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
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