Attention Grabber

This Friday marks my 7th month living in Colombia. Every once in a while it still hits me: Leanne, you live in Colombia. I will close my eyes and imagine a map. Yes, I live in the southern hemisphere. Wow. It's surreal to think about and yet sometimes it seems so normal. I never imagined living here would feel normal. There are faces that I recognize, walking routes I'm familiar with and cultural norms that I'm aware of. This is my current home.

Even though I acknowledge this as home, there are certain things that will always grab my attention. My inner gringa will forever be on alert and no matter how long I'm here, I'm certain certain things will catch my eye. This post is dedicated to these such things.

1)Random horses walking down the middle of the road: I live in a city with over half a million people. It is developed. There is cement everywhere. Walking down a deserted street at 6:00 AM on my way to breakfast and I see a horse walking towards me. No bridle. No saddle. No owner. Now that's an attention grabber.

2) Public make-out session: couples here enjoy expressing their "passion". In public. It's just awkward to me. I  don't care how long I've been here, it will never seem okay to me. I can't help but do a double take when I walk into a cafe and see 2 people heavily involved with one another. Come on people.

3)High heel shoes and plastic boobs: No matter how many pairs I've seen, it seems there are always bigger or more colorful ones out there. It just seems so unnatural.

4) Being stared at: No, I am not from here. Yes, I am a gringa. That doesn't give you permission to stare at me like I'm an alien. Can't I just blend in for once in my life? I will always be aware of the intensity of their stares.

5) Monos: In Colombian Spanish they call people with light features (light skin/hair) monos. This literally means monkey. there are so many people with dark features that when I see someone with light features my eyes are immediately drawn to them. I knew that Colombians were prone to do this but I never imaged I would fall into this too. But alas, monos grab my attention.

6) English: In my city I don't hear a lot of English. It is rare to come by, so when I do it immediately stands out. What?! You know my language too. I just want to go hug that person. I'll just call it my gringo radar.

7) The man selling aguacate: I cannot tune out his voice. "Aaaaa - Guuuuuaaaa - Catttayyyy". There are several that walk throughout the city selling avocado and they have the exact same loud bellow of the word. If I could insert a sound clip I would. I could probably mimic it myself. Maybe I'll change my day job.

8) Homeless people: I'm not certain I'll ever become "desensitized" to the number of people who live on the streets. It breaks my heart and it's impossible to ignore. It's hard knowing how to process it though and thinking about what I could possibly to do help does nothing. It seems hopeless and it's something I cannot get used to.

9) Hand holding: When I see a teenager holding hands with their mom/dad I can't help but stare. I think about teenagers in the United States and the idea of them holding their parents hands just makes me laugh. They wouldn't be caught dead doing that in a million years. And yet here I see mom strolling hand in hand with their teens. Girls hanging on their fathers arms. I even once saw a teenage boy holding hand with his mom while walking with his arm what appeared to be his girlfriend. What? Ha!  Attention grabber.

10) Men releaving themselves where/when they need to: It is not uncommon to come across a boy, man, or old man peeing in public. I guess it is acceptable? This is just confusing to me and always causes the side-ways-head-tilt that accompanies the though: Really bro? Really? 

So there we have it: 10 things that will never seem "normal" to me and will always strike me as interesting.

The Rules of the Road

I had an interesting conversation with one of the other gringos last night walking home from the bus stop. We had crossed the road half-way and were waiting for a break in traffic to complete our trek to the other side when the diaglogue began. It was intiated after 3 or 4 cars passed in front of us, completely blowing off the stop sign in the middle of the road. And there we took up the topic of traffic rules in Colombia. The following is what we decided:

1) First of all, it seems that all traffic signs are merely suggestions. Speed limit? Never inforced. Stop signs? Possible cause for slowing down. Street signs? I'm not certain they even exist.

2) One-Way streets aren't necesarrily one way streets. If the one-way street happens to be the shortest distance from a location, a taxi driver will usually take it. Even if this means driving the wrong way. I've seen regular vehicles do this too.

3) The double yellow line signifying no passing zones are ingored. To my great fear I've been on several busses winding up mountains that decide to pass. There is NO way the driver can see around the corner, but it doesn't matter. The semi truck in front of us was just going to slow. At least the bus is fairly large, so when we have a head on collision I have a high chance of surviving?

4) People with motorcycles do what they want: weave to the front of a line of cars in traffic; drive on sidewalks; ride with babies on their laps; speed through heavily populated areas; Really anything....interestingly enough, however, they all wear helmets. Helmets must make you invincible.

5) If you're sitting in the front seat you have to wear a seatbelt. They are pretty insistant about this one too. Maybe this is the only rule they inforce?

6) Speed bumps are everywhere. I ride a bus every day to school and these blasted speed bumps cause fierce application of the brakes followed by a brief moment of slowing down and then a surge forward. This is a recipe for a headache/nauea

So these, my friends, are the rules of the road...or at least what 2 gringos were able to deduce while standing in the middle of the street waiting to make our move across.

Now that's a bad day

We've all complained about having bad days. You know, the ones where everything that can go wrong does? Well, just saying, I think my little kitten has tipped the scales and is in the running for the worst day ever.

This morning she's running around like a playful kitten. No big deal. Ignorance is bliss. I smile the long sad smiling of knowledge as I consider the long road ahead of her. Today is the day she is getting spayed. It is neat to think about pets having no ability to stress over something in the future. Interesting. Anyway, so I'm getting ready for work and she's having a grand old time. Maybe she's a little hungry (she can't eat/drink) but I can't tell. Pretty soon I get the cat carrier out. This moving jail cell is not her favorite. I can't even say she likes it a little bit. The moment I lock her inside she starts the meow. Meooooow. Meoooooow. Okay, Amguita, I know it's not fun but you've got to go.

Not only is she shoved into a cage, the weather is not cooperating with me this morning. Cats don't like water. It doesn't matter. In the bath, in the sink, or falling from the sky like flaming daggers. Amiguita can hear the rain battering down and her bellowing intensifies. I'm calling a taxi. Meoooow. Meeoooow.

The taxi arrives and I sprint to the back seat. As I jumped in the car clutching my cat carrier I realize Amiguita has never been in a car before. Great. I hope she doesn't get motion sickness. Please don't vomit. All throughout these thoughts I hear the background bleating: meeeeow. Meooooow. Meeeeeeeoooooow. You'd think she's dying.

So before going to the vet, I ask the taxi driver to take me to my friend Emily's apartment. Emily is the proud owner of Amiguita's sister Mona. It is a day for sister bonding - both of them loosing their sex on the same day! Ha! I ask the kind taxi driver to wait for me as I run up to Emily's apartment with my cat carrier. Emily doesn't have a way to transport her cat, so she asked me to bring my carrier over. Sure. Through the rain. Into the building. Up the elevator. All along: Meoooow. Meoow. When I finally set Amiguita down on the table she immediately goes silent. Safety? Not quite. Before she knows what is going on, Emily opens up the carrier and tosses in Mona. The hissing fit begins. Both cats spatting and instantly separated: one cat at the front of the carrier, one cat smashed up against the back. I guess they don't remember each other.

There we have Ami's stressful morning. From here it just gets worse. At vets she gets analyzed, put under anesthetics, cut open, and her reproductive structures are taken out. Bad day. At least she's not meowing anymore. When I came to pick her up, she was covered in blood. The vet took one look and explained that the place where they gave her an IV had opened up and that she'd go clean it out. She picked up Ami by the scruff of the neck and carried her off. My pour little girl with 25% coherence gets rinsed off. Man did that wrench my heart.

When it was time to take her home, I placed her back in her cat carrier. My silent, groggy Amiguita didn't protest. I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. I could feel her shaking in the carrier and I knew she was stressed. We made it to my apartment in record time and I decided to take the elevator. I didn't want to bump Ami around anymore than I needed to. Into the elevator. There was this awful buzzing noise and all I could think about was how Amiguita would perceive that. Still 50% under anesthetics and there is this bzzzzzz. Bad day. I pushed the button for the fourth floor and the buzzing turned into a squealing. Then as quickly as it had started, it stopped. So did all function of the elevator. I pressed every single button. Nothing. Door open button? Nothing. Door close button? Nothing. There was a picture with an alarm on it, so I hit that one. Blllllrrrrrrinng. Ah! I don't like that. The final button was a picture of a phone. I hit it and I could hear Elvin my portero: Proteria. How can I help you? Now is when my vocabulary fails me...um...ummm...Elvin, I'm in the elevator. It's not functioning. He responded: I can't hear you, speak up. I'm yelling at this point and then it's silent. I peer into my cat carrier at my little girl, consider the inopportune timing, and laugh. Really? I'm really stuck in an elevator right now? Ha! I just couldn't stop giggling. I knew they'd get me out at some point.

A few minutes pass and all the lights go out in the elevator. It's pitch black and my mind flicks to horror films. Come on Leanne. Not now. Before I have time to imagine more the lights come on and the door opens. Wooo hooo!! Once again my Portero saved the day. He comes running up to me to make sure I'm okay. Everything is fine, I assure him. No problem, it was just bad luck. I decide to take the stairs and haul Amiguita up the 4 flights. I'm breathing hard at this point, but I just want to get my little girl home. Whew. We made it.

But the day isn't over for Ami. I open the cat carrier and she tried to come out. Fail. Her little legs just aren't working quite yet. I help her onto a blanket and she lies there for a while. Her eyelids are half open and every once in a while she tries to move. I smile the sad smile and sigh: Ami, I'd say it's been a pretty rough day!

My Colombian Children

I've decided just now as I've sat down to write that I will now refer to my students as my "Colombian children". On one hand it makes me sound like some humanitarian helping poor kids in Latin America. The other hand portrays the real picture: their not poor and destitute (actually quite the opposite), I just really like them. So yeah, I have 60+ Colombian children. If I told them their new name I can already hear their whiney response, "Mease. You can't call us your children. You are too young." Oh well, they'll just never know!

Well, my Colombian children are enough to make me crazy sometimes. One reason is the cultural difference of personal space. As a North American, I value my personal space. For those of you that know me, you can attest that my bubble is a lot smaller than most people from the United States - BUT my bubble is still there. I'm of the strong opinion that Colombians just don't have space bubbles or maybe they just don't respect them. Case in point: standing at my desk when the bell rings I immediately have 3 children standing within 3 fingers of my body. I move to the left a little to give myself more space and they naturally move with me. I'm pretty certain they don't even realize this. So I move a little more. They follow. I move - they move - I move - they move. And before we all know it, I'm standing at the door and they are still close enough to count my eyelashes. Sometimes it makes me claustrophobic. Especially with my taller kids. Last week 3 boys were standing around me harassing me about some homework assignment. All 3 of them are at least 5 inches taller than me. I was surrounded. Thankfully the bell rang and they departed. The truth of being saved by the bell!

One of my fellow North American teachers can't handle the closeness of students. His 7th graders suffocate him. His response? He took a roll of masking tape and made a box around his desk. No one is permitted into the box without permission. And if some kid happens to make it into the box without asking? Oh, this teacher will just stare at the students feet until they take a few steps back and respect the box.  Even though his personal bubble has been popped in Colombia, he has more than made up for it with his box of tape. I haven't gotten to that point yet.

Another thing about my Colombian children: they love to touch. It is not uncommon to find a students hand resting on my arm/shoulder while they are talking to me. That really isn't much of a big deal to me. I am a "toucher" by nature anyways. It helps me show people I care. What IS the problem with their touching is that they also are always touching each other. Poking. Messing around. Celebrating. You name it and they are touching. About 7 times each period you can here me say: No touching. Khaleb, stop touching. Sebastian, why are you touching Felipe. Carolina: no touching. At least they aren't violent. They just like physical contact. I think it's fair to blame it on culture though. Colombians are touchers. Males always shake hands when they greet each other and females (with females or with males) always greet each other by touching cheeks and making a kissing noise. There is so much to be said with the cultural norms of greetings. I'll save a later post for that.

So yeah, my Colombian children. They drive me up the walls sometime, but I certainly adore them...and I think they know it too!

His AmbiTION

There is nothing that can quite awaken the senses on a relaxing Tuesday afternoon like getting your legs waxed. Hot hot hot wax spooned onto the leg and then ripped off with hopes of taking all hair with it. Really, I voluntarily made this happen. I even was willing to pay for it! A whole $25,000 pesos. Although this is a start to a great story, this isn't the point. The highlight was talking to the main man in charge of the salon I went to.

Alright, us native English speakers like to make English words Spanish by adding an "o" to the end of our words. Come on, I know you've all done it. It's after dinner and we want to relax...let's go sit on the couch-o. Yeah and we can have some dessert-o to accompany our coffee-o. Just stick on an "o" and it's automatically Spanish, right? Well sure, to us it makes sense but it may make a Spanish-speaker cringe.

Little did I know, Spanish speakers like to do something like this to make their words "english-ized" too. Certainly they don't add an "o". The suffix of choice? -tion. I recall hearing this at some point but I thought it was nonsense. Well today, this myth became a reality. The man at the salon quickly realized I was American and so began his attempt to speak English with me. Not English-English, but rather his Spanish-ized version.

"Señorita, quisiera un aguitation" ....Miss, would you like some "water" ....agua + ita +TION

"I speakey poquito inglestion" ....I speak a little "english" ....ingles + TION

"Mucho gustation" ...."happy to assist you" ...gusta + TION

On and on it went. The entire conversation was like speaking Spanish is piglatin. In my head I had to chop off the "-tion" and figure out what Spanish word he was trying to say. It took everything in me not to giggle as the man was talking. I know he was just trying to accommodate me and I appreciate his ambiTION.

Shocked

Sometimes things at work go really well. Sometimes things at work go really poorly. I've found a comfortable roller-coaster (like the oxymoron??) of emotions in my job. Being a first year teacher is quite the challenge.

So one of these days when work hadn't been going well I thought of one of my teacher friends. His advice to me was that when things were spinning down the drain in class, just repeat this one phrase over and over and over, "3:00 will come." I struggled through each period. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. In actuality, I only had to make it to 1:15 when lunch started. After lunch I would stake my claim as a survivor of the day. Guess what, I made it! The bell rang for lunch and I sank into my chair for a few minutes before heading to lunch. Here we go Leanne, you've made it!

Lunchtime is always nice and I savor the adult conversation. I'm uncertain my co-workers realize the oasis they are on a teaching day in the desert. Well this day I didn't quite make it to the oasis in time. As I cruised through the line with my tray I heard the voice of my principal, "Leanne, when you set do your tray can you come talk to me?" Oh great. How did he sense my awful day. Did he figure it out when he stopped by my room earlier? My mind was racing. What could James need to tell me or ask me. The majority of time, things like this don't make me nervous. That's probably because the majority of the time when this happens a bad teaching day isn't lingering. Think Leanne. Think. What was he going to tell me.

After setting down my lunch I strolled over to where James was camped. Here goes nothing. The following coversation ensued.

"Leanne, do you know how the 10th grade takes a trip to the Amazon every year?'

"Yeah, I've heard a bit about it through the grapevine. The kids seem pretty excited."

"Well, we are looking for a female chaperone and I'm wondering if you would like to go. The school pays for everything."

My eyebrows shot up, my eyes got real big, and I did what any logical person would do: Say yes to your boss, "Yeah, sure! I'd love to go."

The remaining conversation was just small talk and I don't remember much.I was consumed with thoughts of the amazon.

Consumed: Rainforest. Rivers. Swimming. Pink dolphins. Manatees. Peru. Brazil. Amazon river. Hiking. Yellow fever. Culture. Indigenous villages. Mosquitoes. Galoshes. Canoeing. Crocodiles.  Hammocks. Dancing. Huts.  Fishing. Cooking over fires.  Bonding with students. Speaking Spanish. Adventure. 

...I think I'll have a little fun...

Feast on a Platter

If you come to Colombia, a Colombian might ask you to do a strange thing. Don’t do it. Use your better judgment! Let me lay out a scenario for you.

It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m walking to my friend’s apartment building to meet up so we can stroll downtown. As I turn up his street, I notice something twitching in the middle of the road 25 yards ahead. I pensively tilt my head and try to make heads or tails of it. Nothing.  Upon approaching I notice it is a bird that is wounded. I don’t know if it was hit, if it ran into a window or if some ninja street cat swiped it out of the air. All I know is that it’s laying there flopping a wing every once in a while. It made me sad.

This Colombia man was standing at his balcony 2 floors up and starts telling me something in Spanish and motioning to the bird. He killed the bird!? Yes. That must be what he is saying. He was trying to tell me he was an airsoft gun extraordinaire with incredible marksmanship. Okay, that’s not what he was saying. But what he was telling me to do was just as bizarre. “Niña, go pick up the bird and get it off the street.”

Really man? Really? Yes. He motioned again and told me it needed to get off the street so it doesn’t get hit by a car. Seriously bro, the birds going to die. But this man was persistent. I couldn’t just walk by him and ignore his request. I had thrown out that option when I had made initial eye contact. Fail. So, what do I do? I inch my way towards the bird and see the blood. How the heck do I explain to this frantic man that I am in no way touching that thing.  I look at him, charading fear the best I could, “There’s a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I can’t touch it” Then, I continued walking.

So, the next passerby came and you’ll never believe it: Balcony Man actually convinced the man walking by to pick up the bird. Yes. The pedestrian walked up to it, took his bare hands, lifted up the limp bird, and placed him on a ledge nearby. Woot woot. Bird saved? I smiled a little on the inside. Because the bird was safe? Naw... Balcony Man just served our street cats a feast on a platter.