Save the Rave!

Of all the things that need saving at this moment in this world, I cannot honestly say the rave is one of them. It was a beautiful morning in ColOMbia all the same.

Hoffen is a friend of Sherm's friend Cata, and a member of my twice-weekly English class. She is in school for movie-making. Somehow she had all these free passes, and I ended up with 9 of them.

This made my Aussie pal Marli real happy. Like most Australians I've met, she digs on electronic dance music. Also, she had friends from home who had arrived just the day before; so, perfect.

After some hemming and hawing, hesitating and complaining about how much it was going to cost, I allowed the peer-pressure to wash over me like clean hot water on a cold night. I ran back to the apartment to get my bus pass. After procuring sufficient sustenance to last me through morning, I had no cash.

Save the Rave was held on a beautiful piece of property in Chia, which is almost an hour by bus North of Bogotá. Chia is a tranquil farming area in a verdant valley, cuddled under el Cordillera Oriental de los Andes. Obviously, the view was improved by the dawn, but we had many hours to go before concerning ourselves with such luxuries; first, we had to get there.

We = me, Lina our Loyal Local, Marli and her two friends from home, Beauden and his girl Alex.

There were rumors of a bus, a free bus picking up at Calle 85 y Kra 15. Lina was unsuccessful in several attempts to call the Help number given on the tickets for information about this potential bus.

Another Aussie friend of Marli's has an apartment "near" to the pick-up. I was imagining walking distance. But nope, hop out of the cab at Calle 50-something. Woop, but we're several hours late, and that group had just left for this bus we've been discussing.

Okay, no problem, new cab. Lina finally gets a hold of someone, and she says the arrival of the bus is imminent. Great! Vamos!

So we get out at the prescribed intersection, and there is a grocery store parking lot half-full of minglers, groups of individuals wandering around at 9:30 on a Saturday night. Marli called her friends from my phone but hung up before saying anything because there was only one other large group of gringos standing around on the edge of the parking lot.

Aussie dudes with Colombian girlfriends and long flowing locks of golden hair awaited the bus, and also us. We sipped on vodka and Coke for half an hour. Just as we were getting nervous, a big white school bus appears down 85th, heading West. Yes. Cross the street, nominal fee, and we're on board, basically there already.

This is Marli (on the left) and her friend Alex:


It was a lack of forethought that led to us finishing all of the alcohol before we even got on the bus. I would have taken some responsibility, but I wasn't drinking.

Okay, okay, so we get there, and understand immediately that we should have worn boots instead of valued sneakers. Earth plus Water makes Mud. Mud in the dark makes for very dirty shoes, and splotches of splatter half-way up my pants.

The music was on and off: interesting at times, enough to inspire some dancing, but overall very average. I don't know if it was due to issues with the equipment, but some of these DJ's were having trouble matching their beats on a very basic level. This led to choppy, incoherent transitions, eliminating any chance to create choral tension, much less let it drop.



The dance floor under the tent was uneven and covered in mud. The acoustics were better just outside the tent cone covering the stage. Plus Jupiter was huge in the sky! I spent several hours shuffling about, half-dancing and staring at the one star, in fact a planet, visible through the benevolent cloud-cover.

There were fire-pits scattered throughout the campground. We spent some time sitting near one such fire, on this log:



These here are the aforementioned Aussies and Irish with said Colombian girlfriend(s).

And then the sound system failed. The first time, there was about 10 minutes of silence. The second time it went down, we were treated to almost half an hour of morning sounds, complemented by the residual throbbing the hours of techno had installed in everyone's equilibrium. I was a trifle disappointed when the music sputtered to life again. The ambiance of a new day awakening outside the city felt far more in line with my sensibilities by the time 4 am came around.

So like I said, it was on and off.

I would like to take a moment now to discuss the ridiculousness of naming a party "Save the Rave". The party business is as booming now as it ever has been. People think the world is ending, and like Prince all they want to do is party. The rave is in no danger of dying. Extinction seems out of the question, if truly this percentage of teenagers are exposed to dangerously enticing pharmaceuticals, finding short and false jollies on what are essentially numbing agents. Brain-cell genocide, pushing the big red button and dropping chemical weapons on their brains. Why then, must this rave be saved? And from what (besides simple rhyming)?

But we had to laugh when the sound went off. Just imagine the headlines, like: "Music Dies at Save the Rave", or, "Pave the Rave: Who Kicked the Plug?". Is that irony?

Did I mention there were some teenagers there? They came and stood next to the tall, blond Alex and tried out their newest dance moves, experimenting with wing-flips and leg-kicks -- the evidence, I suspect, of having You-Tubed Michael Jackson or Justin Timberlake over and over.

Eventually the girls got cold and we skipped and stumbled toward the gate. Bad news: the bus that brought us will not be back until 7:30 in the am. Oops. Lina needs to be at work at the hostel at 8.

More information: the local buses start running at 5:30. It was then about 4:30. We can make it.

I passed the time staring in this direction:


As it tends to do, the time passed and soon there was sunlight, and Sunday traffic, and finally, a bus with "Bogota" posted in the window. I snagged a window seat right behind the driver and had a fantastic ride back to the outskirts of Bogota. I watched the sun rise over the Andes, bestowing light on the agrarian geometry of crops and fences, trotting dogs and horses.

The driver and his assistant refused to let me pay, finding it funny somehow when I tried to hand them my fare (2,000 pesos had magically appeared in my pocket). We got off at Portal Norte, and my bus pass was a Godsend. J95 brought us home to the Gold museum.

El Apartamento

This is where I live. Guided tour. Ready, set...

GOkay, this is what you see when you walk in the door. Green spiral staircase and a desk. This is not at all what the furniture was like when I arrived, but after applying some spontaneous amateur feng shui, the space has a nice functional flow about it. Also, I have a fireplace.



Then, turn to your left. You can see the window, which opens out onto the street. This allows me to bypass the buzz system. Not to worry Mom, there are bars on the window. The kitchen area is back there, comprised by a simple two-burner electric stove, a table and some storage racks. Here we are looking Northeast.



This is the view from the kitchen, sitting in the window and looking back at the ground floor. Here we are facing Southwest.



Okay then we go upstairs. This is the view of the bedroom from the top of the stairs. The bathroom door is to the left of the bed there. My meditation corner is immediately to the left of where this picture is taken from.



Now this is the view looking back, sitting on the bed, facing Southwest again. Note the blue-tinted tigers on my bedspread. I like tigers. And the color blue. And big warm blankets.



My little meditation corner is my favorite place to be these days. It makes such a huge difference to have a space dedicated entirely to the practice. For example, meditating in bed is difficult because there is a lot of sleepy energy lingering there. Sitting in the kitchen wouldn't work because of the temptation to cook or nibble. But with this special little spot, I sit down and slip quickly into calm, breathing slow and trying to attune to the rapid pace at which that blinding light in the front of my forehead is vibrating.



Here's a closer look at my make-shift altar:



So you see my green and orange yoga mat. I sit on this, plus a little mat and a pillow. The blue cloth there sits on my lap. On the left is a representation of Pachamama ("Mother world"), plus two other Peruvian underworld deities. I purchased this hand-stitched cloth-of-three-pockets on Lake Titicaca. Literally, on the lake, on one of the floating islands, from a nice Uros lady named Maria. Then there are three rocks I collected from around the continent, arranged in a triangle. The point of the triangle is a crystalline stone from an island in the Beagle Channel, just south of Ushuaia, El Fin del Mundo, Argentina. It came from a spot where shamans used to sit and pray for days, naked except for a layer of seal fat.

Then you see my green goblet, with some mineral water in it. The purpose of this is to help focus healing energy towards the water principle. All things being interconnected, if I focus love and healing on this little bit of water, in theory, the butterfly flaps its wings and the oceans have a smidgen more support in this time of great peril. Placed around the base of the goblet is a gift for Lulu. Cappo and I met this amazing girl in Capilla del Monte, Argentina. She gave her name as Lunita Kosmica, and she makes jewelry to support herself. She spends some of her time in a traditional Mayan community in Argentina, using the 9 ancient, inter-locking calenders and the moon as their guides. This piece was the first she ever made, and she said she'd been waiting for the right person to come along and buy it. Me!

On the far right side, we have a marble owl I acquired just outside Uyuni, in Bolivia. It is a present for my Father. The owl represents perfect wisdom, symbolized by its ability to see clearly in the darkness, and rotate its head all the way around. In front of the owl is a gift for my Mother. It is made from a stone (I wrote down the name, but lost the page!) which is said to assist with circulation. I found this, again, just outside Capilla del Monte. This was a rather magical place, with several pyramids overlooking a long and many-fingered lake, surrounded by rocky hills becoming mountains. I strongly encourage everyone to investigate pyramid power. The Russians have done some spectacular research concerning their profound healing qualities.



The last aspect is a 200 peso coin, because money is just another form of energy exchange, and can be consciously manifested just like anything else. I also sometimes keep my copy of Autobiography of a Yogi on the altar. I am also in the habit of offering food items, to be blessed before I consume them. If Krsna is hungry, he is more than welcome to sample my apple; but for now, it seems he wants me to have it. In return, the endearing trickster, that stealer of hearts has my endless thanks and gracious obeisance.

Two more photos, just for fun.

Pachamama (sideways):



and the green goblet, with Lulu's amulet:

Today in The Life

Anyone out there interested in what I did today? Entonces, mira.

So after a hectic yesterday full of running around town, some movie auditions, and finally a private class in Chapinero (Northern Bogota) that lasted until 10 pm, I ate a small bowl of ghee-sweetened rice and found myself five hours of sleep before my first alarm sounded at 5:25 am.

I forgot everything about my dream, which continues to strike me as some deep loss.

So I pull together, turn the key behind me and turn down the street toward Jimenez when my "Leave the House Now" alarm goes off at 5:55. I take an experimental route, which eventually gets me where I want to go, but ultimately proves to be entirely stupid. It involves way too much walking and my chosen buses go unecessarily roundabout. Today I can clearly see my undue reliance on the Transmilenio, and an instinctual lack of faith in the Colectivos.

In any case, I walk through the door at 7:04 (early, since my "Start Class Immediately" alarm was set to sound at 7:07). Naturally, I'd neglected to bring any ID (who carries ID these days anyway?), so I have a nice long talk with the security guard, who eventually accepts the combination of a dirty printout of my birth certificate, a Delta Air miles card, and my passport number.

I find my elevator and am on the way up when I check my phone. Lo, a message. My client, the lovely Claudia, writes (with almost impeccable grammatical execution): "Hi. I am sorry. I can not meet with you today. I will speak with you more late. Claudia" Like I said, almost.

Okay. "No problem. See you Thursday".

This is, in fact, entirely fine, because I get paid anyway and now I'm awake and have the whole morning free. First I have to get home. The building where Claudia works is one of a cluster of classy-looking office buildings out near the airport, North and West of where I live in La Candelaria. So I hail down a bus displaying a wooden sign in the front window which lists, among place-names I´recognize but don't know, CentrO. That's me, we hope.

Calle's and Carrera's slide by, sinking from 68 as we move South and East toward the mountains. We pass a black pyramid. Things are going well until I begin to overthink, and soon I'm second-guessing whether this is a Cl or Cra, and what's this Diagonal 22? I can see Montserrate, but it ought to be nearer; now it's passed, is behind me, drifting back from where we've come. I see a cross-street I like and hop off.

I didn't even make it to the South side, reaching Calle 0. I could take a two-dollar taxi, but it's a beautiful morning in Bogota, so why not walk? There is rarely an ugly morning here; the trusty rains arrive in the afternoon. The walk was uphill, but otherwise uneventful, except for the crazy statue outside the Colombian Finance Ministry building.

There is this statue, maybe 13 feet tall, of a thin man striding forward. The man has the head of an eagle. I wish I could remember what it said, but it it made reference to an Egyptian pharoah from 1400's A.C., which I assume to signify Antes de Cristo, or, Before Christ. It's a representation of Horus, but I believe all the early pharoahs adopted the name Horus. So yeah, curious. I will do some research and report back to you on the specific esoteric symbology in operation here.

On the way home I buy a canteloupe, some granola and a delicious cinnamon-flavored oatmeal-based beverage. Breakfast.

After breakfast is meditation. Super peaceful; my practice is strong these days. I have set up a small altar upstairs where the desk used to be. I will post a picture soon.

Here:


Listo. Next I get the grand idea to inflate my new soccer ball. I won a red Budweiser 2010 Word Cup soccer ball at the Hard Rock Cafe on Saturday night. I am not at liberty to publicly discuss my reasons for enjoying drinks and an extended dinner there (seriously), but the Bud girls did come around, so I bought a beer and played their silly little mini-game and won, (of course), scoring 2 out of 4.

So I have this soccer ball, but it's pressed flat. I walk two blocks to the closest mall, and climb the ramp and stairs to the 4th floor where the indoor footy courts are. Hand-pump, done. Crappy ball: lop-sided from the start, with seams coming exposed when a little air-pressure is added. Nonetheless, I have my very own soccer ball!

I buy a lighter on the way home. Home, I sit in meditation for some minutes more, just because it felt so nice the first time.

Then off into the street, wearing grey basketball shorts and Uncle Jay's t-shirt, with a Canadian Maple Leaf stamped on the front of a classic VW bug. I am wearing white sunglasses and carry a quarter-full 5-gallon jug of water. The ball is at my feet. First, it occurs to me to check the hostel, to see if anyone wants to play, but no, still asleep, hungover. Fine. Good.

So down to the closest plaza. If you search GoogleMaps for "Parque de los Periodistas, Bogota, Colombia", you'll see what I'm talking about. I set my jug of water down by the big circular monument in the center of the triangular square, and start juggling. I make some darting runs, play myself two or three through balls, then turn with a quick change of pace and blow right by the unsuspecting pedestrian defenders.

A siren sounds, at a pitch far more frightening than any tornado warning. As I consider becoming concerned, the pitch goes up, intensifying for a moment before winding down. It leaves a very loud silence in its wake of sound waves.

Eventually someone else wants in. A young man with skin so black it's damn-near purple shares my enthusiasm. Our errant passes invite others into the game. Soon we have a group of 5 hitting long balls, juggling, taking clumsy touches and chasing around downtown. If we had had mini-goals, we could have been a World Cup commercial, the one that comes on immediately after the national anthems, enthusiastically ruining all the excitement and momentum they create before kick-off.

After lots of laughing, showing off and one or two confused headers from passers-by, the fun runs its course. It is down to just me and my first friend. We are just juggling, getting a little lazy. The ball rolls toward two men dressed in orange jumpsuits, complete with yellow reflector vests. The nearby Las Aguas Transmilenio station is under construction. After passing back the ball, one of the workers says, slowly, in a tone sprinkled with condescension and pity, plus maybe a splash of envy, "Buen-nos noches", his pitch sliding ominously upward at the end.

Turns out my dude Manuel (he had lots of other names I could not understand) is from El Choco. He is happy to hear I've been there, and is inclined to agree that it is "como paraiso".

The rain comes pouring down as soon as I step inside the outer door of my apartment. I shower. Now, I have been sitting at this computer for more than two hours. I have now finished my two beers, meaning it is time to go. Soon, I will head North to collect a fresh teaching assignment from Peterson's, followed by an intimate dinner with Autobiography of a Yogi (my second time through since I've been in Colombia), before attending a free reading and discussion with the Russian poet, Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

(Update: Mr Yevtushenko apparently gave his reading at 11 this morning; the reception was at 7. I was under-dressed and not brave enough to crash it. Plus there was a line. Oh well, next time.)

Opportunity for ecstatic experience continues to slip through the thin filter that is my ego-consciousness. I am grateful for what this has allowed me to learn thus far, but these days that filter seems like little more than a crack in the dam, destined to expand and eventually explode out, allowing a flood of divinity to overcome previous restrictions and cleanse all in its path, a grand letting go that allows us to simply embrace an existence beyond distinctions.

Life is fun if you let it be.

North

Here continues the chronicle of Tom and Sherm's visit. I started to tell these stories before, but stopped for some reason. Now I have my very own computer here, and can write as long as I like. Today is the 15th of July.

The second leg of the trip began when we heard Sherm leave for his flight early Tuesday morning. Tatiana brought us coffee before we could stand up, and we had a quiet morning of preparation. That afternoon Tom and I flew out of the rain in Bogota and landed in the mild swelter of Santa Marta. We had bandeja paisas on the boardwalk, playing Rummy and listening to costeña radio coming through on my phone.

As evening settled, we toured the North side of town, looking at three different rooms before finding a place we felt comfortable. We walked half a block in the wrong direction, and therefore passed the same whore twice. She'd heckled us in Spanish the first time, so she switched to English as we came shuffling back around the corner. It occurred to me to claim ignorance, como "no hablamos ingles", but I hesitated, instead simply laughing as we sauntered on.

We blasted the fans and lay in our beds watching futbol, lazily pounding beers only because if we didn't they quickly became warm. So the new heat plus some cervezas sent us to bed early. As such, we were up relatively early the next day, and able to stumble into a private shuttle into Tayrona National Park.

The almost-trusty Lonely Planet had told us all about the bus that left at 10 am, but at 9:30, we still had shopping to do. As it happened, we spoke with the driver-guy and he told us No, he'll wait for us, claro no hay problemo. So great, we went grocery shopping, bought a jug of rum, various fruits and even sundry items such as contact solution and a small, waterproof soccer ball.



That's Tom on the bus, on our way into the park. We had a liquid breakfast, starting with juice and continuing summarily back into beers. We bought one for the driver too. No reason why he shouldn't enjoy a cold beverage with us. Unfortunately, the speaker system had been shorted out by the rain of two nights ago, so we were not quite as festive as we might have otherwise been, but even still, this was a supremely fun bus ride.

Having reached the Eastern entrance of the park, we had a bit of a hike ahead of us. We'd picked up a sturdy English girl at the gate, and now the three of of us were traipsing through the jungle. I quickly lost a sandal in the mud, as did our British friend. Somehow Tom's shoes remained clean, while I took the drastic step of removing my footwear altogether. This seemed like a fine idea at the time.

I carried the tent and our bag of fruit. Tom trekked in with a 2-gallon jug of water in each hand. I believe he had the jug of rum as well.

We walked for maybe 40 minutes, tiptoeing past horse droppings, up muddy paths, negotiating skinny through-ways cut between the enormous boulders planted in that sea-side jungle.

The 'feel' of the coast comes first, inevitably setting in as you approach any ocean. You know how you just know it's there? That.

Smell is inevitably next. The negative ions and floating salt engage our most primal sense - that which shoots us straight in the brain - the sea a sensory pistol aimed at our precious pineal glands.

The excitement really begins to rise when your ears kick into gear. We stepped out of the jungle and into the first campground. Tom was there to testify to the newness of the computer perched behind the check-in desk, under the palm-thatched roof. We are told it definitely was not there 7 years ago.

We stopped for a sit-n-snack break. Then continued on, veering left through a group of cabinas, a dirt courtyard complete with donkey and sleeping dog. Then this happened:


Walking on, moving Southeast down the Caribbean beach:



Walking barefoot became far more comfortable once we found sand.

(To be continued...)

For the Record

If any person place or thing mentioned in these stories has a different version of events, a slant I didn't see, or embellishments I've forgotten, I whole-heartedly invite all-types of commentary or contrary accountings. I also like comments because it lets me know if people are seeing this. Then I feel special.



I am special. Sometimes.

Technical note: if you click on the pictures, they get bigger.

I'm telling you people, this is some high-resolution shit we're dealing with here . Seriously, nothing but the best.

End transmission.

Summary

Now that I've settled in Bogota, I thought it might be nice to provide a stop-by-stop synopsis of where I've been in the last 6 months or so (if only for my future benefit, and obviously, that of posterity). I will have to do some research to fix the exact dates, but I'll try to mark those that I know.

Cappo or Keir, please let me know if I've missed or misplaced any moves.

Feb 1: Minneapolis to Atlanta to Lima, Peru.
Feb 2: Lima to Arequipa, Arequipa to Puno (by bus)
Feb 3: Puno to La Paz, by way of Isla del Sol

From La Paz, West-Southwest to Rurrenabaque and Parque National Madidi and the Pampas, and back to La Paz
La Paz, South to Oruro for a weekend of Carnaval
Oruro to Potosi (still in Bolivia)
Potosi to Uyuni for a three day tour of the Salt Flats
Train from Uyuni down to the Northern border of Argentina, night in Salta
Salta to Cordoba
Cordoba to Capilla del Monte

Feb 26: Capilla del Monte to Buenos Aires
Week in BA
March 3: flight from Buenos Aires down to Ushuaia, el fin del mundo

Things get a little fuzzy in Patagonia...
Ushuaia, by bus and ferry, North (the only way to go) through Rio Gallegos to El Calafate
El Calafate up to Perito Merino for a day trip to the glacier
From El Calafate across the border into Chile, to Puerto Natales
Puerto Natales North into Torres del Paine National Park for 4 (5?) days
Back to Puerto Natales to catch the NaviMag, going North along the Western coast of Chile, through the fjords for 4 days and 4 nights, eventually arriving in Puerto Montt
Left Puerto Montt immediately, on our way to Bariloche, back into Argentina

March 20: go-karting for my birthday in Bariloche
From Bariloche, North to San Martin de los Andes for one night
San Martin, West to Pucon, Chile, to conquer the volcano (this was about a week after the big earthquake)
Pucon, North to Santiago for the weekend
Weekend included a trip to Valparaiso and Vina del Mar
Slept through a 6+ strength aftershock.
Santiago to Mendoza for a few days of wine-tasting and treating Norwegians to a birthday dinner

April 4: Champagne campaign on the overnight bus from Mendoza back to BA to reconvene with the Doub
April 7: leave BA on a boat for Uruguay, catch a bus to Montevideo
April 8: fly from Montevideo, Uruguay to Bogota, Colombia (by way of the airport in Rio di Janiero, Brazil)
a week in Bogota
a week in Manizales
almost 4 weeks in Medellin
weekend out west, in El Choco
weekend back in Bogota
a week up North: one night in Santa Marta, 6 days on the beach in Tayrona, at Cabo San Juan, then two nights in Taganga

Now I've been back in Bogota for about three weeks.

I found a job, teaching English to business executives around Bogota. Now I need to find an apartment. Once I have an address I can get a bank account. Once I have a bank account I can start transferring funds and allow my debt to begin its slow erosion.

So yeah, that's my life. On the South American continent, I've now touched the Pacific coast (twice), the Southernmost point, the Atlantic coast (BA/Montevideo), and the Northern, Caribbean coast. In my mind, touching all four corner lends my trip an extremely satisfactory sense of completion. Nevermind that I couldn't afford it...

South:


West:


East (Buenos Aires):

(They said it; not me. Here I'm merely documenting.)

North:

Oh yeah, let's see North again:


Just one more time:


North is Up.

I Changed the Background

See that? Softer now, no?

Ok more stories. Back in Bogota with the Brothers Sherman.

Well, but first our plane stopped in Medellin, and we still had to make our connection at the other, larger airport on the other side of town. Our bags were stashed at the Pit Stop still, because we didn't care to carry them out West. So we touch down in Medellin maybe two hours before our next flight, and we're on a mission.

Zip-zip, grab our bags, snag a cab, on our way in no time. The driver found the Pit Stop straight off, which was rare; although, after living there for three weeks, you'd think I'd be able to give directions. Again, zip-inside, grab the other bags - here, even had time to sneak a peak at my gmail in order to take advantage of a plastic present Tom had brought for me, from my Mom - and boom, back in the cab and on our way, 90 minutes to spare. No more than half an hour to the airport, no problem.

So, it's a chicken-or-the-egg situation. See, we can't be sure whether the cab's rusty clutch had made this man age prematurely, or if, in fact, the elderly man was just somewhat clumsy, often forgetting what gear he was in, and thus summarily gumming up the gears. We suspect it was somewhere in the middle.

It was funny at first. Until we stopped for gas. Right before he pulled into 4th as we approached a gradual hill. Then, when the huge Airport-This-Way sign suggested we take the first right of a round-a-bout, our earnest friend slowed around the bend two-hundred and seventy degrees, and eventually made a left. I am sincerely convinced he was doing the best he could, and truly hold no malice toward him. I suspect he simply had no idea we were in a hurry. And on the plus side, I got to listen to a whole GirlTalk album, shit I never heard before. Kept me entertained.

As it is, we made it to the gate on time anyway. Of course we did. Ahh but wait, the nice people at ADA, with their magical self-repairing planes, had made a phone call for us back in El Valle, hadn't they? Making an inquiry on our behalf, in case we might miss our connection. But they hadn't confirmed any changes yet, had they? Oh, well yes I see, you can switch the time of your flight once for free. How convenient, good policy. What's that you're saying, we're confirmed on the 9 o clock flight, not the original 6? Okay. No, that makes sense. Thank you. Si. Gracias.

This serendipitous delay led us to some basement diner in order to find the first proper bandeja paisa I ever saw. I've seen better since, but this first time was a glorious event. Beans and rice, fried platano maduro, some form of carne (almost steak) with that sunny-side up egg perched on top, waiting to bleed all over the plate; chorizo (so much more than a hot dog), and the deep fried fat that tastes like bacon (with the name I can't remember), and an arepa, like a flour-colored hockey puck, reluctantly soaking up the left over juices. Here:


Take note: this is a beautiful photo. Everything is happening. The food has been explained, but the salsa de aji is there on the left, next to the Club Colombia beers. Poker, Pilsen and Aguila are the other three most popular beers around here. They are all pilsners and are all generally about a dollar, with 4% alcohol content relative to volume. Club Colombia has 5%, and can be a thousand pesos mas costozo. We were also in the midst of a fierce game of Rummy; those are Tom's points you see splayed out on the edge of the table. I could be wrong, but I do not believe we ever completed this game. It was the first game, however, when cards started falling for me. Although, at the same time, I support Tom's theory that because we switched decks, the cards were finally getting shuffled properly, so the game became more random, thus I got lucky.

We had been sitting, waiting for the plane to fix itself in El Valle, wondering where would stay once in Bogota, when Sherm's old friend Mateo called to insist that we stay at his place. He and his lovely new wife Viviana live on the North end of la septima. As hosts, they were most generous, providing Tom and I fat air-mattresses on the floor, while Sherm had his own room. Viviana brought us coffee before we stood up everyday. There was breakfast, too. It was truly heartwarming to be taken care of so carefully. That first night we - meaning Mateo, Sherm, Tom and me - emptied a proper full-size bottle of aguardiente. Easy.

Next day, we got up and cabbed downtown to Plaza de Bolivar for a Mockus/Fajardo rally. Antanas Mockus and Sergio Fajardo are both former mayors, I'm now told, of Bogota and Medellin, respectively. They were the duo representing the recently-created El Partido Verde in these most recent presidential elections. This rally was their last before the first round of voting. There was some music, but we mostly only heard Mockus speak before sneaking off for awesome Mexican almuerzo. He tries to explain his nuanced views by speaking very slowly, and people find him difficult to understand. It seems he is too liberal, too intellectual for the people at this moment. It was a profound experience though, being in the midst of this, listening to the chants of "La union (beat) hace la fuerza!" This says a lot:


Just look, I mean: the girl on her fathers shoulders, braving the rain and the pain in her shoulders as she tried to hold that green sign up high; the older girl standing next to them, arms outstretched in hope of some undefined deliverance; and the woman on the right, focused, and fiercely pumping the sunflowers in her fist around in a circle above her head; that's El Colegio Mayor de San Bartolome in the lefthand background, El Congreso de la Republica closing the square; and all the way on your right, ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it, Mr Thomas J Myers! Okay, everybody! He and I got lucky our raincoats were the right colors for that rally, his yellow, mine green.

In that first round of voting, Santos and Mockus were the two top vote-getters, among a number of candidates. Santos won something like 49.7%. If he had had 50% plus-one-vote, there would have been no run-off. As it was, there was a run-off this past Sunday. Santos won with 69% of the vote, to Mockus' 28%. In essence, Santos is the conservative choice, and is seen as a continuance of current President Alvaro Uribe's policies. The result was, unfortunately, expected, but it was a step in the right direction, I think. I know many Mockus supporters who did not vote.

For Sherm's final night, there was a reunion of sorts. Sherm and Mateo invited friends from their Fulbright days for a barbecue. It rained all day while Tom and I ran about town collecting the necessary goods for said barbecue. This involved kababs, chickens and bbq sauce, two pineapples, more aguardiente, charcoal and, of course, flowers for our lovely hostess (this was Tom's idea, and scored us big points). Sherm spent the day giving surprise visits to old friends, and Mateo has a job. (There were sunflowers involved in the bouquet).

As it came time to spark the charcoal, the rain was still in the process of stopping. The moment demanded drastic action. Something had to be done, and I believe we all knew precisely what that thing was. There was a laundry room with windows, with tile flooring and the remnant stench, hidden and permanent, of stale, putrid water. Perfect. We needed to seal off the area to minimize the influx of smoke into the rest of the apartment.
The series of pictures explains...




Ahh yes, the deck is better. Rain over, coals hot, Tom and I took over cooking to let all the old companions converse. Perfect spanish moves too fast for us anyhow. Fantastic times. Nothing short of classic.

More later.