I flew from Miami to Newark in late January, going immediately to my brother Mark's house in Chelsea, spending a couple of days with him, his wife Karin, and my newest niece, Teigan. Such visits are always a wonderful time and usually involve staying up late drinking wine and discussing politics, music, and pop culture. This visit did not disappoint! A couple of days later I was on a bus up to Boston (I am now a devoted fan of the Bolt Bus -- $15 gets you a seat and your wifi!) for what was intended to be a week long trip. Two months later, I returned to New York and embarked on the latest adventure, the one involving New Orleans, Seattle, and England. Rather than attempt a chronological reconstruction, I will try to cull out a few episode from my time with my wonderful hosts.
Atticus and Lara hosted me, off an on, in their living room for a good chunk of this time. Atticus and I went to high school together and have been friends ever since. He and Lara are self employed, creating iPhone (and now iPad) applications. Their success is such that they have had more contract work than they can accept and had their own app, "MassTransit," featured on an official iPhone commercial. As much as I admire their enterprising spirits, I admire more that they allowed me to log forty hours of playing "Battlefield 1943" on their XBox without intimating in the least that this pathological compulsion of mine was in any way irritating.
I stayed a good bit of time in Davis Square with my good friend Joanne. I am eternally grateful for her to introducing me to the dorkiest yet most useful of travel accessories -- the neck-brace pillow. As I do not generally travel first class, these pillows are a godsend to seat sleepers, allowing one to avoid days of neck and shoulder pain after a long flight. I also discovered that they make handy regular pillows for side sleepers who need to sleep with an earplug in because they are staying a noisy hostel. In addition to being just generally awesome, Joanne also is the announcer for a radio show, and I had the pleasure of traveling with her up to Burlington, Vermont to catch the taping of a show at the Flynn Theater, then chitchatting with her and the crew at a nearby restaurant. Overall, I would say that Burlington is a nice little city with a shocking lack of parking and ample vegan dining options. That trip, complete with a detour through Western Massachusetts to see my sister Cathy and brother Peter (and family), was a highlight of my spring.
The other gracious hosts on this leg of my journey were Kiera and Katie, friends who share an apartment in Cambridge and were good enough to lend me their rooms while they themselves went on far flung adventures to the various extremities of the U.S. They were very welcoming, as is their nature. Perhaps the highlight of my stay was a trip with Kiera to Revere Beach to go to the famous Kelly's Roast Beef. We got out to Revere about an hour before sunset, and parked about half a mile from Kelly's so as to get a bit of a stroll in before sitting down to our meal. As Kelly's, we discovered, has no seating, we took our (delicious) sandwiches across the street and ate them on a bench overlooking the water. When we were finished, we packed up some uneaten french fries and walked back to the car. This tale would be unremarkable had it not been eighteen degrees (Fahrenheit) out and blowing a steady ten knots.
The week that turned into two months had its highs and lows. Eventually the anticipation of eminent return to Colombia and ATG lab work subsided. At last I decided that it would best to give these things their own time to work themselves out and to take the immediate opportunity of a month or so, with no real plans, to travel. The details of those travels are forthcoming.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Not Even in the Western Hemisphere
Actually, I vaguely remember getting into an argument about whether the western parts of Europe were in the Western Hemisphere -- to my mind the west / east demarcation should be the prime meridian. And that is precisely where I am, slightly west of the prime meridian, in the north of England. This all came about through a series of non-events that turned my February into live-in Beckett play. Since last I wrote I have been in New York twice, Boston, New Orleans, Seattle, and now Milnthorpe, UK.
View of Arnside from Arnside Knott I should give the previous cities some justice by writing them up in individual blog entries, something I have been entirely remiss at doing lately. But for now, the present. England is having a late-unfolding spring, but strong hints of it were in the air today. I took a stroll this morning from my parents' house across hills and farm fields to the neighboring town of Arnside. Arnside sits at the side the wide expanse of a shallow river; when the tide is out, as it was when I arrived, a broad mudflat is revealed. The result is impressive views in nearly all directions, from the wooded hills directly across the water to the long brick train viaduct to the snow capped mountains in the distance. The snow on the tops is busily melting and each sheep in the fields seemed to have two young lambs scurrying behind it as I passed by them on my way. In all, England was a picture of serenity today.
The gist of my situation is that obtaining the visa for Colombia fell through and a number of tentative opportunities have put me into a bit of a holding cycle, though I expect to return to Colombia as a tourist, if nothing else, in May, unless something else come un-held. Details of the past two months to follow.
The gist of my situation is that obtaining the visa for Colombia fell through and a number of tentative opportunities have put me into a bit of a holding cycle, though I expect to return to Colombia as a tourist, if nothing else, in May, unless something else come un-held. Details of the past two months to follow.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Miami Beach
Can it be a coincidence that Heidi Montag's "Superficial" is on repeat play in the hostel here in Miami Beach? Honestly, this place does not seem that bad. I am staying in the Deco Walk Hostel, in the Art Deco section of Miami Beach. Speaking from three hours of experience, the area seems defined by Ocean Drive, running north to south with a park and beach on one side and a series of art deco buildings lining the other. Most if not all of these buildings are restaurants, hotels, or both. My building is both. Walking down the sidewalk, you pass through a sea of tables on either side of you, hostesses gleefully pointing you at menus, and any number of people walking through. It has perhaps the most diverse mix of white, Latino, and black people I have ever seen. A hip-hop troupe call "The Gingerbread Men" dropped by the table next to me to chat the folks up and promote their new album, "Bread Making 101." White men walk by in polo shirts with sweaters tied around their chests. Other sport baseball caps at jaunty angles. A group of businessmen at dinner at the next table, chatting away in Spanish. Now I'm back in the main room of the hostel, listening to "Superficial" for, seriously, the tenth time in a row. It might be catchy if it weren't so awful. To top it off three young women are milling about preparing to hit the clubs and Grumpier Old Men is playing on a large screen TV behind the bar where I bought a flat Yuengling for three dollars.
So back at sea level in warm humid air, everything is quite different than it was eleven hours ago when I was crossing Bogota in a cab, chatting away rather successfully with my driver. I have had a few good Spanish experiences, not least listening to the folks at Un Techo Para Mi Pais talk away at full speed and pretty much understanding what they were saying. Hopefully I will not lose it all over the next few weeks as I work on obtaining the needed visa. Feel free to give me a call and talk to me in Spnaish -- I'll try to stammer out a response.
Tomorrow I'm going to check out the beach itself. Unfortunately, my cell phone slipped out of my pocket at the hostel (they found it, thankfully!) so I'm still on Skype-only mode until I figure out what to do next. That said my phone number forwards to Skype, so you'd hardly know the difference except that I only answer when I'm in a wifi zone. In any event, perhaps I'll have more to report tomorrow, or perhaps nothing until I fly back into the cold of New York on Saturday.
So back at sea level in warm humid air, everything is quite different than it was eleven hours ago when I was crossing Bogota in a cab, chatting away rather successfully with my driver. I have had a few good Spanish experiences, not least listening to the folks at Un Techo Para Mi Pais talk away at full speed and pretty much understanding what they were saying. Hopefully I will not lose it all over the next few weeks as I work on obtaining the needed visa. Feel free to give me a call and talk to me in Spnaish -- I'll try to stammer out a response.
Tomorrow I'm going to check out the beach itself. Unfortunately, my cell phone slipped out of my pocket at the hostel (they found it, thankfully!) so I'm still on Skype-only mode until I figure out what to do next. That said my phone number forwards to Skype, so you'd hardly know the difference except that I only answer when I'm in a wifi zone. In any event, perhaps I'll have more to report tomorrow, or perhaps nothing until I fly back into the cold of New York on Saturday.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Cast of Characters
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.
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.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Andrés Carne de Res
Having completed our Spanish lessons and with Abe's day of departure fast approaching, we thought it might be enjoyable to check out one of Bogota's fanciest restaurants, Andrés Carne de Res. As many other upscale establishments, this restaurant is located in a district called the Zona Rosa. In general, the further north you travel in Bogota, the nicer the neighborhoods get. Abe and I are staying in the central, in a historical district called the Candelaria, dotted with Spanish-style homes and government buildings.
As with just about everything we have tried to find in Bogota, finding Andrés' restaurant was no easy matter. His establishment was particularly well hidden, found by entering an upscale shopping mall, exiting it through the back onto a small exposed courtyard, entering a second building and talking to a woman who tells you take a an elevator to the fourth floor and ask for "Paula."
The restaurant is an extraordinary place, spanning at least three floors with balconies, gangways, and large tables that could easily seat twenty. From the middle of our table sprouted a large iron candle holder, with a large candle burning away in it. After a minute or two our first waiter came over and introduced himself, handing us large bound menus that were essentially tabloid newspapers. A minute later our second waiter came by, taking our drink order and suggesting the house special cocktails. These cocktails were outrageously expensive and outrageously strong. The effects helped us enjoy a troupe of masked performers who stopped by mid-meal to give us bandannas and serenade us with cumbia played on the trombone.
We ate heartily at the restaurant, stopped one more time by the casino where Abe played a few more hands of poker while I wandered about taking in the scene, primarily college-aged kids spilling out of any number of small clubs lining the streets in that area. I stopped in an Irish bar and had an overpriced draft can of Guinness, met up with Abe, then took a taxi home.
Unfortunately, while we arrived home safely, my previous observation of a lack of accidents found a tragic counterexample, as we drove by what appeared to have been a fatal accident involving a cab and a pedestrian. If, I should say when, you visit me in Bogota, be very careful crossing the streets. Do not trust signs, signals, or lights. In fact, you will be safest if you imagine that some evil villain is actively trying to run you down. If you approach street crossing with this attitude, you should be OK.
Hopefully within a few weeks I should have an apartment and be able to follow through on this invitation. I looked at one this weekend, but it was on a rather busy street, and I think the constant passing of microbuses could grate. Fortunately there are some lovely apartments within my price range, and I hope to see some of them shortly.
As with just about everything we have tried to find in Bogota, finding Andrés' restaurant was no easy matter. His establishment was particularly well hidden, found by entering an upscale shopping mall, exiting it through the back onto a small exposed courtyard, entering a second building and talking to a woman who tells you take a an elevator to the fourth floor and ask for "Paula."
The restaurant is an extraordinary place, spanning at least three floors with balconies, gangways, and large tables that could easily seat twenty. From the middle of our table sprouted a large iron candle holder, with a large candle burning away in it. After a minute or two our first waiter came over and introduced himself, handing us large bound menus that were essentially tabloid newspapers. A minute later our second waiter came by, taking our drink order and suggesting the house special cocktails. These cocktails were outrageously expensive and outrageously strong. The effects helped us enjoy a troupe of masked performers who stopped by mid-meal to give us bandannas and serenade us with cumbia played on the trombone.
We ate heartily at the restaurant, stopped one more time by the casino where Abe played a few more hands of poker while I wandered about taking in the scene, primarily college-aged kids spilling out of any number of small clubs lining the streets in that area. I stopped in an Irish bar and had an overpriced draft can of Guinness, met up with Abe, then took a taxi home.
Unfortunately, while we arrived home safely, my previous observation of a lack of accidents found a tragic counterexample, as we drove by what appeared to have been a fatal accident involving a cab and a pedestrian. If, I should say when, you visit me in Bogota, be very careful crossing the streets. Do not trust signs, signals, or lights. In fact, you will be safest if you imagine that some evil villain is actively trying to run you down. If you approach street crossing with this attitude, you should be OK.
Hopefully within a few weeks I should have an apartment and be able to follow through on this invitation. I looked at one this weekend, but it was on a rather busy street, and I think the constant passing of microbuses could grate. Fortunately there are some lovely apartments within my price range, and I hope to see some of them shortly.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Errands and Classes
This past week has been a busy one. Abe is here until Monday, and we had previously decided that we would take a week's worth of Spanish language classes at a nearby Spanish school. Because Monday was a holiday, we ended up with a somewhat unusual schedule where I had four days of five hour classes, and he five days of four hour classes. Four hours is a long time to be in class. Five hours is a very long time to be in class.
None of this prevented either of us from going on a number of excursions, some necessary, some not. I had written before about Abe's winning experience at the Rockefeller Poker Room. On the strength of his first experience, he decided to back and enter into a tournament taking place on Tueday night, beginning at seven-thirty PM. I traveled up town with him, bought him a beer at the Bogota Beer Company, wished him well, and headed home. Working in our hostel room that night, about every half hour a car would pull up in front and I would expect Abe to be ringing the bell and coming in to tell me how it went. When I fell asleep, around midnight, this had not happened.
Fortunately, when I awoke in the morning, there was Abe in the room. "How did it go?" I asked. "About as well as it could have," he replied, unable to contain the broad smile that flashed across his face. Having entered a tournament with thirty others, he had made it to the final four, who after a few hands had decided to split the prize pool evenly. His wallet was overstuffed with Colombian bills totaling in the vicinity of four hundred US dollars. Now and again Abe asks me why I do not play poker with him. I think the answer is quite clear.
As the poker room is uptown and we are just south of midtown, going back and forth involves a good bit of public transportation. There are three basic options: the micro-bus, the TransMilenio, and the taxi. Micro-buses here ply the streets in extraordinary numbers, particularly on tenth avenue where they sit back to back, two lanes each direction, for as far as the eye can see, slowly inching their way north or south. Those that meander through the smaller streets do so at the maximum velocity possible, all the while spewing black exhaust into the air. Each has a placard in the front window with roughly ten words written in a variety of colors, sizes, and typefaces. Theoretically, these tell you where the bus is going. Usually it takes me about ten seconds after they have zoomed by to realize that I should have hailed them.
Because of this, the TransMilenio is, so far, much more appealing to me. The TransMilenio is basically a subway system built above ground and utilizing buses in a series of dedicated lanes. One enters the TransMilenio in dedicated self contained stops, much like one would enter a subway. There is an intricate system of express and local buses which change names depending on the time of day, the day of the week, and the direction they are traveling. Despite this, the system makes some sense, and the buses make good time traveling down the avenues in their special lanes. A secondary benefit to this system is the availability of these lanes to emergency vehicles, which can zoom through the city even when it is gridlocked with rush hour traffic.
The final option, and the only realistic one late at night, is the taxi. During the day, one generally hails a taxi on the street, but at night, for extra security, they are generally hailed by phone. The dispatcher gives you the number of the cab and a special two digit key that you present the driver. The driver then speeds you along on a nighttime adventure through the city in which very few red lights are stopped for. During the day, these same red lights at least warrant a slowing-down and a honk. This is one of two reason that people in Bogota use their car horns. They do not use them if they get cut off, in fact cutting others off is a true art form in Bogota's streets. Basically, if you can squeeze in front any part of another car, they will yield and let you in, but without any of the cursing or finger raising that one might find in a city like Boston. No, the other reason for honking is that the vehicle in front of you has stopped for any reason other than a red light at a major intersection. If you stop to, say, let someone off your bus, to not plow into another car, or to allow a kindly old gentleman with a cane finish crossing the street unflattened, you will surely elicit a good horn sounding from the two or three cars behind you. They will then attempt the previously described cutoff maneuver, regardless of the size of the street. Despite all the chaos, I've yet to see any signs of accidents occurring -- neither banged up cars nor glass strewn about in the street.
My adventures included apartment hunting, obtaining information about getting a visa, and meeting with NGO I'll be volunteering for, but this entry is getting long, so I'll leave these thrilling tales for the next installment.
None of this prevented either of us from going on a number of excursions, some necessary, some not. I had written before about Abe's winning experience at the Rockefeller Poker Room. On the strength of his first experience, he decided to back and enter into a tournament taking place on Tueday night, beginning at seven-thirty PM. I traveled up town with him, bought him a beer at the Bogota Beer Company, wished him well, and headed home. Working in our hostel room that night, about every half hour a car would pull up in front and I would expect Abe to be ringing the bell and coming in to tell me how it went. When I fell asleep, around midnight, this had not happened.
Fortunately, when I awoke in the morning, there was Abe in the room. "How did it go?" I asked. "About as well as it could have," he replied, unable to contain the broad smile that flashed across his face. Having entered a tournament with thirty others, he had made it to the final four, who after a few hands had decided to split the prize pool evenly. His wallet was overstuffed with Colombian bills totaling in the vicinity of four hundred US dollars. Now and again Abe asks me why I do not play poker with him. I think the answer is quite clear.
As the poker room is uptown and we are just south of midtown, going back and forth involves a good bit of public transportation. There are three basic options: the micro-bus, the TransMilenio, and the taxi. Micro-buses here ply the streets in extraordinary numbers, particularly on tenth avenue where they sit back to back, two lanes each direction, for as far as the eye can see, slowly inching their way north or south. Those that meander through the smaller streets do so at the maximum velocity possible, all the while spewing black exhaust into the air. Each has a placard in the front window with roughly ten words written in a variety of colors, sizes, and typefaces. Theoretically, these tell you where the bus is going. Usually it takes me about ten seconds after they have zoomed by to realize that I should have hailed them.
Because of this, the TransMilenio is, so far, much more appealing to me. The TransMilenio is basically a subway system built above ground and utilizing buses in a series of dedicated lanes. One enters the TransMilenio in dedicated self contained stops, much like one would enter a subway. There is an intricate system of express and local buses which change names depending on the time of day, the day of the week, and the direction they are traveling. Despite this, the system makes some sense, and the buses make good time traveling down the avenues in their special lanes. A secondary benefit to this system is the availability of these lanes to emergency vehicles, which can zoom through the city even when it is gridlocked with rush hour traffic.
The final option, and the only realistic one late at night, is the taxi. During the day, one generally hails a taxi on the street, but at night, for extra security, they are generally hailed by phone. The dispatcher gives you the number of the cab and a special two digit key that you present the driver. The driver then speeds you along on a nighttime adventure through the city in which very few red lights are stopped for. During the day, these same red lights at least warrant a slowing-down and a honk. This is one of two reason that people in Bogota use their car horns. They do not use them if they get cut off, in fact cutting others off is a true art form in Bogota's streets. Basically, if you can squeeze in front any part of another car, they will yield and let you in, but without any of the cursing or finger raising that one might find in a city like Boston. No, the other reason for honking is that the vehicle in front of you has stopped for any reason other than a red light at a major intersection. If you stop to, say, let someone off your bus, to not plow into another car, or to allow a kindly old gentleman with a cane finish crossing the street unflattened, you will surely elicit a good horn sounding from the two or three cars behind you. They will then attempt the previously described cutoff maneuver, regardless of the size of the street. Despite all the chaos, I've yet to see any signs of accidents occurring -- neither banged up cars nor glass strewn about in the street.
My adventures included apartment hunting, obtaining information about getting a visa, and meeting with NGO I'll be volunteering for, but this entry is getting long, so I'll leave these thrilling tales for the next installment.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Jungle Time, part III
Of all the things pointed out by Leo on our walk in the jungle, perhaps the most interesting and frightening was a small community of very large ants. These ants are immense, ugly, smell terrible, live in small groups and have a bite that is absolutely overwhelmingly painful and lasts for a good twenty-four hours. In fact, they do not just bite but have a hornet-like stinging on their tail end. Leo said being stung by those ants was the second most painful thing he had ever experienced, the first being the stitching of an accidental self-inflicted machete wound on his left forearm that was done without any anesthetic. He said that some tribes that live in the jungle use the ants as part of a wedding ceremony. In order to win the approval of the potential bride to be, the man must put his hand into a container of these ants and leave it there for as long as possible. The idea is that if you can withstand multiple stings from the world's most painful ant, you can put up with the ups and downs of marriage, which seems both reasonable and terrifying. The entire lecture made me all the more uncomfortable with my decision to wear flip-flops on the excursion.
After lunch we took a boat a short ways up river and did another walk, this time starting at a small farm where the jungle had recently been cleared by the very slash-and-burn methods that are gradually diminishing the entire forest. The ash of former trees lay on top of sandy and rather infertile soil. Various starchy plants would soon be grown until the soil was depleted, in a couple of years. Antonio's jungle lodge itself was built upon a failed farm. Once the land can no longer produce, it is abandoned and the jungle creeps back in. These tiny farms were certainly drops in the bucket in comparison to the wide-scale deforestation going on in the region, but it was hard for me to step over the charred remains of trees without being a bit troubled.
As the day drew to a close, Carl, the Swede, and I were the only remaining guests at the lodge. Antonio and his fiance, a Dutch woman, arrived in the late afternoon and let the staff go to be with their families. On Leo's suggestion we climbed to the top of the lodge's tallest structure and looked out at the sun as it set over the jungle. Carl and I remained in the tower chatting about economics and astronomy as Antonio and his fiance headed down to make dinner.
When we came down from the tower, a brilliant full moon was again making its way up in the east from behind some trees. The kitchen area was warmly illuminated by eight or ten candles arranged on the tables. Dinner was not yet fully ready, but our hosts brought out some garlic bread and red wine, and Carl and I sat at a table and resumed a game of dominoes that we had left earlier. Leo had left to visit his girlfriend in the village down river, but another guide, Francisco, would join us for the evening. When dinner arrived it was roast pig with a considerable amount of fat, but cooked perfectly and absolutely delicious. After dinner we talked some more, played a few more rounds of dominoes, and when midnight approached, filled glasses with champagne Carl had brought and toasted the new year. When the wine was gone I strolled back the shelter where my hammock was hanging, everything clear in the brilliant moonlight. The night was warmer and for the first time in three nights, I slept soundly until morning, dreaming peacefully.
New Years Day was a day of leaving the jungle and returning to the city. For our last hurrah, we went on a walk, this time on an abandoned rubber farming road. We walked through a large field of Africanized bees that hummed in an unsettling manner around our ankles. At the edge of the field, a pair of monkeys took notice of us and dashed off into the undergrowth. After making our way some distance up the overgrown pathway we stopped, sat down, and just peered into the trees in silence. A small group of jungle hens crossed onto and off of the road in the distance. Various insects and frogs chirped away, but not loudly -- an evening in a New England forest is much louder affair. We spent half an hour in this position, just looking about, then made our way back and gathered our belongings. After a final lunch, we hopped in a boat and were soon speeding down the river, and not long after that we were aboard a freezing-cold bus rumbling back to Manaus.
After lunch we took a boat a short ways up river and did another walk, this time starting at a small farm where the jungle had recently been cleared by the very slash-and-burn methods that are gradually diminishing the entire forest. The ash of former trees lay on top of sandy and rather infertile soil. Various starchy plants would soon be grown until the soil was depleted, in a couple of years. Antonio's jungle lodge itself was built upon a failed farm. Once the land can no longer produce, it is abandoned and the jungle creeps back in. These tiny farms were certainly drops in the bucket in comparison to the wide-scale deforestation going on in the region, but it was hard for me to step over the charred remains of trees without being a bit troubled.
As the day drew to a close, Carl, the Swede, and I were the only remaining guests at the lodge. Antonio and his fiance, a Dutch woman, arrived in the late afternoon and let the staff go to be with their families. On Leo's suggestion we climbed to the top of the lodge's tallest structure and looked out at the sun as it set over the jungle. Carl and I remained in the tower chatting about economics and astronomy as Antonio and his fiance headed down to make dinner.
When we came down from the tower, a brilliant full moon was again making its way up in the east from behind some trees. The kitchen area was warmly illuminated by eight or ten candles arranged on the tables. Dinner was not yet fully ready, but our hosts brought out some garlic bread and red wine, and Carl and I sat at a table and resumed a game of dominoes that we had left earlier. Leo had left to visit his girlfriend in the village down river, but another guide, Francisco, would join us for the evening. When dinner arrived it was roast pig with a considerable amount of fat, but cooked perfectly and absolutely delicious. After dinner we talked some more, played a few more rounds of dominoes, and when midnight approached, filled glasses with champagne Carl had brought and toasted the new year. When the wine was gone I strolled back the shelter where my hammock was hanging, everything clear in the brilliant moonlight. The night was warmer and for the first time in three nights, I slept soundly until morning, dreaming peacefully.
New Years Day was a day of leaving the jungle and returning to the city. For our last hurrah, we went on a walk, this time on an abandoned rubber farming road. We walked through a large field of Africanized bees that hummed in an unsettling manner around our ankles. At the edge of the field, a pair of monkeys took notice of us and dashed off into the undergrowth. After making our way some distance up the overgrown pathway we stopped, sat down, and just peered into the trees in silence. A small group of jungle hens crossed onto and off of the road in the distance. Various insects and frogs chirped away, but not loudly -- an evening in a New England forest is much louder affair. We spent half an hour in this position, just looking about, then made our way back and gathered our belongings. After a final lunch, we hopped in a boat and were soon speeding down the river, and not long after that we were aboard a freezing-cold bus rumbling back to Manaus.
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