The Simpsons in Colombia

Last Sunday, we made the famous Bogota pilgrimage climb up the ‘Cerro de Monserrate', crowned by a church that leans over the city from the top of the mountain. The church is famous for its statue of the falling Christ. So, you might assume that the trip up would be a solemn one, as pilgrims ponder the Stations of the Cross. Not so - the atmosphere was decidedly carnival, and the whole scene would have fit perfectly into “The Canterbury Tales,” even down to the group of white-clad young nuns casting serious glances in every direction. The route - a stone staircase that swung us back and forth and around the face of the hillside – was packed with families, couples, older pious ladies, and not-so pious groups of ‘youth’ (including a young man with a big LATIN KINGS tattoo on his arm). We seemed to be keeping climbing time with a young man accompanying his grandmother – who sat down frequently to suck on a bag of water-, a family with a fluffy white poodle, and a red-faced young guy looking ridiculous in a large sombrero. He kept asking his companion “quanta falta,” (how much more) and seemed to be weaving up the mountain even more than the route dictated.

In addition to the crowds of climbers, the sides of the climbing route were filled with vendors of every type. If there was a patch of grass, or a square foot of flat space next to the staircase, there was someone yelling, “A la ordene”(at your service), as they pointed out tamales, bags of cookies, drinks, helados, rosaries, jewelry, wind chimes, arepas, skewers of meat, some sort of white substance lying on a block of guava paste, beer – of course (does one really need to be more lightheaded when climbing over 9000 ft on a sunny day?)-, mirrors, calendars, candles. There were stands set up for pilgrims to try their luck hitting a target with a paintball gun, as well as some sort of game that involved tossing rocks into clay. Our favorite vendor was selling crosses, rosaries AND wall hangings of a scantily clad couple embracing with a ‘love poem' superimposed over the mildly pornographic image. Whatever you needed to make your climb more pleasant, your day more entertaining, or your pilgrimage more successful could be found en route.

Of course, being the only Americans among these thousands of Colombians, we added our own Simpson’s flair to the outing. Zach(13) had had enough of the climb right from the beginning. “THIS was not my idea,” he asserted, throwing in a few American obscenities for emphasis. He was soon dragging behind us, trying to convince Mike that it would be more miserable to continue to climb with a disgruntled teenager than to call off the family excursion and turn around. Elena (3) begged in a loud voice to be carried, and quickly leant her full weight onto the hand I was holding to convince me that she could go no further. Meanwhile, scores of Colombian children of all ages trotted amiably past us, only pausing to rest when their parents decided it was time to do so. And, at the top, many waited patiently in line for the cable car down, snaking themselves quietly along the queue barriers. Elena, however, insisted that the barrier be a jungle gym; she swung herself back and forth, despite the harsh whispers of her parents, and only stopped when she bumped her chin on the post and switched from whining to howling dramatically. Matthew(8) tried to entertain her by starting some high energy game that involved a lot of loud giggling and collapsing on the floor. Zach, of course, was mortified, and kept telling Matthew to ‘stop being such an idiot!’ Mike kept issuing louder and louder threats under his breath – which almost always consist of taking away one of the various pieces of electronic equipment our kids love to hook themselves up to. Most threats only resulted in the accused responding indignantly that it was NOT THEIR fault and launching into a complex presentation about why another sibling was to blame. Unfortunately, Mike has noticed that my general role amidst this wrangling is to forcefully ignore it all, as though I am just some scatter-brained distance visiting aunt. Needless to say, my husband does not find this trait endearing, and, since we are inevitably the only Americans around, my ability to pretend that I have not been responsible for raising this family for the past 12 years is less effective. So, Elena screamed about whatever, Matthew wound her up to scream some more, Zach offered loud denouncements about each member of his family, Mike threatened, and I stared into space – all while the patient, quiet and unified Colombian families tried politely not to stare. This scene is often repeated in different locations – except in the small Bogotá taxis, where it is worse!

I have tried to convince myself that this cultural distinction can be traced back to the primacy given to ‘the independent spirit’ in the United States. “Sure, all these families are having these entirely pleasant shared weekend activities together,” I tell myself. “But, the fact that my kids protest almost everything obviously means that they have grasped the great American entrepreneurial spirit.” However, I lost faith in this argument when I saw the absolute glee with which they welcomed the guys who came to our apartment the other day to install our cable TV.

Oh well! At least we can all now return from our bumpy forays into the culture of Colombia and watch The Simpsons together. It’s the next best thing to home movies!

The Universal Language of Futbol and Ice Cream

Parque Simon Bolivar is a huge central park in Bogota that includes playgrounds, amusement rides, a huge new indoor public swimming pool complex, concert arenas, lakes, bike paths, and lots of open green space for your preferred recreational activity. We saw break dancing, rugby, kite flying (August is a big kite flying time in Bogota; it’s the windiest month), ultimate Frisbee, a whole bunch of kids in bright track suits doing some crazy obstacle course, couples making out, and, of course, lots of soccer.

Within five minutes of sitting down in the shade to eat our picnic, we were sighted and stalked by a group of five ruddy-faced boys with 2 bikes, 1 dog and a lot of obvious curiosity about the gringo family in the park. They circled closer and closer to our spot, pretending to be extremely interested in a nest in the tree above us. Within five more minutes they had introduced themselves by proudly saying the word “soccer”, reported their ages (between 13 and 10) and swept Zach into their group for a game of futbol. The two bikes served as one goal and various hats, shoes and backpacks served as the other. Gustabo – clearly the leader of this pack – suited up, pulling two jerseys and an additional pair of shorts over his slim frame. I could see he and Zach trying to establish some kind of broken English, broken Spanish conversation while the other four boys grinned and interjected helpful – but, usually, not so helpful – additions to Gustabo’s communication.

Luckily, sports is one of the universal languages and the game was on - after I offered to hang onto their dog “Luna” who kept rushing the ball in play. Gustabo proved to have some dangerous footwork, and an incredibly winning smile as he was dancing the ball back and forth and around the other players. But, while the score grew in Gustabo’s team’s favor, Zach pursued him doggedly, and began to mount an effective defense. Pretty soon, shirts had been abandoned, and they could have all been kids playing soccer anywhere in the world.

How about that,” I thought, “Our 4th day in Colombia, and my son is playing soccer at 9000 ft with some kids he just met in a park in Bogota while the sun shines and the hills display themselves in the near distance. Pretty cool.” In fact, I felt so great that I bought the whole team popsicles when an old lady passed by pushing her helado cart (Judging from their fairly scruffy appearance and their obvious excitement about my purchase, I don’t think ice cream is a daily occurrence in their lives.) Gustabo prompted each of his gang to tell me please and thank you very sweetly Then, they all flung themselves down on the field with their cool reward and laughed at the strange sound of the word Zach taught them for what they were eating, “Popsicle.”

“This was the best day yet,” Zach sighed before going up to bed later that evening. “I like Colombia.”