utah-montana

I have just completed a 2,700 mile round trip through Utah, Montana and Wyoming. Almost all was new territory, sights unseen, landscapes foreign. Each location provided a different character of geologic creation, history of exploration and discovery, and places for living, mostly rural with great distances between humanity.

Utah was the greatest surprise and most varied and distinct. My hiking group started not too far from the Colorado entry into Lake Powell. Encampment at a state park named Goblin Valley, indicative of the strange, ghostly sandstone formations, like Casper (the friendly one). From here the group explored Horseshoe Canyon, to see at least four displays on the canyon walls of ancient nomadic peoples, perhaps as much as 3,000 years ago. Rather strange human depictions, easily mistaken for alien images, as well as various animal drawings. These were not only amazing for the artistic creativity of the drawings, but more so for the mystery of meaning, and why the mummy shaped figures were drawn so, why some had designs within and without, others were more simple. Plus, the fact that the images have survived for so long.

Next were explorations of slot canyons, where the natural forces of erosion have carved narrow canyons deeply into the rock, some so narrow that passage was possible only from a sideways approach or at times, even climbing above and beyond was necessary. The carving into these walls created fantastic lines, curved around and down or up, often disappearing down under the sandy bottoms left from the worn down dust of the walls beside, or washed down by sudden torrents from up canyon. One fellow hiker told how he was once here, and was surprised to find in one canyon a man practicing his sand wedge shots (golf) in the natural sand traps readily available. What a great idea, except the thought of one errant hit sending a golf ball ricocheting against the walls lessened the enthusiasm somewhat. These slot canyons are incredible for their geometric beauty, as well as color.

After four days in the area I left toward Montana. On the basis of advice given I set out a lonely dirt road to intercept another road I was guaranteed would be one of the most beautiful I would ever see. For 34 miles I crept along, encountering absolutely nobody else. Washboard road mostly, on an apparent desert mesa, there were countless places where high water, having nowhere to run, crossed my path. The road had no direction it seemed, wandering in no specific direction. These water routes also seemed to come from any and all directions, as if there were no high ground which would cause downhill runoff, running left to right, right to left, up, down, like dripping hot chocolate on a bowl of vanilla, dripping all over. There was no absence of anxiety, seeing no one, and crossing a few times low muddy water crossings, with no assurance I would not get stuck. But, one hour and a half later, I escaped, to find the promised path.
And what a reward I received. I approached one entrance to the Capital Reef National Park and drove toward the town of Escalante. The colors easily captured my amateur artist eye, and more so, my heart it did thump madly. Gorgeous reds, of various values, showcased the rocks rising up into the sky. Wonderful ragged, jagged shapes, butting heads, or separating not with anger, but with independent urge to find another path. Shadows of crevices and cracks provided perfect opposition to the sun reflected on the outward walls. At one of the many stops for photos, my Ipod plugged to the ears, I could not but begin to dance lively on the red sand, excited by both the beat and the beauty. Easily could have been around a fire, with fellow warriors in preparation for the coming kills, or in celebration of the coming spring as the sun and moon interlocked (or struggled) in embrace. Then, in the distance, another car approached, so I retreated, withdrew, and acted normal again. However, at two distinct times on this journey, this being one, I came oh so near to an epiphany, an understanding of my time, place, purpose. Did not quite succeed, but I knew I was close, very similar to knowing you are almost at the point of being able to balance on that bicycle, of mastering the guitar riff, knowing how that algebraic equation works.

Then my road switch backed upward, providing elevated views, as well as a distant background beyond. Once above, there was no change in magnificence, only now the added pleasure of creek or river below to provide even more contrast, with the vegetation. I imagined how in only a few more days, the cottonwood would soon be showing grand yellows and orange to blend with the dominant reds. What photos that would produce!

From there I put distance behind in a mostly straight line to the town of Missoula, Montana. Once in Montana it was an easy observation to note the difference between the terrain of western Colorado and that of Montana. Neither could be considered flat, but the sculpted heights of the two are like comparing a bear chain sawed from pine, versus the hand smoothed clay work of a nude reclining. That is, where the Colorado Rockies of which I see are angular, sharp, defined edge, those of Montana are smooth, rounded, more easily touched. Not sure if there is an age difference between the two, or what geologic history accounts for the difference.
Missoula, a college town, was enjoyable. Much effort has been made to be attractive to its citizens and visitors. Long paved bike and hike paths were in several locations, allowing for all types of enthusiasts. Neither small nor large, the town has almost all one could want. It certainly was attractive to me, both the sights, and new friends, a feeling very comfortable.
From there it was toward home. Across Montana, north of Yellowstone through central Wyoming, before heading south. But, before exiting Montana I visited the Little Bighorn Battlefield (Custer’s last stand). It was both educational and interesting to see the setting and read explanation of the related events. Seems it was two days in progress and not just a moment in time. There were several skirmishes over approximately a five mile distance, involving more than just Custer and his company. Far more were killed than just the few on that hill top. Markers have been erected over the area to indicate where soldiers died. Interesting to view over the distance these markers that numbered over 200. Now there is an effort to also indicate where the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors fell. To stand on that space and view the surroundings and imagine the action was actually exciting. From there I made it back, very glad to have made one more trip before winter comes.

Once again I have put something in the bank. The memories have been quite an investment, with wonderful returns. Perhaps it has not happened according to the plans of a child counting days to when I grow up. Most would state that hasn’t yet come to me, for me. But, I still search for the place, the idea, the persons, the ideals. And, I did come very close.

Keep your heart above your head and your eyes wide open
So this world can’t find a way to leave you cold
And know you’re not the only ship out on the ocean
Save your strength for things that you can change
Forgive the ones you can’t
You got to let it go.

Looking back now on my life I can’t say I regret it
And all the places that I ended up, not the way ma would have had it
But you only get one chance in life to leave your mark upon it
When the pony he comes ridin’ by you better sit your sweet a... on it.

Keep your heart above your head and your eyes wide open
So this world can’t find a way to leave you cold
And know you’re not the only ship out on the ocean
Save your strength for things that you can change
Forgive the ones you can’t
You got to let it go
(Z Brown )

Photos to be added soon

Huron

Got my first, not last, climb in for this summer of 2011. Joined a group of eight others, six new fun faces, to scale up Huron Peak. There were no technical challenges, but it was a good physical effort. According to my book, we ascended 3,400 feet in about two miles, which is a pretty good angle. But, this day was clear and visibility was forever it seemed. One gentleman, an experienced climber, pointed out all Colorado ranges from the peak, except the Sangre de Cristo, which view was blocked from higher ridges between them and our perch. This included the San Juan range, which surrounds Pagosa. Since my mileage from Pagosa to the campsite was just over 200 miles, that would indicate a pretty good distance to scan the skyline. Our climb began to the side of a beautiful creek meadow, with pond perfectly still and reflecting a mountain background. At several points one could see the “three apostles”, so named for three challenging mountains linked together. These were ones only the extremest of the extreme climbers would attempt. Scary. It certainly was a busy route, I assume partly due to the glorious Colorado weekend. Many people, and dogs, were along the way and on the top. Following the climb a few more, including me, continued on with another, under 14,000, adjacent to Huron. Called Brown, it was a bit more involved with hand and foot contact, but still yielded beautiful views of the area surrounding. Unlike many parts of the country suffering drought and heat, this area still has quite a bit of snow left from the winter fall. Accordingly, grass was green, wildflowers in bloom, and brooks and waterfalls, were gurgling and tumbling in fervor. All in all a very good weekend, and a great escape.

Guitar art

This will be a different type of trip.For a change this journey will document the "slow" process of my painting, using an old guitar as a canvas. Some have seen my previous two efforts on guitars, but this will be a far greater challenge. Even though I have tried portraits a time or two, all have been years ago, and frankly were not too impressive. But, for a year I have practiced sketching with pencil, and have adapted a style which gives me courage to take this next step. That step is to utilize the colors of paint. I have outlined several singer songwriters and will paint them on all sides of this old guitar I obtained. Advice is not to guess who each may be. Once I begin to put paint to the face, each takes its own suggestion and becomes an entirely different person. Perhaps there will be a resemblance from time to time, but not likely. The most astute observer may notice a certain style in my work, but even that is not important. For me it will be an opportunity to practice several times due to the number of musicians selected. I know, just know, that each one will be different and have differences. It will be interesting to see how the last compares to the first. From it all I will learn. And, maybe I will have a unique art piece as well.

25 avril 2011, ultima dia en Bogota

I write this with coffee at my hotel in San Gil. After a nine-hour bus trip from Bogota I enjoyed a peaceful sleep in this pretty adobe design, over my budget allowance, but my only costly expense in Columbia. I awoke to the songs of birds and a not too distant rooster and setting similar to home, with a flooded river below, hidden by trees of all sorts. The long ride left me a little tight and also worried as we passed over flooded areas, and raging rivers ripping only a few feet below the bridges. It has rained heavy for over a week. I wonder if my return to Bogota is in jeopardy. In the meantime my current plan is to walk to town, find the bus and head to nearby Socorro.

This was accomplished. Socorro is an old colonial village, the birthplace of the revolt against the Spanish. A massive cathedral, relatively new, and the traditional plaza in front were the primary attractions. Simple, but enjoyable. I watched the activity in the plaza for an hour, then headed to the bus stop, to find that the stop of arrival is not the same as departure. But, I have encountered this before, and not surprised nor angered.

Next day off to Chicamocha, a three-year old National Park, of the second largest canyon in the world. Started off doubtful, as I was the only one requesting this destination. The conductor informed me he could not justify the trip. As I was rethinking the day, ready to leave, two Columbianas arrived with the same request. Buena suerte! For the most part we worked the day together, giving me an informal practice session.

The park is rather different. The natural setting itself is impressive, providing magnificent views of the canyon valley and flooded river. Being in the Andes the depths are extreme. The canyon slopes are relatively gentle in descent, not cliffs as with the Grand or Black at home. Still, the perspective of the distances and depths, with the flooded river below are memorable.

Another focus of the park, besides the restaurants and artisan shops, is the provision of a variety of testing experiences. For my zip lining friends, they have opportunity to zip across parts of the canyon. Apparently by intent, to add to the excitement, the acceleration is stopped by the participant´s impact against a gym-mat. I saw no one carried away after, but the loud thump could easily be heard at the other end. There are also giant swings out over the canyon and paragliders that soar over the canyon like condors. We took the teleferico, condolas designed for eight, from one side, down over the river, then back up the other side.

There is also a monument to the heroes of the revolution from this region of Santander, the home of the revolution. The monument has a huge representation of a tobacco leaf, and upon it are wonderful expressive metal figures, each with an important story behind, both of heroism and traitors. Many stand among a representation of bomb blast, rocks being sent into the air. It is a captive, artful display of emotion and energy.

Oh, and for the culinary interest, the area is known for its hormigas, fried black ants, the size of June bugs. Crunchy, with a bit of salt, not bad tasting at all. I am challenging customs to bring a few back with me for my friends.

Final excursion was to another pueblo, Barichara. It has been used as film set numerous times. It is the only place I have seen in Columbia without a traffic problem. It became my favorite place, with a hint of Cusco and Taos. On the slopes of a mountain, the plaza and obligatory cathedral are positioned in the middle. The walk up the hill takes you to a chapel that fronts a water garden, with several fountains carved with stone from a previous art exhibition. At the back edge, the terrain falls steeply to provide for wonderful views of the valley.

Without traffic, peace was present. The cathedral below was playing Gregorian chants that could be heard clearly, making for a mystic atmosphere. The rooster crowing nearby made me think of Peter´s third denial on this Easter weekend. Walking the slate streets among the white walled architecture aroused my artistic interest. Was a great and fortunate end to my travel. Gracias.

Only the return to Bogota dampened the enthusiasm, literally. I was lucky during my days, but every night brought heavy rains. The rains have flooded many areas in Columbia, and roads including mine were washed out and reduced to single lanes in several areas. I could observe the flooded fields, rivers and pueblo streets from my bus window. And yet Texas burns.

Tomorrow I head home. Again, I return with memories, unrepeatable experiences, sights, thoughts and questions. Made some friends. Had a wonderful family. Some sadness, dissatisfaction, uneasiness. Sights of poverty exist everywhere in South America and eventually you get tired of it, but don´t know what to do. Again I leave a family that has adopted me, sincerely. I know that from their efforts to bring me in. Sunday, after Easter mass, a large family gathering followed to celebrate Easter, a birthday, and a secret. I was going to leave, but two of the sisters intently wanted me to stay, and I did. They wished me to witness the secret, the announcement of engagement. One example. So, as I think about my departure tomorrow, I have feelings of a ungrateful son, a father sneaking away, a thief who has stolen trust, confidence and kindness. And that feeling hurts. They hope for my return, but I wonder how likely that will be.

I´ve mostly watched, but sometimes spoken
Mostly quit, but sometimes tried
To heed the earth and drink the ocean
And share the water from my eyes.

I´ve sometimes fought, but mostly hidden
In between the songs and lights
That saw the seeds of fruits forbidden
To dream of juice when dreams get dry.

I´ve mostly tripped, but sometimes chosen
Stumbled low and stumbled high
And the signposts on the paths have spoken
They´ve all said how, but none said why.

I´ve mostly watched, but sometimes spoken
Mostly quit, but sometimes tried
To heed the earth and drink the ocean
And share the water from my eyes.

D.Schimdt

family affair, 17 de avril, 2011

This weekend completed two family excursions. The first was truly a family affair, with two carloads in our caravan, 3 sisters, 2 boyfriends, 2 daughters, one 5-year old and me. Our departure had to be muy temprano in the morning as Bogota disallows use of their inner city highways two days a week based upon license number. Accordingly, Nikolas, one of the boyfriend/drivers won the lottery for that day. So, we had of get out of town before dawn. Our tour would take us through four pueblos.

The first took us to a town in milk and coal region, the two high profile products. The attraction, besides being the initial meeting point of the two carloads, was a beautiful cathedral slightly different in architectural style, the spines of the exterior, being meticulously duplicated with wood at several points of the interior. Very impressive.

Before departure from the area we visited an active monastery, being prepped for Santa Semana, by the young priests in training on this beautiful isolated peaceful spot. The sisters bought some eggs which supposedly have double-sized yerna (egg yolk) which is promising for the faithful.

Next we headed to Chiquinquira, a cathedral also being the attraction. The deficiency of my early weeks in seeing cathedrals is now being overly compensated. The basilica is supposedly modeled after the Vatican, though I cannot testify to that. 500 plus years old, it is beautiful and massive. Inside a mass was being held and I was reluctant to try photos, though there was plenty of other activity inside. Much of this was preparation of the “floats” (there is a more appropriate word) that will be carried on the shoulders in procession on Easter weekend. Each has a powerful expressive modeled image of Christ, depicting the final 13 stages of the last hours as depicted in Matthew. These were being appropriately adorned with flowers for the glorification. I recall the wonderful processions in Cusco last year, which only had the single carriage, so seeing the thirteen must really heighten the impression and impact, though more is not necessarily better.
The significance of this religious capital of Columbia is a painting of La Virgen which, after years of neglect had faded. But, after discovery and devotion by one faithful, it miraculously restored itself to original inspiration. Other miracles have followed.

The third stop was Ra´quira. This is a colorful artisan colony, famous for its clay creations, pots, toys, ornaments, including piggy banks. Other crafts are displayed in the stores lined along the narrow streets toward the plaza, with colorful displays from the balconies. For no other reason than the bright colors set against the stuccoed walls, this pueblo was my favorite stop of the day.

Our final spot was Villa de Leyva. Trying to drive on the original cobblestone streets was a bumpy experience. Unlike other plazas this one is entirely cobbled with a single simple small fountain in the center. No gardened walks here. The plaza, supposedly one of the largest in South America, is surrounded by white stucco wall structures, tiled roofs, creating an interesting visual line. My camera could not get an expansive focal perspective, despite standing as far back as I could. We visited several shops and headed back.

Saturday night brought a changed experience. Normally my nights have been occupied with family and homework. Plus, my apartment headquarters are far from the nightlife of Bogota, which attracts large numbers of university students, somewhat like 6th street in Austin. But, on this cold rainy night, and altogether miserable evening, five of the family took off up a popular mountain road that lifts above the valley below where the city sprawls in a half-moon shape. The winding road rises slowly to where you get magnificent views of Bogota below. Despite the clouds and rain, the lights of the city gave a brilliant reflection of the 8 – 10 million (depending on your source) diverse lives of the capital city.

We stopped along the way for views and tastes from umbrella sheltered vendors, small cafes and discos. I have admiration and amazement for both vendor and patron who ignored the elements for business, refreshment and views. At one of the spots, a small dance floor was available for response to the excessively loud stereo playing rumba, salsa and merinque. The sister influenced me to the floor for instruction. I got a thumbs up from a nearby table for my efforts. Perhaps that will encourage sufficient votes to keep me from being sent home.

I also got to observe my first “chivas”. These are old wooden buses that were once predominantly used throughout Columbia. My travel book says they carried everything, people, products, animals and when there was no more room, the top was loaded. Now they have been colorfully converted to mobile dance halls. Benches align the inside, leaving the center vacant for dance to music and drink. As we passed several in our journey I could see the movement of dancing bodies, crowded together as if on the Transmilinium buses in after-work rush hour, rubbing against each other to the rumba beats and disco lights inside. Maybe an entertainment opportunity for some entrepreneur at home. Certainly it was an indication of the integral importance of Latin beat to the Columbian soul.

Only one week left.

Bogota, 11 avril 2011

Perhaps my last chance to see parts of Bogotá I have not yet experienced. Weekend next is a take-off for a week of travel, east and north. My mother, who works for an international insurance firm, has been preoccupied with quarterly reporting pressures, so I snuck off before she arose, tow objectives in mind. One, to relieve her a bit from making my breakfast, and two, to have a try at a local panaderia. Had a great cheese and ham omelet, pan, juice and coffee, for $3.00. I left filled with change in hand.

I got off the Trans Milenia, one of the most efficient mass-transit systems I have experienced. It is a bus-system that works like a subway, having its own lanes, and is very rapid, although normally packed like sardines. I was in an area known as the Candelaria, where Bogota began. It is not totally historic now, as much of the commercial activity has constructed modern and high rise structures. Still, there are plenty of sights and numerous museums, including one only about the history of gold in the country and another on the history of law enforcement in the country, with a model of the bullet ridden corpse of the drug lord, Escobar.

Where I live is all apartment buildings and commercial sites. So, visual sights for memory or photo have been lacking. With that objective in hand, I took my walk, branching off from the Plaza de Bolivar. It is relatively easy to navigate here, with the reliance on the traditional Spanish grid pattern, carreras running N-S, calles E-W, numerically sequenced.

Having all day, I pretty much meandered up and down, letting the appearance of anything interesting pull me like the fly to the candle. I had wondered about the lack of catholic presence, but I found it this day. They began to show themselves, like the dandelions in my yard in Colorado. Beautiful, delicate, both inside and out, the spires rising slightly above the tiled roofs of the casas surrounding, balconies flowered or colorful banners flowing. Most of these historic homes have been converted to hotels, restaurants or businesses.

Little by little I was drawn further and further away. And, in the same manner the barrios became a little more obscure and less kept, and sure enough, drawn by the tall spire of one church and the domed tower of another, I stood alone, a stranger in a cracked plaza, looked at intensely by an assortment of characters from a Charles Dickens book. Luckily I suppose, two police approached me. One never really knows what motives the police have here in South America, but these two were gentlemen and friendly. Their intent was to actually to provide me warning of the danger present in the area, which I was slowly realizing myself. We talked some after the discovered I spoke Spanish and was an American tourist. They wished me well, and watched as I took a couple of photos and started back to the plaza.
Back around the plaza the crowd of humanity pressed upon me. Even in New York, Chicago or LA, I have not been surrounded by so many, so closely, so diverse. Every sidewalk had every available space filled by vendors or artists of some sort, food of all kinds, items for sale down to key chains and single cigarettes. There were jugglers, street painters, musicians as well. I swear I saw a dental chair with patient. Not all is pleasant to observe as many do what they can to survive. I don´t find many surprises anymore. Unfortunately my camera does not capture the essence of the scene. Perhaps the day will come when I can create a painting of representation.
Sunday turned up wet, but only a continuous warm drizzle. After another breakfast away from home I stood, trying to decide if the rain should interfere with the intended plan. I watched the umbrellas bounce down the enormous metal labyrinth that allows pedestrians to cross the fourteen lanes of the autopista. Looked like the dancing mushrooms in Disney´s Fantasia. I have learned that opportunities rarely come twice, and even then, they normally do not provide any better conditions the second time. Hence, I took off for the Parque de Simon Bolivar. It is larger than Central Park. And, now having been there it is indeed big. The slow sprinkle likely diminished the normal crowds. So, I walked about in relative peace. It is large, impressive, beautiful and I enjoyed it in the rain. Just did not dance.

Nest week should take me to new locations, smaller, more open, more natural.
Nobody knows, knows, knows

So many things, things, so
So out of range, sometimes so strange
Sometimes so sweet, sometimes so lonely
The further I go, more letters from home never arrive
And I´m alone, all of the way, all of the way, alone and alive.
P.Griffin

Outside Bogota, 4 avril 2011

Experiences finally expanded this week. I escaped from the city twice, with positive change. The citizens of Bogota are exceedingly proud of their city, but I am a country boy.

I played hooky one day, with approval, and my mother took off work one day. So, she, her boyfriend, daughter and her boyfriend and I took off north de la ciudad. Totally green, once we left the brick and concrete of Bogota. The highway was still congested, and houses, apartments, businesses littered the view, but in between were vistas of the mountains and fincas (ranches). Almost a green cover below a cloudy sky, a feeling of openness.

Our immediate destination was the cathedral de sal, cathedral of salt. The site is discussed in my travel book, but walking through a salt mine was not on my original list of sites to see. But, typically, I was surprised. This particular one is reportedly the world´s largest. The working part is not open to the public. The side for viewing has been made for some hundred plus years. The miners, I suppose in their spare time, in various caverns, have carved out crosses in the slat rock. Each, has variations in its structure so as to symbolically represent the stages of Jesus´ last walk from conviction to resurrection (now twice I have seen this display). Placed in the enormity of these carved caverns, the darkness, the silence, it has a very powerful impression. I can imagine the even greater impact on these miners when there was not electric lighting for the benefit of tourists, nor sounds of tourist groups wandering through, and the constant presence of danger in their work, the difficulty and low wage. Easy to understand the desire for supportive relation with a greater caring power. Sorry, the obsuridad was not conducive to my photographic ability.

On the return to Bogotá we downsized to a small pueblo Tabio. Was my first reawakening to the S.America I love. Small pueblo, gardened plaza in the center, the primary cathedral to one side, and colorful stores and restaurants along the other three sides. Always the provison of a place to sit under tree, by flower bed, on sidewalk bench. A place to watch the interaction of family and friends as the walked, sat, ate by a central statue, after they bought helado or fruit or other, from the vendors on the perimeter. We stopped and tortas in one of the restaurants with center patio.

The weekend produced another trip. With the partial family of another friend, mother, daughter, son of eight children, we drove south. Perhaps 80 miles, we were in a constant line of trucks, buses and cars. Jose would have no fear on a NASCAR track. Previous discussion of Columbian driving was too low key. Despite the craziness of it all I have not yet seen a wreck (should not have said that). Once outside of Bogota it only got worse. Multiple lanes and divided highway disappeared around mountain curves. A continuing line of traffic, both ways, mostly trucks or buses struggling with the graded slopes. Jose takes every opportunity, or lottery chance, he can to advance our position. Regardless of oncoming traffic, blind curve, double line and no apparent opening in the line of cars in front, he took the frozen silence of the passengers as implicit agreement for his driving style. I still am alive.

Along the way we stop at a restaurant where I eat my first meal of rabbit. Not really all that distinctive, though as always expression of ¨rico¨ follows the meal. It was not the only food experience of the weekend. There was also pescado and cola de vaca (cow tail). Rico again.

Ultimately we arrived at the town of Girardot, a town on the Rio Magdelena, which is navigable all the way to the Pacific. When the highway was constructed the town grew rapidly as many condo and townhome complexes grew to accommodate the appetites of Bogota citizens wanting a weekend of holiday escape.

Jose who works for worldwide fertilizer company bought this ´´finca´´. Four bedrooms, living area, kitchen, outdoor covered patio, swimming pool, this is the smallest in the complex. As I write this alone on the porch by the poolside I catch the occasional glimpse from Amafre, the family servant as she works in the kitchen. Images of Hemingway in Cuba . . no, never mind.

Anyway, it is peaceful, quiet and though surrounded by tall hedges blocking the view of the larger homes, I can at least imagine views of the not too distant mountains. Five squawking parrots fly overhead. Despite their beautiful color, what an awful sound they make. There are a few yellow-orange canary size birds in the avocado tree, with a much more pleasant song. Columbia is the second most biodiverse country next to Brazil. Even though only 80 miles from Bogota the temperature has climbed an easy 20 degrees. I am in short and borrowed sandals. There are fruit trees, including papaya, mango, palms, with coconuts, and a variety of other plants and flowers, bright colors all. This tropical location and living situation could become an easy adjustment. I am told my pension would provide a very comfortable living style. No desire to step inside as long as the fans blow away the drops of sweat.
School continues to improve. Another new professor, very good and enjoyable. Grammar knowledge increases. Third week approaches.

When I grow up I want to be a tree
Want to make my home with the birds and the bees
And the squirrels they can count on me
When I grow up I want to be a tree.
Although my joints get stiff with my feet in the ground
Take the winters off, settle down
Keep my clothes til they turn brown
When I grow up I´m gonna settle down.

I´m gonna reach, I´m gonna reach,
I´m gonna reach, reach for the sky.
I´m gonna reach, I´m gonna reach,
I´m gonna reach, til I know why.

When the spring comes by I´m gonna get real green
If the dogs come by I´m gonna get real mean
On windy days I´ll bend and lean
When I grow up I´m gonna get real green.
If I should fall in storm or slumber
Please don´t turn me into lumber
I´d rather be a Louisville slugger
Swinging for the seats.
J.Gorka

Bogota, 28 marzo 2011

Second weekend is now behind me. Little by little I stretch the experiences here in Bogota. Not really surprising to me is the recognition of life as it is here in S. America. Very similar to previous ventures. Both great disparity in income and status between top and bottom, as well as diversity in these very same people. It brings sadness, anger, wonder and question.

Bogota shows both high rise offices of economic possibilities, as well as the subsidized slums that hug the mountains to the east, waiting for the next earthshake to scatter the walls and roofs to spots below. Last one occurred ten years ago.
Everywhere, literally, it seems no corner or sidewalk is without vendor for something, from gum to stolen cellulars. Food is everywhere. Arepa con queso, a cornmeal pancake like, skillet fried, is a favorite and has become one of mine as well. Plus empanadas. Yesterday, Sunday, a Bogota friend and I went to the northside of the city, where we drove along a winding stretch of road, lined with both small and large asaderos, similar to barbecue establishments. Open only on weekend, they attract the citizens wanting a leisurely afternoon with plenty of food. We selected one of the larger ones, which would challenge even Texas´ best establishments. Open to the outside, the smoke drifting around the tables, the hungry select from several options. Besides the beef, we chose a popular sausage, filled with rice and a pea-like vegetable, as well as corn and papa criolla, grilled corncob and potato. It was delicious, too much, and very cheap.

On our return I was given the opportunity to drive. Opportunity was not the initial word, which was ¨crazy¨. However, once the wheel was in hand, the challenge was accepted. Driving rules in S.America are pretty much non-existent, or non-applied. Put that statement in context of a city of eight million, including 60,000 taxis, that consider themselves the righteous privileged of these streets. Painted lines are meaningless as they disappear from view in the numerous huecos, that is potholes. Well aimed mirrors, a neck with 180 degree turning radious, and good clutch action are all critical for angling in front of anyone who is a split second too slow in reaction. Making a left turn from the right lane of a three lane street, in the middle of an intersection is no surprise. One learns to ignore the sounding horns as they cut across.

It is also handy to have a few spare coins in case you are in the front of a line stopped at red. You most certainly will be expected to pay for the upcoming show of jugglers, tumbers, fire eaters that will immediately appear in the street after signal change. Plus, the saddening number of physically disabled who accept any handout.

School is good. I seem to be alternating among three profesoras for some reason. Though they compliment my level, and I do understand them mostly, but outside the classroom that firm ground cracks and wobbles. A bit of disheartening. Still, I pursue, I study. But, the people are so contagious in a very positive way. Their warmth has nothing to do with the equatorial nearness. Were it only possible to import that to the states.

It’s just a stone’s throw from here to eternity
From the back roads to where I long to be
The world has changed leaving only the truth intact
You think it’s a game, to me it means more than that.

But, I’m a late bloomer, I’m a slow learner
And I’ve heard the penny drop
I’m a small player, with a tall order, to come out on top
And without telling a soul that everyone might know
That I’m a late bloomer.
R.Sexsmith

OR

Windsurfer, windsurfer
All he wanted was to ride out on the wind
Windsurfer, to be one of the guys and to look good in their eyes
He practiced in his dreams, trying to catch the wave
Most of the time he sailed alone
Endless summer days, flying in the sun
He’d ride and wait for the wind to take him home.

Windsurfer . . . windsurfer . . . windsurfer . . . windsurfer

He left a message and he wrote it in the sand.
Why do we always go for something out of reach, nobody ever really understands
Windsurfer, all he wanted to do was out run the sun.
Windsurfer

R.Orbison

Bogota Marzo 22, 2011

First weekend here, today is Tuesday morning after a Monday holiday. I had a family birthday celebration yesterday of one of the many nephews. There are four aunts that I have met so far in the four days here. As everywhere I have traveled in S. America, most family members live within short walking distance of each other. The parents, two siblings, and variety of other family or near family live in adjacent apartment buildings to mine.

Night before the celebration I observed, and helped un poco the birthday meal celebration. It was a lasagna type meal, layers of red meat sauce, two cheeses, chicken, mushrooms, and white sauce, randomly layered without formula. Preparation involved six women ranging in age from six to seventy plus in an apartment sized kitchen. The event itself was a full blown family affair, with special friends, crowded into the living area. The meal was muy delicioso. The cutting of the birthday cake was preceded by Happy Birthday in English, but with Spanish accent, then with a Spanish idiom version which I could not follow quickly enough. It was a fun event and I am grateful to have been included.

A character flaw of mine is premature evaluation of situation and context. Wisdom would delay for more data and interaction. Fortunately I offset to some degree with flexibility for adaption and change. So, with this labeled warning, I am disappointed with my language performance. I am having difficulty with understanding the spoken word. Seems very fast and with little separation of word. There is also a vocabulary contradiction on occasion. I get by only the detection of a word or two in context of event. I had believed Columbian Spanish would be easier to grasp.
My best opportunity has been playing with Lorena, the lively six-year old niece of my mother. She definitely is in control of the relationship. She is a good teacher, clearly demonstrating by action and verb together, repeatedly, to communicate. I imagine the social scientists do the same, teaching sign language to chimpanzees.
Perhaps, despite the language doubt, the real positive of these travels are the cultural experiences. It is obvious the closeness of family and friends. Smiles and lively conversations are everywhere, with concurrent kisses, hugs, hands held. All indicate a real closeness to time being spent together, rather than with things, which few seem to have in quantity. Hope that does not change.

I have not yet found much in architecture, park or plaza to draw my interest. I did ascend to a religious site Santuario de Monserrate in the mountains that overlook the city. Numerous tiles have been placed to give thanks to miracles attributed to their pilgrimage here. Rain prevented ideal photo opportunity. But, there is a pleasant garden walk that leads one past statutes that display the last events of Jesus’ life from trial to resurrection.

But an inside attraction in the city below which I visited were two art museums. The first, Museo de Botero, would satisfy one´s hunger for Botero´s amusing visual of all things in a weighty way – human, animal, fruit, musical instrument. Several rooms held pieces. However, my interest was drawn to other collections, of Dali, Chagall, Renoir, Picasso, even a sculpture by Degas, and a painting by Giacometti. I will return here again.

So, the exploration begins. My first week of classes starts this afternoon. Despite the hesitancy at this point, I can only proceed, be patient, and process as best I can. I am sure more awaits, and perhaps, a surprise or two will follow.

The world is too big to never ask why
The answers don´t fall straight out of the sky
If I am to live and feel alive
But I can´t feel a thing without others by my side
Send me out a lifeline
Send me out a lifeline . . . M.Kearney