Since meeting up with the entire group on the 11th we´ve been pretty busy with traveling on windowless buses, hiking to green lagunas, building brick houses amist great dust tornadoes, and surviving a bout of a mysterious stomach virus. I haven´t had a lot of time or consistent email access to insert new entries, so I´m going to do a little summary in a series of ups and one down. Here goes:
THE UPS
1. The group - There are now 14 of us Gringos in our Habitat group. Originally there were 12, however, 2 long term Habitat volunteers living in Cochabamba (an hour or so from La Paz) joined us to help us get situated and going on our trip. Everyone is very cool. There are several teachers, a couple of lawyers, a nurse, a recent college grad, an IT guy, an architect, and a toxicologist. What´s cool though is that it´s a group with similar interests in volunteerism (at a cost?) and travel. We´ve all become pretty good friends and have now stories to tell about our shared experiences in Bolivia.
2. Sorata - On the 11th we all arrived in La Paz which sits at 13,000 feet or so and headed to Sorata, a small valley mountain village which sits at about 6,000 feet. We went to Sorata for orientation and to help us adjust to the high altitude. Sorata was a very cool and tranquilo little mountain village. We stayed at this old hotel built in the 1940s. This hotel, called the Ex-profectoral, is huge with high ceiling walls, dim lighting, and creaking hardwood floors. It is a bit reminiscent of the Bolivian version of the hotel in the Shining. Red-rum. Very beautiful, but a bit creepy at night.
On our second day in Sorata most of our group ventured on a hike to Laguna Chilata. 13 of us jumped into the back of a pick-up truck with guard rails and drove on oh-so narrow and steep roads to the hiking trail head. We then ascended up about 500 feet to this green water lagoon just below snow-capped mountains. The hike was difficult, but the views from the top were magnificent.
3. Oruro - We traveled from Sorata to Oruro, which is about a 7 hour drive. Our bus mysteriously lost it´s front driver´s side window so plastic and tape covered the hole. Oruro is the capital city of the state of Oruro. Some guide books say that Oruro is where most of the indigenous population lives or is from. Most Oruro-ians speak either Ayemara or Quechua, but all speak Spanish. The Ayemara were before the Incans and the Quechua were after the Incans. Oruro is a very poor region of the country. Bolivia is in fact the poorest country in all of South America and second only to Haiti for the entire Western hemispere. Oruro is a place of parades. We have seen or heard a parade every day since we´ve been here. Oruro is also home to the Carnival which takes place in February. The people here seem very proud of their heritage and their history and their parades. It´s a very lively place. I don´t quite know how the two are connected. It´s very poor, but lively. Perhaps monetary wealth and happiness are two separate things. Sure they are. There are other aspects, however, to look at as well, such as health care, education, housing facilities. I haven´t been here long enough to get a true sense of what that means for Bolivians. As a travelor you get a perspective, but not necessarily the perspective that helps you understand the people.
3. Habitat Bolivia - HFH Bolivia is very organized and on-point. They have purchased a plot of land just outside the center of Oruro called El Barrio. They have completed already 120-some houses and are to add another 20 by the end of the year. Our group is helping with three different families. The houses are made of red brick. The model home we are working on are two-story homes. The three houses are in different stages on development so we have seen how each part of the construction goes. On the first day I helped to lay brick on a house that already had the foundation up. On the second and third day, however, I worked on a different home and had different jobs. First we were putting in the foundation and needed rocks to be mixed with the cement. So, I was given a sledgehammer and went at it breaking up these huge rocks so they could be used in with the foundation. That was a hard job. I was real soar by the end of the day and had broken two different sledgehammers. It was cool though.
Each home has its own albanel - who is basically in charge of the building. A fellow by the name of Eddson is in charge of all the building. Eddson, a Bolivian, is very hard working and makes sure that each of us volunteers has a job and is not idle. He has had us mixing cement, breaking rocks, laying bricks, putting in posts for the home layout.
THE DOWN
1. Diarrhea - sorry to be so blatant. Our group got something. At one point this past weekend, 12 of 14 of us were under the weather with some kind of stomach virus. We are recovering however, and most of us are on the up and up.
There´s definetely more to write and the ups overwhelmingly outweigh the down. More to come...hasta pronto!
21 August 2007
11 August 2007
Beenie Weenies and Brad Pitt
August 10, 2007
Mi cumpleano. I overslept today. I wanted to get up and at em by 6:30 or 7 am, but I think the hiking from the day before did me in. The night (9th) before I checked into a less expensive hostel. I stayed at la residencial Paris for 15 bolivianos. I grabbed a late dinner at, again, a Bohemian place called Pueblo Viejo. There´s many little Bohemian spots in Copacabana-it´s got the feel of a beach town. It´s a cool little place, though touristy, as I´ve already mentioned. Pueblo Viejo was good. I ate a dish called Pique Machu-a Bolivian dish said the waiter. It was patatas fritas, covered with green and red peppers, and 3 types of meat-beef, chicken, and my favorite beenie weenies. It was good. I slowly sipped on a Bolivian pilsner which was really refreshing after being under the sun all day.
The waiter, Javier, was really cool. We got to chatting and I asked him about a couple of things I was curious about. First, about how the people have reacted to Evo Morales. Talking politics can be an iffy subject in foreign countries. You really have to take what you hear more as a personal opinion than as the facts. Living with the Owambo people in Namibia they raved about the president Sammy Sam Nujoma and the SWAPO party. However, analyzing it a little more Owambos are more than 60 percent of the population meaning their tribe will probably always carry the most weight when voting time comes around. This may mean that SWAPO rule is great for Owambos, but may not be for the Hereros or the Namas, or the rest of the nation. Anyways, Javier stated that it depends on who you talk to. He said some really like Morales, while others don´t. He did say though that only about 50 percent of teh population votes. I told him that was about the percentage of voters in my country as well. Some of Javier´s responses I didn´t quite understand but didn´t pry too much, we were having a good conversation.
The other thing I asked him about was the relation between Catholicism and Incan traditions in Bolivia, if there was any. He stated that almost all of the people were practicing Catholics, but celebrated Incan ancestry out of respect. I thought this was quite a response. If that´s the case in general, I have to tip my hat to the open mindedness, humility, and sense of this-life-is-much-greater-than-I perspective of the people of this region. Que linda!
I woke up on the 10th around 9am not to an alarm, but to my cell phone blowing up. I´ve been using it as an alarm clock since I didn´t bring a watch. It was some unidentified New York number. I think it was one of my students. I usually give them my number at the beginning of the school year thinking they probably won´t use it and even warn them that if they blow up my spot at 4 in the morning I´m not answering. But oh contrar. Be careful giving your number to knucklehead students.
I got my stuff together, took a drip-drip cold shower with no soap or towel (don´t ask for details) and did some internet errands. Wouldn´t it be nice if when you left the country your bills were just on hold until you got back (insert question mark-i´m sitting at an internet cafe in la paz but the keyboard is in chinese and i really can´t decipher this thing)
I grabbed a late breakfast and caught the one oclock bus to La Paz. I am to meet the Habitat group over the next day and a half as folks start to arrive. The bus departs from Copacabana and stops at Tiquina where we take a ferry and continue on our way. The bus ride was pretty smooth-this wasn´t a kambee bus, but a larger charter bus. For most of the way we passed rolling hills with brown grass and tiny pueblos where the people were beginning to till the land. I asked the lady sitting next to me what they would grow and she said beans...I think. Talking Spanish with people with no English background is a little more difficult. The accents, I´ve found, are much thicker, and I guess I´m a bit embarrassed to continue asking que, que diciste, que, no entiendo. Hopefully my ear will become a little more accustomed to the language as time passes. I did make out, however, that nothing will be growing for another month or so. The people are working a bit early in preparation for the big celebration day on August 15-el dia de Pachamama (the earth mother)...At least, I think that´s what she said.
I arrived to La Paz by 5:30 and found the hotel-estrella andina-where I will meet the rest of the group. Only 2 folks had checked in, and I figured they were crashin´from jet lag, so I headed out to check out La Paz. It´s a crazy, hilly place. Very steep hills.
I was walking down a hill and saw a peloqueria. I decided to stop in and get a haircut. Un hombre named Juan cut my hair for 40 bolivianos. He gave me a nice trim and a shave. We were talking and I told him I had a friend in the States who was a stylist and that he had to go to school for 6-12 months. Juan said it was the same here and that he went to school for one year. A reggaeton video was playing on the television and Juan said that was becoming very popular music in Bolivia. I asked him about la musica autentica de Bolivia and, I don´t know the name of it in Spanish, but, it´s the music with the flute thingys. You know, that one. I´ll bring some back home. Juan is a jugador de musica as well. As I departed we exchanged names and we ran into the same problem, if you will, that I did when I lived in Spain some years back. There´s not many words in the Spanish language that end in ´d´, so when I told him my name, Juan replied, el pan-which is bread. I said, no, como el actor Brad Pitt. Ah, Brad, Juan said. When I lived in Spain though I guess he wasn´t quite the world famous person that he is now so many times I just left it as, si, mi nombre es pan. It was the same when I worked at Brothers Pizza with mis amigos mexicanos in the kitchen. They just called me Pan. Reckon there´s worse things to be called.
Tomorrow morning I will meet everyone and we will depart to Sorata for 2 or 3 days for orientation. After, we will head to Oruro where we will work, helping to build residential houses for the people in various communities. Pasas bien!
Mi cumpleano. I overslept today. I wanted to get up and at em by 6:30 or 7 am, but I think the hiking from the day before did me in. The night (9th) before I checked into a less expensive hostel. I stayed at la residencial Paris for 15 bolivianos. I grabbed a late dinner at, again, a Bohemian place called Pueblo Viejo. There´s many little Bohemian spots in Copacabana-it´s got the feel of a beach town. It´s a cool little place, though touristy, as I´ve already mentioned. Pueblo Viejo was good. I ate a dish called Pique Machu-a Bolivian dish said the waiter. It was patatas fritas, covered with green and red peppers, and 3 types of meat-beef, chicken, and my favorite beenie weenies. It was good. I slowly sipped on a Bolivian pilsner which was really refreshing after being under the sun all day.
The waiter, Javier, was really cool. We got to chatting and I asked him about a couple of things I was curious about. First, about how the people have reacted to Evo Morales. Talking politics can be an iffy subject in foreign countries. You really have to take what you hear more as a personal opinion than as the facts. Living with the Owambo people in Namibia they raved about the president Sammy Sam Nujoma and the SWAPO party. However, analyzing it a little more Owambos are more than 60 percent of the population meaning their tribe will probably always carry the most weight when voting time comes around. This may mean that SWAPO rule is great for Owambos, but may not be for the Hereros or the Namas, or the rest of the nation. Anyways, Javier stated that it depends on who you talk to. He said some really like Morales, while others don´t. He did say though that only about 50 percent of teh population votes. I told him that was about the percentage of voters in my country as well. Some of Javier´s responses I didn´t quite understand but didn´t pry too much, we were having a good conversation.
The other thing I asked him about was the relation between Catholicism and Incan traditions in Bolivia, if there was any. He stated that almost all of the people were practicing Catholics, but celebrated Incan ancestry out of respect. I thought this was quite a response. If that´s the case in general, I have to tip my hat to the open mindedness, humility, and sense of this-life-is-much-greater-than-I perspective of the people of this region. Que linda!
I woke up on the 10th around 9am not to an alarm, but to my cell phone blowing up. I´ve been using it as an alarm clock since I didn´t bring a watch. It was some unidentified New York number. I think it was one of my students. I usually give them my number at the beginning of the school year thinking they probably won´t use it and even warn them that if they blow up my spot at 4 in the morning I´m not answering. But oh contrar. Be careful giving your number to knucklehead students.
I got my stuff together, took a drip-drip cold shower with no soap or towel (don´t ask for details) and did some internet errands. Wouldn´t it be nice if when you left the country your bills were just on hold until you got back (insert question mark-i´m sitting at an internet cafe in la paz but the keyboard is in chinese and i really can´t decipher this thing)
I grabbed a late breakfast and caught the one oclock bus to La Paz. I am to meet the Habitat group over the next day and a half as folks start to arrive. The bus departs from Copacabana and stops at Tiquina where we take a ferry and continue on our way. The bus ride was pretty smooth-this wasn´t a kambee bus, but a larger charter bus. For most of the way we passed rolling hills with brown grass and tiny pueblos where the people were beginning to till the land. I asked the lady sitting next to me what they would grow and she said beans...I think. Talking Spanish with people with no English background is a little more difficult. The accents, I´ve found, are much thicker, and I guess I´m a bit embarrassed to continue asking que, que diciste, que, no entiendo. Hopefully my ear will become a little more accustomed to the language as time passes. I did make out, however, that nothing will be growing for another month or so. The people are working a bit early in preparation for the big celebration day on August 15-el dia de Pachamama (the earth mother)...At least, I think that´s what she said.
I arrived to La Paz by 5:30 and found the hotel-estrella andina-where I will meet the rest of the group. Only 2 folks had checked in, and I figured they were crashin´from jet lag, so I headed out to check out La Paz. It´s a crazy, hilly place. Very steep hills.
I was walking down a hill and saw a peloqueria. I decided to stop in and get a haircut. Un hombre named Juan cut my hair for 40 bolivianos. He gave me a nice trim and a shave. We were talking and I told him I had a friend in the States who was a stylist and that he had to go to school for 6-12 months. Juan said it was the same here and that he went to school for one year. A reggaeton video was playing on the television and Juan said that was becoming very popular music in Bolivia. I asked him about la musica autentica de Bolivia and, I don´t know the name of it in Spanish, but, it´s the music with the flute thingys. You know, that one. I´ll bring some back home. Juan is a jugador de musica as well. As I departed we exchanged names and we ran into the same problem, if you will, that I did when I lived in Spain some years back. There´s not many words in the Spanish language that end in ´d´, so when I told him my name, Juan replied, el pan-which is bread. I said, no, como el actor Brad Pitt. Ah, Brad, Juan said. When I lived in Spain though I guess he wasn´t quite the world famous person that he is now so many times I just left it as, si, mi nombre es pan. It was the same when I worked at Brothers Pizza with mis amigos mexicanos in the kitchen. They just called me Pan. Reckon there´s worse things to be called.
Tomorrow morning I will meet everyone and we will depart to Sorata for 2 or 3 days for orientation. After, we will head to Oruro where we will work, helping to build residential houses for the people in various communities. Pasas bien!
10 August 2007
Adventures in Copacabana...
August 9, 2007
I woke up around 7 am. It was cold. I was dog tired. But, I had to be by the lakeshore by 8:15 to depart on un barco to the island of the sun – la isla del sol. I would return by 4 or 5 on the same boat. I hurried myself up, skipped a shower, though, it was too cold to get wet and would require too much energy. I packed up my gear and headed downstairs to check out and get a quick breakfast. I stayed at Hotel Utama for 10 US per night, which is actually steep for the area. The most expensive hotel in Copa costs 38 US per night. At the time, however, I was so jet lagged I just wanted a bed and this was the first place I spotted. Breakfast was buenisimo and included so era muy buenisimo. I arrived at the shore by 8:10 and spotted Katerine, my German friend from the day before. She was also headed to la isla, but to a different part of the island and was to stay 2 nights there. I boarded the top of the platform of the barco “Titicaca” along with many other tourists. I think, in fact, there were only tourists aboard. Copacabana is a very touristy location. The last thing I wanted was to be in the midst of a group of gringos hiking, but it all worked out.
The boat ride was 1.5 hours and only covered a portion of the massive Lake Titicaca. The views were magnificent – mini islands popping up everywhere and the grand snow covered Andes in the far background. Our boat ride took us only several hundred feet from Peru as well. The boat was filled with mostly Europeans – some English lads and ladies, a group of private school kids, some Germans, some stinky Frenchmen – and 2 other Americans. One, an undergrad from Duke, whose name I didn’t catch, was working for the summer in Santiago, Chile. The other lad – Bill – was a newly retired linguistic professor from Indiana University. He was originally from the boogie down Bronx, holla! He was a talker though. Very interesting, but a talker. He speaks like 5 languages, had lived in Bulgaria, France, Mali, Russia, and extensively traveled throughout Spanish speaking countries. For the last 5 years he has traveled for 2 months (every 6 months) in 2 Spanish speaking countries. This was his second trip to Bolivia in as many years.
We finally arrived to la isla del sol and there were a couple of options. 1) there was a tour guided hike – NO. 2) you could check out the museum and Incan ruins with a guide – NO. 3) or, you could high tail it on your own on the hiking trails and hope to make it back to the pick up point by 3:45. Now, that’s more like it, I thought. Okay, I didn’t have a real map or a watch, but I figured I’d be miserable with the first two options. It’s cool meetin’ folk, but I dig just hiking solo. You know it’s that time I acquire my deep thoughts. HA! I joke with Jazzy that sometimes my thoughts are so deep you need a life vest so you don’t drown (which is complete rubbish). Here’s one I recently came up with. Hand sanitizer is so great. You can literally blow your nose in your hands and simply apply the sanitizer. You are not only keeping clean, but helping the planet by saving excess paper use. Don’t drown…
I wasn’t sure quite where to go, but I just continued to ask people on the island, “donde esta el paseo a Yumani,” and I was able to find my way. Que bonito paseo. The day was warming up. The cool thing is that even though it’s chilly, you’re so high and closer to the sun that being in the sun warms you up. Yes, Ma, I wore sunscreen. It was a beautiful journey. It took me along the shore for a bit, which had crystal clear water, frigid, yes, but beautiful. The trail then ascended to an area where there were more Incan ruins. It supposedly cost money, but at this point I slowed my roll and joined the large tour group and with them evaded the entry fee. I felt bad about it later though and paid a senorita dressed in traditional Incan garb to take her photo. The ruins were cool, but nothing compared to the scene at Peru’s Machu Picchu, so I have heard. The ruins were of an old ancient market overlooking mountains and the lake. There was also a large stone table that was used for various ceremonies, though it’s uncertain what ceremonies exactly. Some claim it was to behead wrongdoers while others claim it was an area to offer a sacrifice to the gods.
One very interesting aspect about Copacabana and the areas surrounding the lake is the religion of the people. Most are Catholic due to the spread of the religion in the 16th century. Supposedly in 1583 un hombre named Tito Yupanqui had a dream that a new belief in God was going to arrive and vuala, a couple of years later the Catholic priests arrived. There’s a huge statue of Yupanqui at the town’s Cathedral and story plates on the door depicting the events of the arrival of Christianity. But, Catholicism really began to flourish when the cathedral elected the Virgen Calandaria as the patron saint. After this, in the early 17th century, there were numerous claims of miraculous happenings. Despite the conversion, however, much of the Incan religious traditions remained in the lake region. It’s a sacred place to many people and la isla del sol is to many Incans the location of the creation story. Incan tradition believes the sun was born there and from that life was. This, however, is not solely an Incan history, it’s an Ayamara history, which is another tribe and is somehow connected to the Incans though I’m not quite sure how. There are other Incan idols in this part as well – the moon, who is married to the sun, and the earth mother Pachamama. There’s somehow a connection between the 2 religions in this region, though it’s not exactly clear as of yet how. It’s very interesting and intriguing, however, to learn more about.
Bueno, pues, vamos. After stopping briefly at the Incan ruins I continued on the trek. It began to get difficult because of the increased altitude. This island is above 4000 m and the air began to get thin. It’s a weird feeling. Your mind says go, but your body says no, not enough O2. I walked at a much slower pace than usual. It was okay though, because the views were spectacular. The view to the Andes was crystal clear. It must have been a view of several hundred miles. I continued along this trail for a good 2 hours and began to get a bit worried when at a stop point a Bolivian senorita selling gloves and such said my destination was another 2.5 hours! I wasn’t expecting this long a hike and didn’t want to miss the boat pick up for I would be stuck on the island por la noche. I was relieved though when minutes later 3 Bostonians passed me and said I had an hour more to walk.
I finally arrived to the beginning of Yumani and a small Bolivian girl comes up to me. “Sacar mi foto, por favor.” This meant take my picture and pay me money. The problem was, though, I didn’t have any change. I told her so and she said, “chachabamba.” I didn’t understand. “Bombo.” I still didn’t get it. “Dulce.” Sweets, oh! I didn’t have any. This conversation was going nowhere. Finally, I went New York on her. I said, all right, chica, I ain’t got no change, no candy, but an American quarter and 2 Mexican pesos with your name written all over it. Esta bien, she said. I took the photo of Gabriela and she was all smiles. I continued through Yumani and ate at a restaurant on a cliff overlooking the beach and the Andes. I made it to the 3:45 boat ride just in time.
On the ride home I sat next to a group of high school English kids who were all adolescent giggles. They raved about Ali G and Monty Python and we talked trash about Bush.
The boat returned to Copa by 5:30. I went back to my hotel to grab my bag to check into a less expensive place. I found a hostel on the main street – 6 de Agosto – for 15 bolivianos, which is 2 US dollars. I was tired, but wanted to stay up a bit. I found this little Bohemian coffee shop and sat down to do some writing and more deep thinking. I think I hurt myself trying to deep think. Don’t try it without a parachute or larium.
I woke up around 7 am. It was cold. I was dog tired. But, I had to be by the lakeshore by 8:15 to depart on un barco to the island of the sun – la isla del sol. I would return by 4 or 5 on the same boat. I hurried myself up, skipped a shower, though, it was too cold to get wet and would require too much energy. I packed up my gear and headed downstairs to check out and get a quick breakfast. I stayed at Hotel Utama for 10 US per night, which is actually steep for the area. The most expensive hotel in Copa costs 38 US per night. At the time, however, I was so jet lagged I just wanted a bed and this was the first place I spotted. Breakfast was buenisimo and included so era muy buenisimo. I arrived at the shore by 8:10 and spotted Katerine, my German friend from the day before. She was also headed to la isla, but to a different part of the island and was to stay 2 nights there. I boarded the top of the platform of the barco “Titicaca” along with many other tourists. I think, in fact, there were only tourists aboard. Copacabana is a very touristy location. The last thing I wanted was to be in the midst of a group of gringos hiking, but it all worked out.
The boat ride was 1.5 hours and only covered a portion of the massive Lake Titicaca. The views were magnificent – mini islands popping up everywhere and the grand snow covered Andes in the far background. Our boat ride took us only several hundred feet from Peru as well. The boat was filled with mostly Europeans – some English lads and ladies, a group of private school kids, some Germans, some stinky Frenchmen – and 2 other Americans. One, an undergrad from Duke, whose name I didn’t catch, was working for the summer in Santiago, Chile. The other lad – Bill – was a newly retired linguistic professor from Indiana University. He was originally from the boogie down Bronx, holla! He was a talker though. Very interesting, but a talker. He speaks like 5 languages, had lived in Bulgaria, France, Mali, Russia, and extensively traveled throughout Spanish speaking countries. For the last 5 years he has traveled for 2 months (every 6 months) in 2 Spanish speaking countries. This was his second trip to Bolivia in as many years.
We finally arrived to la isla del sol and there were a couple of options. 1) there was a tour guided hike – NO. 2) you could check out the museum and Incan ruins with a guide – NO. 3) or, you could high tail it on your own on the hiking trails and hope to make it back to the pick up point by 3:45. Now, that’s more like it, I thought. Okay, I didn’t have a real map or a watch, but I figured I’d be miserable with the first two options. It’s cool meetin’ folk, but I dig just hiking solo. You know it’s that time I acquire my deep thoughts. HA! I joke with Jazzy that sometimes my thoughts are so deep you need a life vest so you don’t drown (which is complete rubbish). Here’s one I recently came up with. Hand sanitizer is so great. You can literally blow your nose in your hands and simply apply the sanitizer. You are not only keeping clean, but helping the planet by saving excess paper use. Don’t drown…
I wasn’t sure quite where to go, but I just continued to ask people on the island, “donde esta el paseo a Yumani,” and I was able to find my way. Que bonito paseo. The day was warming up. The cool thing is that even though it’s chilly, you’re so high and closer to the sun that being in the sun warms you up. Yes, Ma, I wore sunscreen. It was a beautiful journey. It took me along the shore for a bit, which had crystal clear water, frigid, yes, but beautiful. The trail then ascended to an area where there were more Incan ruins. It supposedly cost money, but at this point I slowed my roll and joined the large tour group and with them evaded the entry fee. I felt bad about it later though and paid a senorita dressed in traditional Incan garb to take her photo. The ruins were cool, but nothing compared to the scene at Peru’s Machu Picchu, so I have heard. The ruins were of an old ancient market overlooking mountains and the lake. There was also a large stone table that was used for various ceremonies, though it’s uncertain what ceremonies exactly. Some claim it was to behead wrongdoers while others claim it was an area to offer a sacrifice to the gods.
One very interesting aspect about Copacabana and the areas surrounding the lake is the religion of the people. Most are Catholic due to the spread of the religion in the 16th century. Supposedly in 1583 un hombre named Tito Yupanqui had a dream that a new belief in God was going to arrive and vuala, a couple of years later the Catholic priests arrived. There’s a huge statue of Yupanqui at the town’s Cathedral and story plates on the door depicting the events of the arrival of Christianity. But, Catholicism really began to flourish when the cathedral elected the Virgen Calandaria as the patron saint. After this, in the early 17th century, there were numerous claims of miraculous happenings. Despite the conversion, however, much of the Incan religious traditions remained in the lake region. It’s a sacred place to many people and la isla del sol is to many Incans the location of the creation story. Incan tradition believes the sun was born there and from that life was. This, however, is not solely an Incan history, it’s an Ayamara history, which is another tribe and is somehow connected to the Incans though I’m not quite sure how. There are other Incan idols in this part as well – the moon, who is married to the sun, and the earth mother Pachamama. There’s somehow a connection between the 2 religions in this region, though it’s not exactly clear as of yet how. It’s very interesting and intriguing, however, to learn more about.
Bueno, pues, vamos. After stopping briefly at the Incan ruins I continued on the trek. It began to get difficult because of the increased altitude. This island is above 4000 m and the air began to get thin. It’s a weird feeling. Your mind says go, but your body says no, not enough O2. I walked at a much slower pace than usual. It was okay though, because the views were spectacular. The view to the Andes was crystal clear. It must have been a view of several hundred miles. I continued along this trail for a good 2 hours and began to get a bit worried when at a stop point a Bolivian senorita selling gloves and such said my destination was another 2.5 hours! I wasn’t expecting this long a hike and didn’t want to miss the boat pick up for I would be stuck on the island por la noche. I was relieved though when minutes later 3 Bostonians passed me and said I had an hour more to walk.
I finally arrived to the beginning of Yumani and a small Bolivian girl comes up to me. “Sacar mi foto, por favor.” This meant take my picture and pay me money. The problem was, though, I didn’t have any change. I told her so and she said, “chachabamba.” I didn’t understand. “Bombo.” I still didn’t get it. “Dulce.” Sweets, oh! I didn’t have any. This conversation was going nowhere. Finally, I went New York on her. I said, all right, chica, I ain’t got no change, no candy, but an American quarter and 2 Mexican pesos with your name written all over it. Esta bien, she said. I took the photo of Gabriela and she was all smiles. I continued through Yumani and ate at a restaurant on a cliff overlooking the beach and the Andes. I made it to the 3:45 boat ride just in time.
On the ride home I sat next to a group of high school English kids who were all adolescent giggles. They raved about Ali G and Monty Python and we talked trash about Bush.
The boat returned to Copa by 5:30. I went back to my hotel to grab my bag to check into a less expensive place. I found a hostel on the main street – 6 de Agosto – for 15 bolivianos, which is 2 US dollars. I was tired, but wanted to stay up a bit. I found this little Bohemian coffee shop and sat down to do some writing and more deep thinking. I think I hurt myself trying to deep think. Don’t try it without a parachute or larium.
The same day
August 8 continued…
I had the most relaxing sleep when I arrived to Hotel Utama on the north side of Copacabana. I slept till about 3 pm, but it was a dream induced jet lagged rest. I dreamnt that I would wake up at midnight wide awake and then my sleep schedule would be all off. Anyways, I woke a bit refreshed and hungry. It was cold. I was wearing a pair of long johns, a pair of pants, 2 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, and a tobagan. But, I was comfortable. I showered up when I woke and headed to the center of town, which is the street named 6 de Agosto – the day of the Bolivian independence. I exchanged some dollars – approximately 1 dollar is equivalent to 7.8 bolivianos. 25 bolivianos will get you a full meal and 40 bolivianos is sufficient for a night in a hostel.
For a late lunch I ate troucha – trout – at a side street restaurant. Lake Titicaca is full of trout, but before the early 1900s there were no trout in the lake. Some European placed some trout in the lake as an experiment and they just multiplied. The trout was great. After, I bought myself some hand woven Bolivian mittens and headed down to the lakeshore. On the way I stopped at la plaza Sucre where a Reggae band – of all things – was setting up to perform. There were 4 dread heads and a full ensemble – a guitarist, a bassist, 2 trumpeters, a drummer, and some hippie flailers. I never thought I would see a Reggae band in an area filled with indigenous Bolivians of Incan ancestry. They were pretty good. I especially liked their tune – “don’t never wanna work in the workin’ society.” The band, named Manana me chanto, was from all over – a couple of Italians, a Brazilian, an American, and some others.
I escaped the hippies and continued on my way to the shore. I was stopped once more by a girl named Katerine. She is from Germany, but spoke no English. Her Spanish was very good. She asked me how long I planned to stay in Copa and said she was looking for a hiking partner to trek from Copa to Yamaputata – a four hour hike. At Yamaputata you can catch a ferry to la isla del sol, an island on Lake Titicaca filled with Incan ruins. The problem though is that you need about 2 days to do this. I only had 1.5 days in Copa and was a bit tired to trek 4 hours at 13,000 feet. The alternative route is to take a 2 hour ferry from Copa to the island of the sun and spend half a day there to explore. I declined Katerine’s offer, but we talked for a bit. She is very cool. She is in her 2nd year in college in southern Germany, but took a year off to travel with her boyfriend in South America. Her boyfriend is currently studying in Chile and she has lived for 3 months with a family in Santa Cruz, a southeastern city in Bolivia. Before she arrived here she spoke no Spanish, but she now seemed fluent to me. We both agreed that being surrounded by a language is the best way to learn it. We said good bye, mucha suerte, and I walked along the shore.
There were still remnants of the August 6 independence day celebrations – firework wrappers, beer bottles, confetti, some families still parked in their kambees in the shoreline parking lot. The sun was slowly setting – el sol se pone. It was still cold. I took my photos and stopped in at an Americanized coffee spot to sip on mate de cocoa. This wasn’t a Starbucks, but it was close. Inside English rock blarred and the BBC World news was on the tellie. I sat outside and soaked in the mate de cocoa. It’s basically a pill of leaves from the cocoa plant and hot water. The cocoa plant in Bolivia is an ancient remedy and cooking ingredient, but has also been exploited. In the 70s with the cocaine boom in the States, Bolivian farmers were paid to grow massive amounts of the crop. It was then exported to Colombia where it was produced into cocaine and shipped to the world to use and abuse. These farmers were exploited and only saw a minute portion of the extreme profits made by many. Bolivia got a bad rap for their involvement and trade tariffs were enforced. Most recently the newly elected Evo Morales – the first indigenous president of Bolivia – has encouraged the growing and use of the crop for things outside of the drug world. It seems to make some Americanos shake their heads, but there’s a legitimate need and use for the crop and more importantly it’s a Bolivian cultural tradition. Mate de cocoa is delicious and is a remedy for the high altitudes. But, I don’t think I’ll be bringing any home anytime soon.
I sipped on my tea, wrote a bit, and ran into Katerine once again. We talked a bit more, sharing travel experiences and then invited another patron at the restaurant, who was solo, to join us. Her name was Paula and was a Marlboro Red chain smoking Argentinean actress. Paula had been traveling for 2 weeks all through Bolivia. The more I spoke with them both the more I realized I wished I had more time to explore. Sudamerica will definitely be a future travel spot for me. Paula was discussing how the movie business is all lies (mentiras). She said that there’s been several movies taking place in China and else where, but filmed all in Argentina. She also said that the movie 7 years in Tibet was all filmed in Chile and Peru. I was trying to be funny and told her that she was lying and that that was my favorite movie. I guess my humor, however, was lost in translation, because they both just looked at me like I was crazy. Allright, moving on, I thought, and changed the subject. They were both very cool and it was fun talking with them and practicing Spanish. We said our good byes and I went to my hotel and crashed.
I had the most relaxing sleep when I arrived to Hotel Utama on the north side of Copacabana. I slept till about 3 pm, but it was a dream induced jet lagged rest. I dreamnt that I would wake up at midnight wide awake and then my sleep schedule would be all off. Anyways, I woke a bit refreshed and hungry. It was cold. I was wearing a pair of long johns, a pair of pants, 2 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, and a tobagan. But, I was comfortable. I showered up when I woke and headed to the center of town, which is the street named 6 de Agosto – the day of the Bolivian independence. I exchanged some dollars – approximately 1 dollar is equivalent to 7.8 bolivianos. 25 bolivianos will get you a full meal and 40 bolivianos is sufficient for a night in a hostel.
For a late lunch I ate troucha – trout – at a side street restaurant. Lake Titicaca is full of trout, but before the early 1900s there were no trout in the lake. Some European placed some trout in the lake as an experiment and they just multiplied. The trout was great. After, I bought myself some hand woven Bolivian mittens and headed down to the lakeshore. On the way I stopped at la plaza Sucre where a Reggae band – of all things – was setting up to perform. There were 4 dread heads and a full ensemble – a guitarist, a bassist, 2 trumpeters, a drummer, and some hippie flailers. I never thought I would see a Reggae band in an area filled with indigenous Bolivians of Incan ancestry. They were pretty good. I especially liked their tune – “don’t never wanna work in the workin’ society.” The band, named Manana me chanto, was from all over – a couple of Italians, a Brazilian, an American, and some others.
I escaped the hippies and continued on my way to the shore. I was stopped once more by a girl named Katerine. She is from Germany, but spoke no English. Her Spanish was very good. She asked me how long I planned to stay in Copa and said she was looking for a hiking partner to trek from Copa to Yamaputata – a four hour hike. At Yamaputata you can catch a ferry to la isla del sol, an island on Lake Titicaca filled with Incan ruins. The problem though is that you need about 2 days to do this. I only had 1.5 days in Copa and was a bit tired to trek 4 hours at 13,000 feet. The alternative route is to take a 2 hour ferry from Copa to the island of the sun and spend half a day there to explore. I declined Katerine’s offer, but we talked for a bit. She is very cool. She is in her 2nd year in college in southern Germany, but took a year off to travel with her boyfriend in South America. Her boyfriend is currently studying in Chile and she has lived for 3 months with a family in Santa Cruz, a southeastern city in Bolivia. Before she arrived here she spoke no Spanish, but she now seemed fluent to me. We both agreed that being surrounded by a language is the best way to learn it. We said good bye, mucha suerte, and I walked along the shore.
There were still remnants of the August 6 independence day celebrations – firework wrappers, beer bottles, confetti, some families still parked in their kambees in the shoreline parking lot. The sun was slowly setting – el sol se pone. It was still cold. I took my photos and stopped in at an Americanized coffee spot to sip on mate de cocoa. This wasn’t a Starbucks, but it was close. Inside English rock blarred and the BBC World news was on the tellie. I sat outside and soaked in the mate de cocoa. It’s basically a pill of leaves from the cocoa plant and hot water. The cocoa plant in Bolivia is an ancient remedy and cooking ingredient, but has also been exploited. In the 70s with the cocaine boom in the States, Bolivian farmers were paid to grow massive amounts of the crop. It was then exported to Colombia where it was produced into cocaine and shipped to the world to use and abuse. These farmers were exploited and only saw a minute portion of the extreme profits made by many. Bolivia got a bad rap for their involvement and trade tariffs were enforced. Most recently the newly elected Evo Morales – the first indigenous president of Bolivia – has encouraged the growing and use of the crop for things outside of the drug world. It seems to make some Americanos shake their heads, but there’s a legitimate need and use for the crop and more importantly it’s a Bolivian cultural tradition. Mate de cocoa is delicious and is a remedy for the high altitudes. But, I don’t think I’ll be bringing any home anytime soon.
I sipped on my tea, wrote a bit, and ran into Katerine once again. We talked a bit more, sharing travel experiences and then invited another patron at the restaurant, who was solo, to join us. Her name was Paula and was a Marlboro Red chain smoking Argentinean actress. Paula had been traveling for 2 weeks all through Bolivia. The more I spoke with them both the more I realized I wished I had more time to explore. Sudamerica will definitely be a future travel spot for me. Paula was discussing how the movie business is all lies (mentiras). She said that there’s been several movies taking place in China and else where, but filmed all in Argentina. She also said that the movie 7 years in Tibet was all filmed in Chile and Peru. I was trying to be funny and told her that she was lying and that that was my favorite movie. I guess my humor, however, was lost in translation, because they both just looked at me like I was crazy. Allright, moving on, I thought, and changed the subject. They were both very cool and it was fun talking with them and practicing Spanish. We said our good byes and I went to my hotel and crashed.
The flight to Bolivia
August 7 - 8, 2007
When I got to Mexico City it was like déjà vu. Jazzy and I had been there just 2 days earlier flying from Puerto Vallarta to LAX. I flew out of Mexico City from the same gate, in fact, that we waited at to leave just 2 days earlier. I had arrived with a 5-hour layover so I strolled around trying to practice mi espanol. Sometimes I failed miserably, but sometimes I did real well with the language. It was slowly coming back to me. It’s all about practicing and redefining your comfort zones. I spoke with one man, an Argentinean, named Flavian for some minutes before we departed. He offered some interesting information about his country – it boasts the most beautiful women and best beef to eat. Flavian had lived in Houston for two years, but preferred South America. We shared travel stories and laughed at how confusing we both found the language of the 4 Chinese gentlemen sitting in front of us.
On my flight to Peru I slept most of the way, but ran into some interesting individuals as well. First, I sat next to Linda, an American. She stole my seat, but no hard feelings because she gets motion sick. I figured a seat in the middle was better any day than a seat in danger of vomit. Linda works as a ski resort international employee recruiter. Yeah, I was like, what, too. She works at a resort somewhere in Park Slope (?), Utah that hires students from all over the world to work there. She basically gets paid to travel around the world to interview potential candidates. Over the next 3-4 weeks she will recruit in Peru, Argentina, Australia, and South Africa. I told her I wasn’t crazy about skiing, but I would dig her job. Sounds pretty cool.
Anyways, the flight wasn’t full so I was able to move to the more-spacious-but-far-from-first-class-status emergency seats, which my lanky behind needs. There I sat between a Brazilian and a Peruvian. Both were again very interesting and had incredible travel stories. Alfredo, the Brazilian, works for a medical equipment company in Brazil. There wasn’t a place I could mention – except the Philippines – that he hadn’t traveled to. He had even spent some time in Windhoek, the capital city of Namibia. He said he was getting tired of traveling, however. He just got married and hadn’t even had time to honeymoon. I asked him where he thought they would go and he said his wifey wanted to go to Orlando. I was like, Orlando? All the places in the world, and Orlando? Whatever floats your boat. Funny though, Alfredo boasted that Brazil had the best beef and the most beautiful women in the world.
Eduardo, the Peruvian to my right, is in charge of sales for a wireless telecommunications company based in Peru. He also had extensive traveling experiences. He most recently visited Israel. I had a more difficult time understanding his accent, so part of the conversation was a little shady for me. However, he reiterated how peaceful and beautiful the place was (the places in Israel he traveled that is). This paints a very different picture than what is often heard on the news in the States.
I finally made it to Peru, but my traveling via avion wasn’t quite finished. I had another 2-hour flight from Lima to La Paz, the capital of Bolivia. We arrived in Lima around 11:30 and my flight left at about 12:30. At this point I was feeling the jet lag. I had no idea what time it was or what day for that matter. Waiting for the flight I ran into a Bostonian. His name was Greg and is a special education teacher. He’s been teaching for about 7 years and him and his wife have taken muchas oportunidades to travel. He was headed to La Paz to chill for a couple of days to get used to the altitude (about 13,000 feet) then head back to Peru to climb some mountain that stands at 18,000 feet. His wife was going to meet him afterwards and they would travel a bit through Peru.
I finally made it to La Paz at about 3 am. I wasn’t set on any one plan. I wanted to get to Copacabana and tour Lake Titicaca, but I was exhausted as well. And, it was cold. It didn’t help that it was 3 in the morning, but I figured it would somehow work out (and it did). I befriended a Bolivian who is now living in San Diego. He was going to wait at the airport for an hour or so and then check into a hotel. He was traveling back to visit some of his family in the northern region of the country. I told him I had wanted to catch an early bus to Copacabana, but wasn’t quite sure how to do that. There was only one taxi remaining so we decided to split the fair and he would make sure to help me get to the bus station. We reached the station, which was just the corner of a street, and there were already some folks waiting to go. We were traveling via kambee buses, which aren’t full buses, more like a version of the VW buses. These buses were the method of travel in Namibia, so I felt right at home.
Now it was about 4 am and we departed. We drove through La Paz, stopping at various street corners to pick up more customers. It was cold. We drove for about 2.5 hours. I fell asleep. When I awoke to my left was a picturesque view of a lake coastline, the Andes Mountains in the distance, and the sun slowly rising. It was beautiful. The kambee ride stopped in Tiquina. At this point I had to take a motorboat across a portion of the lake. It cost 1.50 bolivianos (about 0.20 US). It was cold. When we reached the other side I hitched an ascending taxi ride to the top of a mountain and then down to the lakeshore town of Copacabana. Finally, I made it. I was poop tired. I found the first hostel I could and crashed. It was about 8:00 am. I had been traveling just over 24 hours. I slept till 3 in the afternoon…
When I got to Mexico City it was like déjà vu. Jazzy and I had been there just 2 days earlier flying from Puerto Vallarta to LAX. I flew out of Mexico City from the same gate, in fact, that we waited at to leave just 2 days earlier. I had arrived with a 5-hour layover so I strolled around trying to practice mi espanol. Sometimes I failed miserably, but sometimes I did real well with the language. It was slowly coming back to me. It’s all about practicing and redefining your comfort zones. I spoke with one man, an Argentinean, named Flavian for some minutes before we departed. He offered some interesting information about his country – it boasts the most beautiful women and best beef to eat. Flavian had lived in Houston for two years, but preferred South America. We shared travel stories and laughed at how confusing we both found the language of the 4 Chinese gentlemen sitting in front of us.
On my flight to Peru I slept most of the way, but ran into some interesting individuals as well. First, I sat next to Linda, an American. She stole my seat, but no hard feelings because she gets motion sick. I figured a seat in the middle was better any day than a seat in danger of vomit. Linda works as a ski resort international employee recruiter. Yeah, I was like, what, too. She works at a resort somewhere in Park Slope (?), Utah that hires students from all over the world to work there. She basically gets paid to travel around the world to interview potential candidates. Over the next 3-4 weeks she will recruit in Peru, Argentina, Australia, and South Africa. I told her I wasn’t crazy about skiing, but I would dig her job. Sounds pretty cool.
Anyways, the flight wasn’t full so I was able to move to the more-spacious-but-far-from-first-class-status emergency seats, which my lanky behind needs. There I sat between a Brazilian and a Peruvian. Both were again very interesting and had incredible travel stories. Alfredo, the Brazilian, works for a medical equipment company in Brazil. There wasn’t a place I could mention – except the Philippines – that he hadn’t traveled to. He had even spent some time in Windhoek, the capital city of Namibia. He said he was getting tired of traveling, however. He just got married and hadn’t even had time to honeymoon. I asked him where he thought they would go and he said his wifey wanted to go to Orlando. I was like, Orlando? All the places in the world, and Orlando? Whatever floats your boat. Funny though, Alfredo boasted that Brazil had the best beef and the most beautiful women in the world.
Eduardo, the Peruvian to my right, is in charge of sales for a wireless telecommunications company based in Peru. He also had extensive traveling experiences. He most recently visited Israel. I had a more difficult time understanding his accent, so part of the conversation was a little shady for me. However, he reiterated how peaceful and beautiful the place was (the places in Israel he traveled that is). This paints a very different picture than what is often heard on the news in the States.
I finally made it to Peru, but my traveling via avion wasn’t quite finished. I had another 2-hour flight from Lima to La Paz, the capital of Bolivia. We arrived in Lima around 11:30 and my flight left at about 12:30. At this point I was feeling the jet lag. I had no idea what time it was or what day for that matter. Waiting for the flight I ran into a Bostonian. His name was Greg and is a special education teacher. He’s been teaching for about 7 years and him and his wife have taken muchas oportunidades to travel. He was headed to La Paz to chill for a couple of days to get used to the altitude (about 13,000 feet) then head back to Peru to climb some mountain that stands at 18,000 feet. His wife was going to meet him afterwards and they would travel a bit through Peru.
I finally made it to La Paz at about 3 am. I wasn’t set on any one plan. I wanted to get to Copacabana and tour Lake Titicaca, but I was exhausted as well. And, it was cold. It didn’t help that it was 3 in the morning, but I figured it would somehow work out (and it did). I befriended a Bolivian who is now living in San Diego. He was going to wait at the airport for an hour or so and then check into a hotel. He was traveling back to visit some of his family in the northern region of the country. I told him I had wanted to catch an early bus to Copacabana, but wasn’t quite sure how to do that. There was only one taxi remaining so we decided to split the fair and he would make sure to help me get to the bus station. We reached the station, which was just the corner of a street, and there were already some folks waiting to go. We were traveling via kambee buses, which aren’t full buses, more like a version of the VW buses. These buses were the method of travel in Namibia, so I felt right at home.
Now it was about 4 am and we departed. We drove through La Paz, stopping at various street corners to pick up more customers. It was cold. We drove for about 2.5 hours. I fell asleep. When I awoke to my left was a picturesque view of a lake coastline, the Andes Mountains in the distance, and the sun slowly rising. It was beautiful. The kambee ride stopped in Tiquina. At this point I had to take a motorboat across a portion of the lake. It cost 1.50 bolivianos (about 0.20 US). It was cold. When we reached the other side I hitched an ascending taxi ride to the top of a mountain and then down to the lakeshore town of Copacabana. Finally, I made it. I was poop tired. I found the first hostel I could and crashed. It was about 8:00 am. I had been traveling just over 24 hours. I slept till 3 in the afternoon…
July 30 hasta 6 de Agosto
I flew into Los Angeles on the night of July 30 from Raleigh, NC. On the 31st Jasmeen took me to Camelot grounds, which is a huge arcade plaza. We played putt-putt and laser tag. I waxed her at both games. She might tell you a different story, but that’s the truth ;( That night we went to Medieval Times, which was cool. You wear a crown and watch knights joust and sling crazy weapons at each other. You also get to eat with your bare hands which is nice, doin’ it Medieval style.
On the first we flew to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We stayed there until the 5th. Puerto Vallarta is a beautiful beach town, though a bit touristy. There are huge mountains surrounding the ocean waters and plenty of Pina Coladas to be found. The waves weren’t too spectacular, but apparently just some miles south of the city there are great waves for surfing. We spent a lot of time just relaxing at the beach, drinking pina coladas and Mexican snow-cones (kinda like a white Russian with a little pizzaz), and eating a lot of tacos. At night the hotel where we stayed offered entertainment shows. One night they had a Broadway show performance, another night there was a Disney show, and then they also had a discoteca as well. Jazzy made fun of my dance moves and I have to admit that’s not the first time that’s happened. We ran into a wedding party group from Calgary and chilled with them. I asked how they could afford to invite 85 people to a weeklong wedding in Mexico, but he said it was actually a lot cheaper. Apparently they invited people and were like if you can pay for it we’ll see you there. He said that the costs for an 85 person wedding party in the States or in Canada would be much more expensive. Sounds like a cool idea. At the beach there were a lot of vendors selling t-shirts, hats, silver, beach toys, women’s sarongs, and more silver. The vendors, wearing white, would walk the beach and ask and ask and ask if you wanted to just look at what they were selling. One senor said, “just give me one Mexican second.” I was like, what’s a Mexican second, and he replied, “like two minutes.” Puerto Vallarta was great!
The day after we returned Jazzy’s family had a party – Long Beach style. It was a blast. A whole lot of eatin’, listenin’ to music, playin’ cards with her 4 year old cousin Jameel – he beat me at a mixed up version of Old Maid, and just enjoyin’ chattin’ with folks. I was sad to leave, but excited to check out Bolivia.
On the first we flew to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We stayed there until the 5th. Puerto Vallarta is a beautiful beach town, though a bit touristy. There are huge mountains surrounding the ocean waters and plenty of Pina Coladas to be found. The waves weren’t too spectacular, but apparently just some miles south of the city there are great waves for surfing. We spent a lot of time just relaxing at the beach, drinking pina coladas and Mexican snow-cones (kinda like a white Russian with a little pizzaz), and eating a lot of tacos. At night the hotel where we stayed offered entertainment shows. One night they had a Broadway show performance, another night there was a Disney show, and then they also had a discoteca as well. Jazzy made fun of my dance moves and I have to admit that’s not the first time that’s happened. We ran into a wedding party group from Calgary and chilled with them. I asked how they could afford to invite 85 people to a weeklong wedding in Mexico, but he said it was actually a lot cheaper. Apparently they invited people and were like if you can pay for it we’ll see you there. He said that the costs for an 85 person wedding party in the States or in Canada would be much more expensive. Sounds like a cool idea. At the beach there were a lot of vendors selling t-shirts, hats, silver, beach toys, women’s sarongs, and more silver. The vendors, wearing white, would walk the beach and ask and ask and ask if you wanted to just look at what they were selling. One senor said, “just give me one Mexican second.” I was like, what’s a Mexican second, and he replied, “like two minutes.” Puerto Vallarta was great!
The day after we returned Jazzy’s family had a party – Long Beach style. It was a blast. A whole lot of eatin’, listenin’ to music, playin’ cards with her 4 year old cousin Jameel – he beat me at a mixed up version of Old Maid, and just enjoyin’ chattin’ with folks. I was sad to leave, but excited to check out Bolivia.
30 July 2007
Kuku Mndakola
Mndakola entered the small hut mumbling to herself as she often did. She was usually making some fuss about the laziness of her grandkids or about all the work that needed to be done. This time she was mentioning something about the flowers she was bringing to Nelago – their size, colors, or smell. Nelago didn’t hear what she was saying, she only acknowledged the noise. She opened her eyes and watched her grandmother bending her back to enter the reed-roofed short hut. She was in her sixties but could bend over and reach anything on the ground with the livliness and flexibility of a twenty-year old. She was indeed strong, as her name told. But, Nelago didn’t think of these things. Her grandmother’s movements and actions were as normal to her as the setting sun; a world without either didn’t seem real.
Mndakola shut the small wooden door so that the chickens wouldn’t enter. Then she turned and looked along the floor of the hut. She began sweeping the dusty and sandy ground around Nelago with a bundle of long stick grass used as a broom. She was careful not to disturb her sick child and didn’t look to her face. Mndakola never felt Nelago’s wondering brown eyes watching her. After she finished sweeping she laid the handful of white and pink petal flowers around the reed mat. She gathered them from the assortment that grew along the outside walls and passages of the sandy and dusty floors of their homestead. Nelago loved those wildflowers, especially during the rainy season. They bloomed at everyone’s feet, for all to see.
She spread the flowers and knelt on the floor just by Nelago’s head. She didn’t touch or caress her with her hands, but her eyes held the child’s body to warm and protect it. Nelago felt that security of her grandmother’s eyes that were piercing, but loving. Mndakola was unlike her grandmother Kaino, who always had the most charming smile on her face and unlike her grandmother Eva who had a large deep voice to go with her wide face and warm hands. They were sisters and shared a common love for their families although they each expressed it uniquely.
Nelago often looked into her grandmother’s eyes timidly and frightfully. Mndakola had a hard face; an especially hard one for little children to look to. Nelago seldom blinked. Her arms were crossed about her chest and goose bumps rose about her body. Now she was cold. Mndakola began to speak in her sharp, fast tone.
“Nelago, oya ku leka ongolohi ya zi ko?” did they bite you last night
“Eee, Kuk.” yes, grandmother
“Tate Kulu ote ya ngashigaye na omeya.” grandfather is coming now with water
“Kuk, ondi uvite talala.” grandmother, i feel cold
Nelago was shivering. Her arms and legs were slightly shaking. She wore a waist dress, knitted by her Grandmother Hilema, that fell to her shins. Mndakola stood and grabbed the wildebeest fur that hung from the thatched roof, and placed it over her cold granddaughter.
Mndakola shut the small wooden door so that the chickens wouldn’t enter. Then she turned and looked along the floor of the hut. She began sweeping the dusty and sandy ground around Nelago with a bundle of long stick grass used as a broom. She was careful not to disturb her sick child and didn’t look to her face. Mndakola never felt Nelago’s wondering brown eyes watching her. After she finished sweeping she laid the handful of white and pink petal flowers around the reed mat. She gathered them from the assortment that grew along the outside walls and passages of the sandy and dusty floors of their homestead. Nelago loved those wildflowers, especially during the rainy season. They bloomed at everyone’s feet, for all to see.
She spread the flowers and knelt on the floor just by Nelago’s head. She didn’t touch or caress her with her hands, but her eyes held the child’s body to warm and protect it. Nelago felt that security of her grandmother’s eyes that were piercing, but loving. Mndakola was unlike her grandmother Kaino, who always had the most charming smile on her face and unlike her grandmother Eva who had a large deep voice to go with her wide face and warm hands. They were sisters and shared a common love for their families although they each expressed it uniquely.
Nelago often looked into her grandmother’s eyes timidly and frightfully. Mndakola had a hard face; an especially hard one for little children to look to. Nelago seldom blinked. Her arms were crossed about her chest and goose bumps rose about her body. Now she was cold. Mndakola began to speak in her sharp, fast tone.
“Nelago, oya ku leka ongolohi ya zi ko?” did they bite you last night
“Eee, Kuk.” yes, grandmother
“Tate Kulu ote ya ngashigaye na omeya.” grandfather is coming now with water
“Kuk, ondi uvite talala.” grandmother, i feel cold
Nelago was shivering. Her arms and legs were slightly shaking. She wore a waist dress, knitted by her Grandmother Hilema, that fell to her shins. Mndakola stood and grabbed the wildebeest fur that hung from the thatched roof, and placed it over her cold granddaughter.
21 July 2007
Back in the day...
This past Monday I traveled back to Virginia Tech. This was the first time I had been there since I graduated 5 years ago. Tech’s football program really came alive in the years that I attended school there. Michael Vick, who was on Thursday indicted by a grand jury on charges dealing with pit-bull fighting, put Tech on the national sports scene map. (Tech has had a great football team since before the Bruce Smith days, but it wasn’t until Vick arrived that the school received nationwide attention for the wins at Lane stadium) It was an exciting and wild time to be in Blacksburg. I always had bragging rights with high school friends about my school’s football team. Tech at that time seemed to be everyone’s favorite and the bandwagon got bigger and bigger.
I wasn’t at all surprised when upon returning to Blacksburg I found myself getting lost. When I graduated expansion had already started to explode. Many of the old streets and roads are filled with new and newly renovated shopping centers and businesses. Blacksburg now even boasts a Starbucks coffee. (I can’t seem to escape the high priced medium Mocha latte) New campus buildings have gone up everywhere with the same patented Hokie stone. While I was on campus, however, it took me over thirty minutes to find the English department. It had apparently moved a couple of times and in my pursuit I only ran into science students who quickly replied that they had no idea where the English department was and hoped that it was the furthest thing from them. I snickered. English majors get no love, especially at a technological school.
Much of the intrigue, anxiousness, and excitement I felt about returning to Tech was, sadly, in regards to the massacre on April 16. A couple of days after the shootings took place and my mind was exhausted from the in-your-face TV coverage and often vulgar New York Post headlines, I decided to talk with some of my students about what happened. One group of high schoolers with whom I spoke was either very distraught or very unaffected. A few students claimed that the incident was a random act that could have happened anywhere and at any school or college in the States. Other students stated the south must be a crazy place since stuff like that never happens in the city. I replied that people are killed, beat up, and//or robbed probably hourly in the city. But, they said, you never hear about massacres in the hood in which one person goes on a shooting rampage, like at Tech. Those students claimed that violent crime in their neighborhood was often territorial and isolated. They even said much or most of the violence is based on gang interactions and gang affiliation.
(Being a part of a group is very essential to a teen’s existence. ET – also known as entertainment – groups have been the “in” thing this past academic school year. Students choose a gang to affiliate with, but not to be an official member. That means that student may wear beaded necklaces which are a certain color that is associated to that gang. ET groups may also attend gang parties or events without still being in the gang itself. ET groups also often give props to these gangs on their infamous MySpace page. The danger with the ET groups is that there’s that thin line that divides just hangin’ out with someone and being associated with for what he/she stands. Also, the ET groups seem like a mere stepping-stone to becoming a gang member. This whole phenomenon just proves how group affiliation is essential to a teen’s survival and existence.)
Now, moving back to the topic of the incident at Tech and my students’ reflections. With the last point the students made about violence being related to gang action, I asked how many of them felt safe in their neighborhoods. Some said yes. Some said no. So, I said, isn’t that a form of violence in itself? Violence is not just physical abuse, it can also be the feeling of being threatened as well. Do gangs and gang affiliation groups create a sense of belonging I asked? Absolutely. But, I said if it is at the expense of someone else’s sense of safety is that fair? I was trying to challenge their belief that ET groups were merely harmless and for fun. I don’t have the answer I said. I just wanted them to challenge what they think they know to find the truth for them. I asked them about their expectations for college in regards to safety. They said it should be a safe place. What does that mean? They were painting beautiful pictures of campuses filled with green grass and open lawns, romantic school buildings, a diverse student body. Sound familiar? Do you think Tech was safe? No way, they said. How can a dude enter campus like that and nobody say nothin’? So, is any place completely safe? No, they said. Was this going where I thought it was gonna go, I thought? Often it doesn’t, but you just keep at it.
I also spoke with a group of middle school students about the massacre. This lesson just reaffirmed for me the differences in their age groups. As I was introducing how our discussion would take place Mary was trying to get Leonela’s attention to ask her how her hair looked. Emily interrupted me every 3 seconds to ask another question. Marlon and Luis were silently gigglin’ about somebody lettin’ one rip in the corner, and Josh was doodling on his notebook, which I had asked him not to do at least 5 million times in April alone. Oh, boy, I thought. Where would this go? I felt myself getting very frustrated. I went to this school where this terrible tragedy took place, it’s all over the news, can’t these kids have a little decency, I thought, and just take it seriously, for once. My thoughts spiraled like that for a good ten minutes. My approach, looking back at this, was to dictate to them how I wanted them to feel and think about what happened. That’s not realistic teaching. It’s easy to look back at this and realize. Teaching is not dictating, it’s bringing the kiddies to the water to let them figure out how to drink. My emotions for what happened got the best of me.
And what emotions are those? My Dad and I ate Italian subs at a new restaurant on Main Street, just below the bar that I worked at during my junior and senior year at Tech. It was raining. It was a bit chilly. I was thinking about what Tech clothing apparel I would buy for Ma and Jazzy, and then it hit me: the in-your-face TV coverage and grotesque photos from the Post. The first of the shootings occurred at the same dormitory where I spent time hanging out and sneaking in booze my freshman year. The shooter’s dorm room was in the same building that I lived in during my sophomore year. The location of the remaining shootings was in the same building that I sat through English and Spanish classes just 5 years ago. It was still raining. Later in the day the sun came out and shined. It was muggy. I fondly remember a day during my senior year in which I went to class in the morning wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt. It was blazing hot for April. After my class the sky became mysteriously dark and the wind began to blow. I entered another class. An hour later I returned outside to an inch of snow on the ground and pouring snowflakes from the sky. I think something like 6 inches fell. Some things you can’t explain. I feel for and pray for the victims and the victims’ families. I feel for and pray for the shooter – who is also a victim – and his family. I hope and pray that my kids and our society can find some kind of peace with our unpredictable and mysteriously beautiful world. GO HOKIES!!!!!
I wasn’t at all surprised when upon returning to Blacksburg I found myself getting lost. When I graduated expansion had already started to explode. Many of the old streets and roads are filled with new and newly renovated shopping centers and businesses. Blacksburg now even boasts a Starbucks coffee. (I can’t seem to escape the high priced medium Mocha latte) New campus buildings have gone up everywhere with the same patented Hokie stone. While I was on campus, however, it took me over thirty minutes to find the English department. It had apparently moved a couple of times and in my pursuit I only ran into science students who quickly replied that they had no idea where the English department was and hoped that it was the furthest thing from them. I snickered. English majors get no love, especially at a technological school.
Much of the intrigue, anxiousness, and excitement I felt about returning to Tech was, sadly, in regards to the massacre on April 16. A couple of days after the shootings took place and my mind was exhausted from the in-your-face TV coverage and often vulgar New York Post headlines, I decided to talk with some of my students about what happened. One group of high schoolers with whom I spoke was either very distraught or very unaffected. A few students claimed that the incident was a random act that could have happened anywhere and at any school or college in the States. Other students stated the south must be a crazy place since stuff like that never happens in the city. I replied that people are killed, beat up, and//or robbed probably hourly in the city. But, they said, you never hear about massacres in the hood in which one person goes on a shooting rampage, like at Tech. Those students claimed that violent crime in their neighborhood was often territorial and isolated. They even said much or most of the violence is based on gang interactions and gang affiliation.
(Being a part of a group is very essential to a teen’s existence. ET – also known as entertainment – groups have been the “in” thing this past academic school year. Students choose a gang to affiliate with, but not to be an official member. That means that student may wear beaded necklaces which are a certain color that is associated to that gang. ET groups may also attend gang parties or events without still being in the gang itself. ET groups also often give props to these gangs on their infamous MySpace page. The danger with the ET groups is that there’s that thin line that divides just hangin’ out with someone and being associated with for what he/she stands. Also, the ET groups seem like a mere stepping-stone to becoming a gang member. This whole phenomenon just proves how group affiliation is essential to a teen’s survival and existence.)
Now, moving back to the topic of the incident at Tech and my students’ reflections. With the last point the students made about violence being related to gang action, I asked how many of them felt safe in their neighborhoods. Some said yes. Some said no. So, I said, isn’t that a form of violence in itself? Violence is not just physical abuse, it can also be the feeling of being threatened as well. Do gangs and gang affiliation groups create a sense of belonging I asked? Absolutely. But, I said if it is at the expense of someone else’s sense of safety is that fair? I was trying to challenge their belief that ET groups were merely harmless and for fun. I don’t have the answer I said. I just wanted them to challenge what they think they know to find the truth for them. I asked them about their expectations for college in regards to safety. They said it should be a safe place. What does that mean? They were painting beautiful pictures of campuses filled with green grass and open lawns, romantic school buildings, a diverse student body. Sound familiar? Do you think Tech was safe? No way, they said. How can a dude enter campus like that and nobody say nothin’? So, is any place completely safe? No, they said. Was this going where I thought it was gonna go, I thought? Often it doesn’t, but you just keep at it.
I also spoke with a group of middle school students about the massacre. This lesson just reaffirmed for me the differences in their age groups. As I was introducing how our discussion would take place Mary was trying to get Leonela’s attention to ask her how her hair looked. Emily interrupted me every 3 seconds to ask another question. Marlon and Luis were silently gigglin’ about somebody lettin’ one rip in the corner, and Josh was doodling on his notebook, which I had asked him not to do at least 5 million times in April alone. Oh, boy, I thought. Where would this go? I felt myself getting very frustrated. I went to this school where this terrible tragedy took place, it’s all over the news, can’t these kids have a little decency, I thought, and just take it seriously, for once. My thoughts spiraled like that for a good ten minutes. My approach, looking back at this, was to dictate to them how I wanted them to feel and think about what happened. That’s not realistic teaching. It’s easy to look back at this and realize. Teaching is not dictating, it’s bringing the kiddies to the water to let them figure out how to drink. My emotions for what happened got the best of me.
And what emotions are those? My Dad and I ate Italian subs at a new restaurant on Main Street, just below the bar that I worked at during my junior and senior year at Tech. It was raining. It was a bit chilly. I was thinking about what Tech clothing apparel I would buy for Ma and Jazzy, and then it hit me: the in-your-face TV coverage and grotesque photos from the Post. The first of the shootings occurred at the same dormitory where I spent time hanging out and sneaking in booze my freshman year. The shooter’s dorm room was in the same building that I lived in during my sophomore year. The location of the remaining shootings was in the same building that I sat through English and Spanish classes just 5 years ago. It was still raining. Later in the day the sun came out and shined. It was muggy. I fondly remember a day during my senior year in which I went to class in the morning wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt. It was blazing hot for April. After my class the sky became mysteriously dark and the wind began to blow. I entered another class. An hour later I returned outside to an inch of snow on the ground and pouring snowflakes from the sky. I think something like 6 inches fell. Some things you can’t explain. I feel for and pray for the victims and the victims’ families. I feel for and pray for the shooter – who is also a victim – and his family. I hope and pray that my kids and our society can find some kind of peace with our unpredictable and mysteriously beautiful world. GO HOKIES!!!!!
19 July 2007
Your machete is no match for my bird seed!
Thistles, thistles, thistles. Scientifically known as Carduus repandus: my new arch nemesis. And, if you have to cut them, they will be yours as well. They stand between 3 and 5 feet tall. They are prickly little devils. They are quite possibly indigenous weeds to Grayson County, VA, which is located in Southwestern Virginia, but they are definitely hereditarily pains in the arse.
To many, thistles are harmless: they are merely bird seed. That’s right. If you have a pet bird at your crib, you will buy it seeds to eat. Those seeds are most likely from the thistle plant. But, to cattle farmers all over the east coast thistles are bad news. Weeds can and will take over a whole entire field or pasture if you allow it. That means less grass for your cattle. Thistle weeds are biennial weeds, meaning they live only two years. One would think, well, okay I just have to cut them one time, but oh contrare. You see, once a thistle has grown throughout the summer it burgeons a beautiful purple flower. Once the flower petals dry up, however, they are easily blown with the wind through the air. And wherever they land is where you will have yourself another thistle plant for two years. This is an on-going, year-in year-out cycle unless you can cut the thistle before they bloom. (Enter: me)
For the past week or so I’ve been on the hunt for thistle: just me and my machete. My enthusiasm for cutting thistles seems to dwindle as the number of days on the hunt increases. As I cut one there’s another just laughin’ at me and tauntin’ me. Bad weed, bad weed.
Warning to all reading thistles: I will judo-chop you with my machete!!!!
Oku na uupsya...
Mundjego was certain she was dead. He couldn’t see how she could’ve survived. He entered the small stick hut to find her laying atop the reed mat, not moving. Her eyes were closed. Yesterday’s sweat that had covered her forehead and face had dried. Her skin smelled of salt. She was dehydrated. Mundjego just stood in the doorway staring at Nelago. She was so young. She would’ve married in two or three years, many moons, Mundjego thought, to one of the neighboring boys – maybe Pokolo or Shigwedha or even her cousin Zulu, with the white spot, the spot of Kalunga, on the top of his head.
It had been five days since she had been outside in the open air. Her condition worsened each day. Every time Mundjego or Mndakola would take her water to drink to try to cool off her sweltering body. The other kids were not allowed to see her. Even Ongula and Kauko, who were both in their twenties were told to stay away from Nelago in the stick hut.
Mundjego saw her closed eyelid twitch. He looked closer and noticed her small chest, not yet breasts, gently and slowly rise and fall.
“Nelago. Nelago owa kotha?” are you sleeping?
No response. Either she didn’t hear her grandfather or her mind told her body not to move; his voice was the cacophony of her unconsciousness.
“Nelago. Nelago. Nelago, penduka akwetu. Owa kotha?” Nelago, wake up love. are you sleeping?
She moved her head, and his body loosened. He was relieved. In her waking her eyelids fluttered. Her eyelashes were long, so long that Mundjego wondered if she could feel the tips brush her upper cheekbone. The fluttered like the wings of butterflies.
Nelago turned her head and slowly opened her eyes. She showed no emotion. She wasn’t up for showing emotion and couldn’t. Mundjego saw this despair. His face was ice cold as always. His face was thin and his cheekbones were high and well-defined almost like a skeleton.
“Nelago.”
“Kuk.” grandfather.
“Owu li huepo?” are you better?
“Oku na uupsya Kuk.” it’s hot grandfather.
Her eyes were half shut and her voice was soft. Mundjego only stood in the doorway as before, not moving.
“Owa hala okalepe nomeya?” do you want a cloth with water?
“Eee.” yes.
“Ngiini?” what?
“Ano, Kuk.” yes, grandfather.
And he was gone. She wouldn’t remember his quiet entrance or exit. She only spoke because the rhythm of her mind had been disturbed and her response would bring back the harmony. And the harmony did return when his voice left. After a moment her eyelids shut and she went back to sleep.
It had been five days since she had been outside in the open air. Her condition worsened each day. Every time Mundjego or Mndakola would take her water to drink to try to cool off her sweltering body. The other kids were not allowed to see her. Even Ongula and Kauko, who were both in their twenties were told to stay away from Nelago in the stick hut.
Mundjego saw her closed eyelid twitch. He looked closer and noticed her small chest, not yet breasts, gently and slowly rise and fall.
“Nelago. Nelago owa kotha?” are you sleeping?
No response. Either she didn’t hear her grandfather or her mind told her body not to move; his voice was the cacophony of her unconsciousness.
“Nelago. Nelago. Nelago, penduka akwetu. Owa kotha?” Nelago, wake up love. are you sleeping?
She moved her head, and his body loosened. He was relieved. In her waking her eyelids fluttered. Her eyelashes were long, so long that Mundjego wondered if she could feel the tips brush her upper cheekbone. The fluttered like the wings of butterflies.
Nelago turned her head and slowly opened her eyes. She showed no emotion. She wasn’t up for showing emotion and couldn’t. Mundjego saw this despair. His face was ice cold as always. His face was thin and his cheekbones were high and well-defined almost like a skeleton.
“Nelago.”
“Kuk.” grandfather.
“Owu li huepo?” are you better?
“Oku na uupsya Kuk.” it’s hot grandfather.
Her eyes were half shut and her voice was soft. Mundjego only stood in the doorway as before, not moving.
“Owa hala okalepe nomeya?” do you want a cloth with water?
“Eee.” yes.
“Ngiini?” what?
“Ano, Kuk.” yes, grandfather.
And he was gone. She wouldn’t remember his quiet entrance or exit. She only spoke because the rhythm of her mind had been disturbed and her response would bring back the harmony. And the harmony did return when his voice left. After a moment her eyelids shut and she went back to sleep.
09 July 2007
Wally-locks and the 3 bears...
The rains were coming soon. It hadn’t rained in about a week and a half. Mundjego wasn’t worried though. Looking at the sky and listening to the winds at night, he knew it was only a matter of time. The sun had already set, but the skies were lustfully colored. Remnants of the sun’s magnificence were visible well past daylight hours during the summer months. The bottom half of the sky was a strong, reddish orange. The top half of the sky was a dark and effervescent blue. The deepness of the blue lessened more and more and then transformed into black as the sky soared towards the North Star. A long and bloated cloud interjected the horizons. The cloud started from the north, which was to the left of Mundjego and stretched far to the south, well beyond the sight of the African bush. In many places the puffy cloud exploded and flew into the sky.
Wind began to blow from the north. Mundjego stood watching the cloud and felt the cool breeze on his hot and worn face. He closed his eyes briefly. The rusted axe that he held rested on his shoulder. A small boy passed nearby in the bush of omusati trees. Mundjego couldn’t see whom it was, but wasn’t scared.
“Oto yi peni?” where are you going?
“Kegumbo.” to home
Mundjego heard the voice of a small boy.
“Oh, Haiti! Popitha nawa mati.” oh, what! speak well boy
Pause.
“Wu hala po Kuku.” good afternoon, grandfather
“Ano.” yes, it’s good
“Nawa-nga.” that’s good
“Nawa. Ngoye olye?” fine. who are you?
“Nambala.”
“Nambala…Nambala olye?” Nambala who?
“Nambala Hamutenya.”
“Humba! Nambala Hamutenya. Eowa. Tate omwe li? oh! is your father at home?
“Eee.” yes
“Kundelapo.” greet him
“Eowa, Ku.” okay, grandfather
“Eowa, mati gwandje. Oshi li nawa.” okay, my son. it is good
The boy walked swiftly and quickly as the evening African wind. He had a chore, an errand to run and couldn’t be late. Mundjego turned to go home. His rusted axe was in one hand and the firewood in the other.
Since the 4th of July I’ve been in Charlottesville, Virginia. My sister Charlotte lives there in a beautiful home about 15 miles or so from the center of town. It’s funny though because you (i.e. I) usually equate miles with minutes in automobiles, give or take some. So, you (i.e. I) would think that the town of Charlottesville would be 15 minutes from my sister’s crib. Not so. The urban sprawl makes my mile per minute determinator bogus! It’s more like 45 minutes on a busy day due to the continuous stoplights and shopping centers. On Friday Char had to go to work. She left me her car so I could do a little exploring, but I was to pick her up from work around two. On the way I got lost, of course, so I called her for directions. She was directing me to an area of town and told me to turn near a big shopping area. Hold up, said I. All I had been doing was passing shopping centers.
Eeeeeewwwww! This is more of a shopping center urban sprawl. Do we really need a Target, a Home Depot, a Wal-mart, and a Kmart all on the same strip? Along with shopping centers I also passed several land-for-sale signs. Are big businesses merely buying out the small land owners to profit exponentially? I commend those homeowners who refuse to sell their land to the developers of the already developed America. You see their homes amidst the Tonka bulldozers and trucks, but they’re not selling. I remember as a kid growing up in Raleigh there was this plan to make one of the biggest malls on the east coast. Most of the land had been cleared, except there was a lone driveway surrounded by tall pine trees that led to a small house. The owner refused to sell his land. The plan for the huge mall was somehow disrupted and never went up, though a smaller complex was built. The house was finally destroyed, however. Under what circumstances I am not sure.
Looking at the big picture, this is all for the ease of more consumer expenditures. But, do we really need it? Perhaps, I’m a hypocrite, because I have shopped at this particular mall complex many times. And though I don’t like to admit it, I have frequented Starbucks for the ease of the Internet access and the mochas (that hurts to admit, really). Maybe, the over flux of the big businesses limits our choices, which is why I have gone to those places – or so I would like to rationalize. Maybe it’s the relatively lower prices offered by the Wally worlds and tar-geis that makes them so appealing (this excludes Starbucks however; a medium, or grande as they like to call it, Mocha costs almost 5 bones). So, that means we will buy more for our money. Okay, but do we need it? Although I can possibly rationalize buying cheaper goods there, I certainly can not rationalize with the cheaper wages they offer their employees – minimum wages while el gran jefe de Wal-mart and other execs earn millions upon millions per fiscal year. Sure, building a Wal-mart creates jobs, but is a job worth it if the salary barely assists you in a comfortable and stress-free life? If Wally world really wants to make that case why don’t they offer free daycare opportunities for its employees when working and free health care services for all family members. They could even hire their own Wally world doctors with the signature Wally world smiles and open their own Wally world hospitals so that all of its employees could have equal opportunities at health care. Why not offer a Wally world transportation service so employees could get to and from work in a stress-free and environment friendly way. I certainly am not for this Wally world utopian society, I just think that it’s clear that their supposed reasoning for more development could be more equal to all, rather than one sided to the executives who reap the benefits of the real laborers.
In short: make your own informed decisions about where you shop. It is your prerogative, but we can not, as compassionate humans, forget or neglect to acknowledge that our decisions (and dollars spent) directly affect others. And, keep Charlottesville green, at least that’s what the bears tell me!
Next stop, Grayson County, VA.
Wind began to blow from the north. Mundjego stood watching the cloud and felt the cool breeze on his hot and worn face. He closed his eyes briefly. The rusted axe that he held rested on his shoulder. A small boy passed nearby in the bush of omusati trees. Mundjego couldn’t see whom it was, but wasn’t scared.
“Oto yi peni?” where are you going?
“Kegumbo.” to home
Mundjego heard the voice of a small boy.
“Oh, Haiti! Popitha nawa mati.” oh, what! speak well boy
Pause.
“Wu hala po Kuku.” good afternoon, grandfather
“Ano.” yes, it’s good
“Nawa-nga.” that’s good
“Nawa. Ngoye olye?” fine. who are you?
“Nambala.”
“Nambala…Nambala olye?” Nambala who?
“Nambala Hamutenya.”
“Humba! Nambala Hamutenya. Eowa. Tate omwe li? oh! is your father at home?
“Eee.” yes
“Kundelapo.” greet him
“Eowa, Ku.” okay, grandfather
“Eowa, mati gwandje. Oshi li nawa.” okay, my son. it is good
The boy walked swiftly and quickly as the evening African wind. He had a chore, an errand to run and couldn’t be late. Mundjego turned to go home. His rusted axe was in one hand and the firewood in the other.
Since the 4th of July I’ve been in Charlottesville, Virginia. My sister Charlotte lives there in a beautiful home about 15 miles or so from the center of town. It’s funny though because you (i.e. I) usually equate miles with minutes in automobiles, give or take some. So, you (i.e. I) would think that the town of Charlottesville would be 15 minutes from my sister’s crib. Not so. The urban sprawl makes my mile per minute determinator bogus! It’s more like 45 minutes on a busy day due to the continuous stoplights and shopping centers. On Friday Char had to go to work. She left me her car so I could do a little exploring, but I was to pick her up from work around two. On the way I got lost, of course, so I called her for directions. She was directing me to an area of town and told me to turn near a big shopping area. Hold up, said I. All I had been doing was passing shopping centers.
Eeeeeewwwww! This is more of a shopping center urban sprawl. Do we really need a Target, a Home Depot, a Wal-mart, and a Kmart all on the same strip? Along with shopping centers I also passed several land-for-sale signs. Are big businesses merely buying out the small land owners to profit exponentially? I commend those homeowners who refuse to sell their land to the developers of the already developed America. You see their homes amidst the Tonka bulldozers and trucks, but they’re not selling. I remember as a kid growing up in Raleigh there was this plan to make one of the biggest malls on the east coast. Most of the land had been cleared, except there was a lone driveway surrounded by tall pine trees that led to a small house. The owner refused to sell his land. The plan for the huge mall was somehow disrupted and never went up, though a smaller complex was built. The house was finally destroyed, however. Under what circumstances I am not sure.
Looking at the big picture, this is all for the ease of more consumer expenditures. But, do we really need it? Perhaps, I’m a hypocrite, because I have shopped at this particular mall complex many times. And though I don’t like to admit it, I have frequented Starbucks for the ease of the Internet access and the mochas (that hurts to admit, really). Maybe, the over flux of the big businesses limits our choices, which is why I have gone to those places – or so I would like to rationalize. Maybe it’s the relatively lower prices offered by the Wally worlds and tar-geis that makes them so appealing (this excludes Starbucks however; a medium, or grande as they like to call it, Mocha costs almost 5 bones). So, that means we will buy more for our money. Okay, but do we need it? Although I can possibly rationalize buying cheaper goods there, I certainly can not rationalize with the cheaper wages they offer their employees – minimum wages while el gran jefe de Wal-mart and other execs earn millions upon millions per fiscal year. Sure, building a Wal-mart creates jobs, but is a job worth it if the salary barely assists you in a comfortable and stress-free life? If Wally world really wants to make that case why don’t they offer free daycare opportunities for its employees when working and free health care services for all family members. They could even hire their own Wally world doctors with the signature Wally world smiles and open their own Wally world hospitals so that all of its employees could have equal opportunities at health care. Why not offer a Wally world transportation service so employees could get to and from work in a stress-free and environment friendly way. I certainly am not for this Wally world utopian society, I just think that it’s clear that their supposed reasoning for more development could be more equal to all, rather than one sided to the executives who reap the benefits of the real laborers.
In short: make your own informed decisions about where you shop. It is your prerogative, but we can not, as compassionate humans, forget or neglect to acknowledge that our decisions (and dollars spent) directly affect others. And, keep Charlottesville green, at least that’s what the bears tell me!
Next stop, Grayson County, VA.
03 July 2007
NC state fair (via Coney Island)
What better way to spend a beautiful Saturday (the weekend before the fourth of July) than to experience the North Carolina State Fair…I mean Coney Island. Jasmeen and I headed down to the Brooklyn neighborhood from uptown Manhattan, a subway trek of about an hour or so.
Some of the highlights:
1) the boardwalk – there’s tons of people, tons of opportunities to people watch, lots of music and dancing. Every 100 yards, or so, there’s a different music scene. To the right of the Cyclone, which to me is the major directional reference point of Coney
Island, we found a mini salsa club in the sun...
To the left of the Cyclone we found a mini disco, where we found the most interesting and entertaining performer. This dude (60 year white male, still dressed for the disco era) was on point! His moves were impeccable. He was the wooer of all the disco-dancing ladies. They couldn’t resist his suave, his charm, his, well, the picture tells all…
2) shoot the freak – there’s tons of state fair-esque dollar and two-dollar games that can’t be missed. My favorite was shoot the freak. This game is located on the boardwalk just by one of the main boardwalk entrances to the amusement park and ride area. For two dollars you too can shoot the freak, or attempt to. When you pay your two dollars you are given a paint gun, fully loaded. The freak is about 25 yards below you. He is dressed in the usual freak attire – hockey goalie uniform and pimped out gas mask. He moves left, he moves right, he does the Barry shuffle. He’s a quick freak. The game host makes it more interesting by talking trash to you, the shooter, and the freak, saying things like, “come on freak, my granny moves faster than that. Come and shoot the freak, two dollars, shoot the freak.” The crowd is hypnotized. While we were watching, the freak got his coffee break. He took off his freakish attire. He was just a kid. There were crowds of people around us. One girl behind Jazzy and I said to her friends, “he ain’t no freak, he looks Dominican.” Freaky-deaky!
3) the cyclone – you must ride the infamous cyclone if you trek to Coney island. I say infamous because, BYOSC – bring your own seat cushion – it’s a bumpy ride.
4) the food – we ate two dollar tacos from a boardwalk stand and drank $6 fruit smoothies. Wait a second, did I just say $6 fruit smoothies…it is New York. Bring your $6 fruit smoothie money with you when trekking to Coney Island.
5) the pier and the beach – on top of all the roller coaster, game, food, and music madness, there’s more. On the pier you’ll find more music lovers, but mostly fishermen throwing out tyson’s chicken in a cage as bait. Seriously. A whole uncooked chicken leg is placed in a cage and thrown into the Atlantic. We only spotted one small fish catch and one crab catch. Maybe the fishes were looking for hot sauce as well...
Some of the highlights:
1) the boardwalk – there’s tons of people, tons of opportunities to people watch, lots of music and dancing. Every 100 yards, or so, there’s a different music scene. To the right of the Cyclone, which to me is the major directional reference point of Coney
Island, we found a mini salsa club in the sun...To the left of the Cyclone we found a mini disco, where we found the most interesting and entertaining performer. This dude (60 year white male, still dressed for the disco era) was on point! His moves were impeccable. He was the wooer of all the disco-dancing ladies. They couldn’t resist his suave, his charm, his, well, the picture tells all…
2) shoot the freak – there’s tons of state fair-esque dollar and two-dollar games that can’t be missed. My favorite was shoot the freak. This game is located on the boardwalk just by one of the main boardwalk entrances to the amusement park and ride area. For two dollars you too can shoot the freak, or attempt to. When you pay your two dollars you are given a paint gun, fully loaded. The freak is about 25 yards below you. He is dressed in the usual freak attire – hockey goalie uniform and pimped out gas mask. He moves left, he moves right, he does the Barry shuffle. He’s a quick freak. The game host makes it more interesting by talking trash to you, the shooter, and the freak, saying things like, “come on freak, my granny moves faster than that. Come and shoot the freak, two dollars, shoot the freak.” The crowd is hypnotized. While we were watching, the freak got his coffee break. He took off his freakish attire. He was just a kid. There were crowds of people around us. One girl behind Jazzy and I said to her friends, “he ain’t no freak, he looks Dominican.” Freaky-deaky!
3) the cyclone – you must ride the infamous cyclone if you trek to Coney island. I say infamous because, BYOSC – bring your own seat cushion – it’s a bumpy ride.
4) the food – we ate two dollar tacos from a boardwalk stand and drank $6 fruit smoothies. Wait a second, did I just say $6 fruit smoothies…it is New York. Bring your $6 fruit smoothie money with you when trekking to Coney Island.
5) the pier and the beach – on top of all the roller coaster, game, food, and music madness, there’s more. On the pier you’ll find more music lovers, but mostly fishermen throwing out tyson’s chicken in a cage as bait. Seriously. A whole uncooked chicken leg is placed in a cage and thrown into the Atlantic. We only spotted one small fish catch and one crab catch. Maybe the fishes were looking for hot sauce as well...
02 July 2007
White People...
Last Wednesday (6/27/2007) was the last day of school. Students were full of excitement and anxiousness for the carefree days of the hot, humid climate of NYC. On my block in the Heights, stickball will fill the street blocks along with the cool water being spat from the wide-open fire hydrants. Dominoes will be played by los abuelos and sounds of merengue and bachata will fill the thick air until the early hours of morning. Around 4 or 5 pm folks will head down to the Riverside park and la fiesta will expand, encompassing not only merengue and bachata, but Raggaeton, mariachi and salsa, not only stickball, but el futbol, roller skating, and basketball as well. And yes, more dominoes. Summer’s a wonderful time to be a kid!
One of my fondest and most striking memories of teaching during the last two years in the Bronx comes from last year. I taught Global History I and II to 9th graders. For those of you who don’t know, Global History is usually taught during grades 9 and 10 in the state of New York. It’s a two-year course and at the end of grade 10 students take the Global History state Regents Examination, which is a comprehensive standardized test. Students in New York must pass a certain number of Regents examinations to qualify to earn a diploma. There are two types of high school diplomas. One is the local diploma, which is based on school-wide grades. The other is the Regents diploma, which is based on Regents scores. The Regents diplomas hold more “value” in the eyes of JoCos and four-year universities and colleges.
Global History is an overwhelming subject to teach. The curriculum for Global I and II covers Paleolithic life until the Enlightenment era. That’s a span of about 10,000 years, give or take some. And that is to be covered in ten months. I was advised by teachers and teacher mentors to cover general topics and focus on units that I found most interesting and from those units connect themes to other time periods and eras. I was like, “yeah,” and ended up spending about two months on Ancient Egyptian life. I had a lot of good ideas, but the lack of teaching experience and lack of organization skills slowed my pace. We went in-depth into the lives of the pharaohs and power structures of the dynasties. The kids were able to explain, among other things, how King Akhenatan changed religion for the people of Egyptian times. However, come to find out the Regents examination for that year had one question on Ancient Egyptian life…and it was about identifying the major river of Ancient Egyptian life.
During another unit of study we were analyzing the Roman Empire. We read and studied about how the Empire changed and influenced the world. The kids were kinda into it, but as I have found with teaching (and learning for that matter) in general, it’s sometimes only as interesting and captivating as how it relates to you. This isn’t with every subject, but these are teenagers, and they have quite different motives for studying ancient Roman life than advanced academia scholars. So, I tried to bring it to them. I asked them one day if, in light of how we had defined Empire in terms of the Roman era, they thought the United States was an Empire. Hands down they responded yes.
I asked them to prove it and they brought up Iraq and said that was a clear example of how an Empire works. The majority of my kids believed Bush was in the wrong in changing the Iraqi world with false accusations of weapons of mass destruction. Their response wasn’t a surprise. Neither was their adamant disapproval of Bush. We had discussed this issue previously in class.
I wanted a little more from them, however. I asked them to explain in terms of American life how the United States is an Empire. They responded that it was even more obvious in the land of the free. At this point a few of the more out spoken students took the lead with this debate, which became more of a discussion. The students said that it was an Empire because certain people held the power, the money, the resources, while others lived in their shadow. They gave examples. They said, “look at our neighborhoods and the ones in Manhattan.” They said look at our school with hardly a class set of books and look at the schools in the suburbs. They went on to say that even people behaved differently based on their caste role in the Empire. I asked them to explain. They went on to explain how white people had it made, while blacks and latinos had to work a little harder, “to get theres.” The discussion got more heated. One student called out that white folks were racist. The class cheered and agreed. I said, hold up, I’m white. They said, “mister, you are not white.” I’m pretty white. For those of you who know me, you know how white I am. I’m German-Irish. It don’t get much whiter than that. I asked them to think about what they were saying. Yeah, yeah, they said. They thought about it. They said they didn’t like white people, often thought they were racist, didn’t think they could trust them. But, I wasn’t white, so they said.
My kids trust me. I trust them. I respect them. They are in-tune to their world and to this world. I can’t help but to agree with them on many levels. I don’t think all white folk are racist. But, I do believe they (my kids) are right. We do live in a world where the power structures that be separate the haves from the have nots. It can, in some form or fashion, be traced to race. Is it a malicious separation, not in many cases. But, there has been a conditioned mindset here that has been passed on from generations past. Slavery plagued this nation, as did Jim Crowe. There are still remnants of that past prevalent today. We have to find those and bury them for good.
So, how did it end? I ran out of time teaching. That has been my fatal flaw in the classroom – the dreaded bell. Did I convince them that all white people didn’t selfishly relish in the empirical fortunes of America and that even some were attempting to break down that empirical power structure? Not sure. I’m not a mind reader. Plus, if this white privileged mindset is a product of conditioning and hard to break, it must mean too that the “other” underprivileged, underestimated, and often times ill-respected mindset is a product of conditioning as well and just as hard to break. It is only through the open, sincere, and compassionate dialogue across races, beliefs, opinions, and ethnicities that will break the conditioned mindsets of America. Thoughts?
One of my fondest and most striking memories of teaching during the last two years in the Bronx comes from last year. I taught Global History I and II to 9th graders. For those of you who don’t know, Global History is usually taught during grades 9 and 10 in the state of New York. It’s a two-year course and at the end of grade 10 students take the Global History state Regents Examination, which is a comprehensive standardized test. Students in New York must pass a certain number of Regents examinations to qualify to earn a diploma. There are two types of high school diplomas. One is the local diploma, which is based on school-wide grades. The other is the Regents diploma, which is based on Regents scores. The Regents diplomas hold more “value” in the eyes of JoCos and four-year universities and colleges.
Global History is an overwhelming subject to teach. The curriculum for Global I and II covers Paleolithic life until the Enlightenment era. That’s a span of about 10,000 years, give or take some. And that is to be covered in ten months. I was advised by teachers and teacher mentors to cover general topics and focus on units that I found most interesting and from those units connect themes to other time periods and eras. I was like, “yeah,” and ended up spending about two months on Ancient Egyptian life. I had a lot of good ideas, but the lack of teaching experience and lack of organization skills slowed my pace. We went in-depth into the lives of the pharaohs and power structures of the dynasties. The kids were able to explain, among other things, how King Akhenatan changed religion for the people of Egyptian times. However, come to find out the Regents examination for that year had one question on Ancient Egyptian life…and it was about identifying the major river of Ancient Egyptian life.
During another unit of study we were analyzing the Roman Empire. We read and studied about how the Empire changed and influenced the world. The kids were kinda into it, but as I have found with teaching (and learning for that matter) in general, it’s sometimes only as interesting and captivating as how it relates to you. This isn’t with every subject, but these are teenagers, and they have quite different motives for studying ancient Roman life than advanced academia scholars. So, I tried to bring it to them. I asked them one day if, in light of how we had defined Empire in terms of the Roman era, they thought the United States was an Empire. Hands down they responded yes.
I asked them to prove it and they brought up Iraq and said that was a clear example of how an Empire works. The majority of my kids believed Bush was in the wrong in changing the Iraqi world with false accusations of weapons of mass destruction. Their response wasn’t a surprise. Neither was their adamant disapproval of Bush. We had discussed this issue previously in class.
I wanted a little more from them, however. I asked them to explain in terms of American life how the United States is an Empire. They responded that it was even more obvious in the land of the free. At this point a few of the more out spoken students took the lead with this debate, which became more of a discussion. The students said that it was an Empire because certain people held the power, the money, the resources, while others lived in their shadow. They gave examples. They said, “look at our neighborhoods and the ones in Manhattan.” They said look at our school with hardly a class set of books and look at the schools in the suburbs. They went on to say that even people behaved differently based on their caste role in the Empire. I asked them to explain. They went on to explain how white people had it made, while blacks and latinos had to work a little harder, “to get theres.” The discussion got more heated. One student called out that white folks were racist. The class cheered and agreed. I said, hold up, I’m white. They said, “mister, you are not white.” I’m pretty white. For those of you who know me, you know how white I am. I’m German-Irish. It don’t get much whiter than that. I asked them to think about what they were saying. Yeah, yeah, they said. They thought about it. They said they didn’t like white people, often thought they were racist, didn’t think they could trust them. But, I wasn’t white, so they said.
My kids trust me. I trust them. I respect them. They are in-tune to their world and to this world. I can’t help but to agree with them on many levels. I don’t think all white folk are racist. But, I do believe they (my kids) are right. We do live in a world where the power structures that be separate the haves from the have nots. It can, in some form or fashion, be traced to race. Is it a malicious separation, not in many cases. But, there has been a conditioned mindset here that has been passed on from generations past. Slavery plagued this nation, as did Jim Crowe. There are still remnants of that past prevalent today. We have to find those and bury them for good.
So, how did it end? I ran out of time teaching. That has been my fatal flaw in the classroom – the dreaded bell. Did I convince them that all white people didn’t selfishly relish in the empirical fortunes of America and that even some were attempting to break down that empirical power structure? Not sure. I’m not a mind reader. Plus, if this white privileged mindset is a product of conditioning and hard to break, it must mean too that the “other” underprivileged, underestimated, and often times ill-respected mindset is a product of conditioning as well and just as hard to break. It is only through the open, sincere, and compassionate dialogue across races, beliefs, opinions, and ethnicities that will break the conditioned mindsets of America. Thoughts?
27 June 2007
Numero Uno
I’ve never done a blog page before. I always thought they were a bit self-gratifying, a little self-righteous, and self-glorifying. I still think they are. But, I have failed miserably at consistently keeping a journal that has ever been of more merit or depth than merely brushing over normal day-to-day occurrences. Perhaps this blog page will be a new motivation to write more productively and with more thought.
Also, when it comes to keeping in touch with people I falter and fail. Hard. Man, I’m bad. I owe apologies to just about every one of my friends at some point or another and many of my family members as well. But now, this blog page at least gives me an alibi. Sorta kinda. Perhaps this blog will be a way of keeping people informed of where I’ll be and how things are going, at least for the summer.
I haven’t had a lot of experience reading personal blogs and I’m not really an Internet surfer – unless it’s about where to travel to next. I have read travel blogs that have been really informative, insightful, and helpful. On a recent trip to the Philippines with Jasmeen we got a lot of inside tips on things to do and how to get around more easily. Travel blogs can be a very valuable travel tool. I reckon I’ve used them enough that it’s time that I add my own two cents for it may be valuable to someone else.
Oh yeah, a new gadget gift, from Jeff and Jodi – dear fam – has motivated me to 1) take pictures and to 2) share those photos. Thanks gang. With that said, blog one is over. Enjoy the summer! I’ll be traveling to Philly, to Charlottesville, to Southwest Virginia, to Raleigh, to Long Beach, to La Paz, to Oruro, among other places. Check out the page when you can and please give feedback if what I write impels you to!
And remember, the REVOLUTION will NOT BE TELEVISED!
Also, when it comes to keeping in touch with people I falter and fail. Hard. Man, I’m bad. I owe apologies to just about every one of my friends at some point or another and many of my family members as well. But now, this blog page at least gives me an alibi. Sorta kinda. Perhaps this blog will be a way of keeping people informed of where I’ll be and how things are going, at least for the summer.
I haven’t had a lot of experience reading personal blogs and I’m not really an Internet surfer – unless it’s about where to travel to next. I have read travel blogs that have been really informative, insightful, and helpful. On a recent trip to the Philippines with Jasmeen we got a lot of inside tips on things to do and how to get around more easily. Travel blogs can be a very valuable travel tool. I reckon I’ve used them enough that it’s time that I add my own two cents for it may be valuable to someone else.
Oh yeah, a new gadget gift, from Jeff and Jodi – dear fam – has motivated me to 1) take pictures and to 2) share those photos. Thanks gang. With that said, blog one is over. Enjoy the summer! I’ll be traveling to Philly, to Charlottesville, to Southwest Virginia, to Raleigh, to Long Beach, to La Paz, to Oruro, among other places. Check out the page when you can and please give feedback if what I write impels you to!
And remember, the REVOLUTION will NOT BE TELEVISED!
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