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Pretty sure this was the hardest picture I’ve ever had to take.
This past Tuesday I was part of a “march against FARC,” a hastily organized protest in reaction to FARC’s execution of four Colombian soldiers during a failed rescue operation.* The soldiers had been captive in the jungle for nearly fourteen years and were found dead next to their chains, shot to the head. I joined thousands of people dressed in white as they made their way across the city center chanting for the end of the FARC, demanding that remaining kidnapping victims be freed, demanding peace.
These types of protests are common in Colombia, I remember them since I was a child, a sort of outlet for the collective outrage over a war no one knows how to fix. The mood was not somber. It was a sunny day, and people waved flags and sang along. But it was much harder for me than I had expected. A little girl walking next to me, about nine years old, clutched a yellowed picture of a woman holding an umbrella. Maybe her mom. Maybe an aunt. Tears came down her face, and when I finally gathered the courage to ask, I just got a number: eight. Eight years, “disappeared”. God, I don’t know how to deal with this. I cried the whole way.
It’s easier now, to forget we’re in the middle of a war. Ten years ago, before my family left Colombia, war was everywhere. My school bus had armed escorts. We never left the city because FARC roadblocks made it was too dangerous to travel by land. One of my classmates saw his grandmother kidnapped on Christmas eve, when guerrilleros just walked into their country house holding machine guns and tied everyone as they took her away. Today, the war has become more of an abstract concept. Something you see in the news. Something you argue about how to fix after two beers too many at family gatherings. But not for that little girl, and not for that old woman with the big picture of John Paul II. Not for millions of Colombians that still live it every day.
Tuesday’s march was a sobering reminder that our war is very much still here. We have a long way to go.
*There’s a big controversy about what was actually going on, the Army denies there was a rescue operation underway. Blame’s in the same place regardless, if you ask me.
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Things that are meant to be reassuring and fail: the anti kidnapping and anti extortion hotline, as advertised on a billboard in Pereira.
But guys, it’s toll free!
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Valle del Cocora, one of my favorite places in the world. Last week, with gringo in tow, it looked more beautiful than ever.
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I have this pet theory that literary critics (or at least high school English teachers, which is where I heard it from) have it all wrong about ‘magical realism’. When they read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novels, they call it his “literary style,” but they just haven’t been to Colombia. That’s actually our special brand of reality, and Gabo is just doing a really good job of explaining it exactly as it is. No artistic flourishes.
For a taste, a (quick and sloppy) translation of a recent clip from the serious political news outlet La Silla Vacia:
For the last few days, some Congress regulars have been complaining about strange movements attributed to paranormal beings, many of them have taken measures and always walk with someone else.
Since last night, Blackberry messages have been circulating among the legislative assistants of senators and journalists that cover Congress in which they relate sightings of creatures as fantastical as ghosts, a leprechaun that plays with a ball (which some bodyguards have taken to calling “Boogey Boogey”) and dancers that wear either all white or all black. Others believe that these occurrences are caused by the spirit of the recently deceased Senator Jose Name Teran.
To counteract whatever it is that’s spooking Capitol visitors (in particular those that frequent the third floor), last night several alternatives were proposed: an exorcism; bringing an image of Baby Jesus or the Guardian Angel; burning incense, among others.
Finally, a mass was held this morning on the third floor to calm fears. The alleged paranormal activity has reached so many ears, than the US-based TV channel Telemundo has shown up to report on the issue.
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“I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience”
Henry David Thoreau, Walden (like Oscar Wilde, he seems to write in little quotable snippets.)
The next year or two are going to be a lot of new things for me, and since I am absolutely horrible at keeping in touch with the people I love, and I have always had a secret dream of keeping a blog, this will be my way of letting people know what I am up to. I suspect more of the time I will just post pictures or short comments on things that catch my interest, but we’ll see what shape this takes. How could I be a credible expat without a blog?
I graduated Harvard in May, hid my brand new diploma in a spare closet at my sister’s house in Florida, and packed everything I would keep with me in a single red suitcase I got as a graduation gift. The previous November, after a couple of months of intense senior year anxiety in trying to decide what to do with my future, I was selected as one of the recipients of the Michael Rockefeller Memorial Fellowship. In one of those amazing “is-this-real-life” moments that sometimes happen to me, I was given the complete freedom (and funds!) to travel to another country for one year and develop a personally meaningful project. Real life was postponed, and I was set to go to France in mid August.
But of course, it couldn’t possibly be so easy. I applied for the requisite long-term visa, and even now, well over four months later, I don’t have a response. In July, I traveled to Cape Town, South Africa, where I was working with the Harvard Idea Translation Lab developing a project to connect day laborers with employers. I then got a short stay Schengen visa that let me come to France for a one week conference also with the Harvard ITL, and decided to stay a couple of extra weeks in Europe.
Right now I am in Paris, and will be traveling to Spain at the end of the week. I have to return to Colombia in September 15th, when my visa runs out. I will then have to decide on a new plan of action, whether to keep begging the French for a new visa, or, most likely, to completely re-think the next year. For now, I am living day-to-day. I am choosing my travel destinations based solely on where I have couches I can crash on. I eat mostly baguettes and try to resist the urge to drink coffee so I don’t have to pay for it. I walk around all day staring in awe at this magnificent city, take hundreds of bad pictures, and pick books for my Kindle old enough that I can get them for free (as you can see, Walden is the current choice).
I seem to have completely lost the ability to plan much more than two days in advance, and though I often whine about it (ask my poor boyfriend Robb), it is kind of nice. We’ll see where this goes, and for random updates from the road, keep reading this blog.
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One of the unexpected surprises of traveling so far away from home (homes?) for the first time, was the sudden boost in exoticism. Being Colombian in the States is old news. Everyone has a Colombian ex-boyfriend or a completely originally and hilarious joke about Pablo Escobar and snorting cocaine (NOT). But here, on those occasions that I don’t decide to let people think I’m American for convenience’s sake, I get a completely different kind of reaction.
When I tell the curious taxi driver where I’m from, I get a blank stare. Lately, I’ve decided to add “that’s in South America,” just to help a little, and half the time I’m convinced they thought I meant from the southern United States. My gringo accent doesn’t help.
But looking for “latin” things in Cape Town is one of my favorite things. I particularly love Cubaña, self proclaimed “South Africa’s only authentic Latin social caffe.” It includes such Cuban classics as nachos, burritos, and my personal favorite, the “dirty Sanchez” cocktail- look it up on urban dictionary. The caffe’s symbol is the letter “ñ”. It’s everywhere. Please ignore that this authentic touch actually makes the name of the restaurant a non-existent word.
I finally understand why my Chinese friends complain so much about the chinese food in the US.
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Quote reblogged from Adam Isacson's Latin America Blog
El Tiempo: “Why does [former Colombian President Álvaro] Uribe have the idea, and he has said it, that recent actions against corruption are actions against his administration?”
Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos: “One second… mmmm… Nopecu, nopecu, nopecu…”
ET: “What does ‘nopecu’ mean?”
JMS: “Don’t fight with Uribe. (No pelear con Uribe) NO-PE-CU.”
Uribe vs. Santos watch: Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos reveals to El Tiempo’s Yamid Amat his mantra for managing relations with his increasingly pugnacious predecessor, the more conservative Álvaro Uribe. (via adam-wola)I was so wrong about Santos. Now he even appears to have a sense of humor.
