My hostel, Anadamayi, is located in the Candelaria neighborhood of Bogota. As with most Latin American cities situated near mountains or hills, the Candelaria neighborhood gets gradually dicier as you ascend toward the mountains which flank Bogota to the east. My hostel is several block below the diciness, but high enough up that when you walk out the door you get a rather lovely view of the city stretching out below you.
Anandamayi takes its name from the Bengal mystic Sri Anandamayi Ma, and in doing so makes every attempt to create a tranquil environment for its guests. When you arrive you are offered a cup of tea, poured from a large metal pitcher that sits on a wood fired cooking range. During the evenings, this stove provides the only heat in the hostel not caused by one's own shivering. This is one of the odd aspects of Bogota, that it is constructed as if the temperature never descended below sixty when in fact it gets close to forty every night. For example, the bathrooms in the hostel are all permanently exposed to the elements, with large open windows high on the walls near the ceiling. Many houses have interior patios exposed to the elements. But nowhere is there heat. While this is clearly environmentally sound, sometimes I wish that I did not have to wait until morning to thaw out my hands.
The hospitality at Anandamayi extends beyond the initial cup of tea -- the staff are very friendly and helpful. Even the contractor who is constantly repairing one thing or another is a great guy. The hostel has three large patios, each expertly gardened with an array of fuchsias, bonsai trees, roses, and other like plants, pleasingly arranged in a variety of stone and plastic pots. Many mornings, a CD of droning monks and recorder is played softly. This I could live without.
Because the hostel is so welcoming, many of its visitors stay around for a good while. Two French university students are here studying -- they initially thought they would find an apartment, but liked the hostel so much that they have stayed. The aforementioned Alejandra had been staying in the cupola of the dormitory building, doing research for her PhD, until her mother arrived and they left to do some sightseeing. An older American named Jerry was here few a few days, a loud talker and nice fellow who liked to tell you things. On the day I met him I was heading out the door to get some lunch with Abe when he hailed me.
"Is this your first day here?" he asked with a look of concern. "No, I've been here for two weeks," I replied. He paused and looked as though he was processing the information. "Well, I wouldn't walk down Calle 9 -- it doesn't look safe," he said. Calle 9 is the street the hostel is located on. The staff advises people not to walk down it at night, although if you do you end up walking by other hostels, which suggests it is not the worst of affairs. "Yes," I responded, smiling, "I've been here two weeks."
Two nights later I had the odd experience of watching Jerry listen to music, or should I say listening to Jerry listen to music. He was sitting in the kitchen, plugged into his iPod touch. I sat down at my computer and put some music on myself. Before long, though, I began to notice a very strange noise. "aaaaaaa-uuhhhhhh-nnnnnnnngh-*SNORT* ... uuhhhhh-NNNNNNNNN-aaaaaaaaa-*SNORT*" Jerry appeared to be humming along to the music in the most tuneless manner I have ever heard, punctuating each phrase with an awkward intake of air usually confined to back sleepers with a stuffed up nose. This went on for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. I do not usually use all capital letters, but I feel this warranted it.
Jerry was far from the biggest character at the hostel. That honor could fall on no one else but William. William was born in Minnesota, lived there until age sixteen or so, then moved to Berlin. He stands about six feet tall, wears a black beret on his shaved head, and inexplicably speaks English like a Belgian beatnik. He makes grand entrances into rooms, with big movements, his eyes darting around to see if you are paying attention to him. He gets endless enjoyment out of a joke where he pretends to confuse the Spanish word for plantain with that for placenta to people who are either too patient or too obtuse to realize they are being put on. He addresses everyone as "fish," as in, "Alo, feesh! Hwat ar eyou doin toodayuh?" He is generally quite friendly and, as you could imagine, great with kids.
Today we are short those characters and, more significantly, short my traveling companion Abe who has returned to Los Angeles and his life teaching and researching social psychology. Abe traveled with me on my first trip to Central America and together we have explored Costa Rica, Guatemala, England, Peru, Chile, Bolivia, and now Colombia. In past trips there were moments when I would get quite frustrated with Abe, and never more than when we would play Gin Rummy, which inevitably would happen. You see, I am a decent card player. I can remember cards that were played and recount the good and bad plays that led to the game's outcome. Leaning heavily on the sage experience of my father, he and I managed to come in on top in a duplicate bridge tournament in my parents' home town. After a hand of some trick-based game, my ex would look at me as if I had two heads when I would rattle off my thoughts on how the hand played out, thoughts such as, "I knew you were holding the queen of diamonds, so I should have tried to duck it with the five since I figured my partner had the ace." By comparison, Gin should be a relatively simple game. You merely arrange your hand of ten cards into runs or sets of at least three cards each by picking up and discarding one card each play. If your opponent picks up the eight of clubs, you can assume he is either collecting eights or has a club run through the eight. I generally know when I am being forced to discard a card Abe needs. I generally know when he is holding a card that I need. So I leave it to you to explain how the last victory I can remember against him occurred in 2001. A generally calm and placid individual, one of the few things in life that could throw me into an absolute rage was losing in games. This was not the hit-your-opponent-over-the-head-with-a-folding-chair kind of rage, the dark thunderclouds always gathered around my personal frustration for not pulling through. Happy am I to report, then, that I now seem able to lose with abandon with only a gentle spring mist gathering in place of the storms of the past. Perhaps at thirty-two I am starting to grow up.
Tomorrow I leave for the United States where I must visit with the Colombian consulate in order to pick up the visa I need for volunteering. Unfortunately, the organization switching lawyers, meaning that they cannot sign any of the documents I need to obtain said visa. So rather than my popping into the consulate on Monday, it seems as though I will need to get the materials in the mail. As Seattle does not have a Colombian consulate, I will be staying with friends and family in the northeast. If the process stretches out, perhaps I will head down and visit with my IR/PS friends in Washington -- we'll see. For now, I have two days on Miami Beach lined up before going to face the harshness of winter in New York, but I am looking forward to all of it.
