep from slamming our heads into the ceiling as the Jeep bumped along.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Disappointed by our inability to rent a vehicle and drive ourselves, I was at least mollified by the excitement of this drive. The coast itself was quiet, fairly deserted, and beautiful despite the storms. We finally got to swim, ate delicious fresh seafood, slept in hammocks, and cemented the plan to return at a time of year when the weather is more conducive to exploring the interior. Our time in Guajira was completed with the purchase of traditional hats from the Wayuu people who inhabit the area and with their different dress, features and language make it feel as if you really have entered another land.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Note: La Guajira will have to remain mysterious as I forgot my camera battery . . . but please, admire my Wayuu hat :)</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-82163060772412803702010-10-04T01:14:00.000+05:302010-10-18T01:23:08.810+05:30Santa Marta: Research<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2HeG6tCOyhGOI6M9HJj-Tqbx7PMLsIpdCmCSmL8XEc2GDYr0jKd-Loh8sOsN68uQ7CAxum-tclNp8RuYBkVrphCoX2-aLFn5KFRK8ebvcr3KpU5-xT8xOpIL1kYtSeS5vTM459V4ltI/s1600/3.10+Brisa.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2HeG6tCOyhGOI6M9HJj-Tqbx7PMLsIpdCmCSmL8XEc2GDYr0jKd-Loh8sOsN68uQ7CAxum-tclNp8RuYBkVrphCoX2-aLFn5KFRK8ebvcr3KpU5-xT8xOpIL1kYtSeS5vTM459V4ltI/s320/3.10+Brisa.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529104738856003346" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In Santa Marta we got to do some hostel research. We spent the first night at Noctambular, one of four hostels in Santa Marta, only three of which are centrally located. Noctambular opened a couple months ago and was started by a young French couple who are managing the whole thing themselves. It was great to chat hostel work with them, but it seemed like they weren’t in the best place at the moment. Since it’s just the two of them and someone always has to be there, they’re completely tied down to the hostel and can’t even go out for a drink of dinner together. Thankfully, Miles already has a couple reliable employees lined up so that won’t be us!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In the name of research we moved to Brisa Loca, a beautiful hostel in a renovated hacienda, for the next night. Brisa Loca was the first hostel in Santa Marta and was started by two brothers from California. My dad had actually sent me a NY Times article about them just over a month ago. The hostel is incredibly well done and was a great place to get ideas as well as confirmation of a lot of the plans that Miles and Brent already have. Miles got a chance to talk to both the brothers and they were really helpful with stories from when they started and lots of tips. Exploring these hostels has been a really fun part of the trip for me because, all my recent travel experience having been bungalows and guesthouses in Asia, this is my first exposure to South American hostels. Now I have a much better idea of what Miles and Brent are aiming for and can also recognize how great their plans are.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7729728169516549108.post-14178979962015054452010-09-29T04:07:00.001+05:302010-10-15T04:12:44.171+05:30Cartagena: Colonial Town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgYHTnGlcWC92_kAvnOa-J0GQ9S6rDE3CYpRhhCmFgCxxn0Z8e2ztidqeGS0ru9vrgka0Vv9P7nrXlNbEycxg2Cg1Zsu0Jd_BVCp4TOabAhQ39auTe5Jwwd7IhJQ9lbnmhZIYvHWfqmc/s1600/29.09+Cartagena.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOgYHTnGlcWC92_kAvnOa-J0GQ9S6rDE3CYpRhhCmFgCxxn0Z8e2ztidqeGS0ru9vrgka0Vv9P7nrXlNbEycxg2Cg1Zsu0Jd_BVCp4TOabAhQ39auTe5Jwwd7IhJQ9lbnmhZIYvHWfqmc/s320/29.09+Cartagena.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528035577837902962" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Escaping the pernicious dust and constant hammering that characterizes the hostel at the moment, Miles and I hopped a plane to the coast, touching down in Cartagena. This Caribbean town, the setting of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Love in the Time of Cholera</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, looks as though it could also have been the setting of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Pirates of Penzance</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. In fact, the wall that surrounds the city was built to keep out pirates such as Sir Frances Drake who had a nasty habit of pillaging the area. Unfortunately for residents, the wall took 200 years to build and by the time construction was completed, pirates were no longer a threat.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">We arrived after dark and discovered that the streets were romantically lit and perfect for wandering in the sultry heat that lingered even after sunset. Although beautiful, Cartagena is quite touristy with lots of hawkers and not an overwhelming amount to do. We spent only one day there seeing the old city and searching out Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s house. In the evening, we headed over to the fancier Boca Grande strip for massages, a beautiful sunset, and delicious fish dinner. As Miles says, you can’t go to the coast without seeing Cartagena. Check. </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elizabeth Sewellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575105868332368289noreply@blogger.com0