Our second floor apartment overlooks the street, and, usually at least once during the day, Elena hears hooves below and she rushes us to the window to see the disappearing haunches of a horse trotting by. “Horses,” she beams and, of course, I smile with her. I remember how thrilling it was to watch the horses pass by while I was staying at my Granny´s in England. We would sometimes run outside still in our pajamas in order to watch them disappear down her country road, the British riders in their black hats and boots rising up and down in the early morning fog.
Elena´s horses in Bogota, however, might as well be a different species. The horses I watched as a child ferried red-cheeked British country lasses for a morning canter over the Common and then were led home, no doubt, to a warm barn for some oats and a good brush. Elena´s horses, however, mainly drag slipshod carts filled with the cardboard, paper and other recyclables culled from the city´s refuse. These horse carts form the backbone of Bogota´s recycling program. You can see them throughout the city at all hours of the day, mixed in with smog burping busses, daring motorcycles, zippy taxis and ever-increasing number of private cars that jam the streets of this city of 8 million inhabitants. The horses do not look curried, brushed or well-fed. Instead, their ribs push hard against their thin sides and their coats twitch against their haunches, scaly and patchy.
Still, you have to admire the serenity with which they weave in and through the infamous traffic and pollution, just as you have to admire the ingenuity of their equally bedraggled drivers. Yesterday, I saw a cart rigged up with some type of lazy boy armchair for the driver. We had just wrapped up my first trip to Exito, a Colombian department store that is somewhat of a cross between Target and Wal-Mart, and I was exclaiming over the ability of cheap plastic goods from China to brighten your day. Our bags were stuffed with Pirates of the Caribbean pencil cases, bright floral plastic bathrooms sets, a child´s plastic orange kitchen set, blue plastic ´drawer organizers, reversible plastic table mats, plastic tubs to keep track of the ever-spreading pile of pens, pencils, and crayons, plastic pencil sharpeners and tape dispensers, polka-dotted plastic drinking cups, and a green plastic toilet brush. Including the boxes of bright cereal, super-sized cleaning detergents, toilet paper and liquid soap, and one-reduced-for-quick-sale veneer bookcase, we needed two taxis to drag our haul home. From this particular vantage point, squeezed in tight between fighting kids and stuffed plastic bags, I could almost mistake the idea of trotting through the streets in a recliner for riding in style, although I was skeptical of even the lazy boy´s ability to deaden the hock of some of Bogota´s potholes.
I´ve also seen a cart sporting a small homemade billboard featuring one of Colombia´s many bikini-clad beauties. The cart that gave me most pause, however, was a cart where all 3 members of the recycling ´´crew´´ (a family of mother, father and child of about 10) were intently reading magazines culled from the pile of old cardboard and paper bouncing around in the cart´s center. What would be their orientation towards the recent corruption-busting article in Semana, reading it on a recycling cart? I wondered. Was that the Conde Nast Travler I saw the lady reading next to me on the elliptical machines at the gym the other morning?
The trash at our own apartment is put out on Friday evenings. Last Friday, I walked past the bulging cans, again on my way home with another cycle of supermarket bags full of groceries. There was a scruffy boy somewhere between Zach and Matt´s age methodically sorting through each bag of kitchen scraps, bathroom tissues, empty milk boxes. He separated each piece of recyclable cardboard from the rest of the garbage, brushed it off and put into a bulging sack: our takeout pizza box from last night when Mike and I felt too exhausted to cook, the cardboard packaging from the plastic kitchen Exito kitchen set bought to occupy and entertain Elena. Here, then was our recycler. No ingenuously rigged up horse cart to obscure the reality that this was a boy the same age as my own picking through what we had tossed away.
These types of divisions in the world are obvious whether we are living in the suburban US or downtown Bogota. My kids live lives of full grocery bags; other kids forage through full garbage bags for a living. Here, however, the obvious is visible every day, just like the malnourished horses that trot daily by our comfortable apartment.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
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.”
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.”
Monday, July 30, 2007
Leaving (or what to pack when everything you need is at home)
A few nights before we are leave to live and teach for two years in Bogota, Colombia, my 12-yr-old son calls me up to his bedroom. The room is dark and he is buried inside the cocoon of blankets and quilts he makes for himself on the floor each night. His – and everyone’s – anxiety about our move has been climbing faster than the mountains of stuff that now topple over the “for Colombia” tubs placed in everyone’s room.
“So, tell me again why we’re going to Colombia?” he throws out into the room’s darkness.
Possible answers flash through my mind like….
The Dorothy Explanation:“ Well, I know we live in an absolutely wonderful neighborhood, in a fantastic town with incredible friends….but this is all you guys have experienced and maybe you really can’t appreciate all you have without seeing something else.”
The ‘Go West Young Man' Explanation: “Well, the world is an incredible place, and experiencing other parts of it makes for both an exciting adventure and something that really broadens your horizons.”
The 'It’ll hurt now, but it’s good for you' Explanation: “ You are growing up in an age of globalization. So, while you wouldn’t choose to try to function in a completely different culture for two years while you are also about to smack right into your adolescence; in the long run, it will prepare you well for the adult world you will encounter (and, of course, it might also look good on your college application.”
The 'Jump Ship' Explanation: “It’s pretty depressing to read the papers here everyday – so let’s go somewhere else.”
The 'Step off the Treadmill' Explanation: Life just seems to move faster and faster and Dad and I haven’t found away to successfully slow it down. So we want to have a true family adventure before you guys are old enough to hate hanging out with us.
But, instead, because I’ve read too many parenting books (and because at this stage all my answers to this question have begun to feel pretty weak in comparison to the strength of our connections to our small little corner of the world), I turn the question back on him. “Well, why do you think we’re going to Colombia?”
“Two reasons,” he offers up from his pillow. “ 1) Dad’s having a mid-life crisis, and 2) Dad’s having a midlife crisis.”
Wisdom comes from strange places!
“So, tell me again why we’re going to Colombia?” he throws out into the room’s darkness.
Possible answers flash through my mind like….
The Dorothy Explanation:“ Well, I know we live in an absolutely wonderful neighborhood, in a fantastic town with incredible friends….but this is all you guys have experienced and maybe you really can’t appreciate all you have without seeing something else.”
The ‘Go West Young Man' Explanation: “Well, the world is an incredible place, and experiencing other parts of it makes for both an exciting adventure and something that really broadens your horizons.”
The 'It’ll hurt now, but it’s good for you' Explanation: “ You are growing up in an age of globalization. So, while you wouldn’t choose to try to function in a completely different culture for two years while you are also about to smack right into your adolescence; in the long run, it will prepare you well for the adult world you will encounter (and, of course, it might also look good on your college application.”
The 'Jump Ship' Explanation: “It’s pretty depressing to read the papers here everyday – so let’s go somewhere else.”
The 'Step off the Treadmill' Explanation: Life just seems to move faster and faster and Dad and I haven’t found away to successfully slow it down. So we want to have a true family adventure before you guys are old enough to hate hanging out with us.
But, instead, because I’ve read too many parenting books (and because at this stage all my answers to this question have begun to feel pretty weak in comparison to the strength of our connections to our small little corner of the world), I turn the question back on him. “Well, why do you think we’re going to Colombia?”
“Two reasons,” he offers up from his pillow. “ 1) Dad’s having a mid-life crisis, and 2) Dad’s having a midlife crisis.”
Wisdom comes from strange places!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The simple thing is to begin.
However, getting ready to begin an adventure abroard with a family of 5 is not so simple.
How can we do this?
Where should we go?
What will we do with our house here?
How will our kids manage?
What do we pack?
Do we really want to spend THAT much time together?
How can we leave friends and family for so long?
What do we pack?
Can we really do this?
Should we really do this?
Well, at least we've answered the first 2 questions. The Sabins - Mike, Deb, Zach (12), Matt (8) and Elena (3) - will be spending the next two years in Colombia - land of epic beauty and infamous turmoil.
We are excited, nervous, dizzy, worried, crazy, completely ready and infinitely unprepared. Only five more weeks until departure, so we'll definitely be sprinting all the way to our plane!
However, getting ready to begin an adventure abroard with a family of 5 is not so simple.
How can we do this?
Where should we go?
What will we do with our house here?
How will our kids manage?
What do we pack?
Do we really want to spend THAT much time together?
How can we leave friends and family for so long?
What do we pack?
Can we really do this?
Should we really do this?
Well, at least we've answered the first 2 questions. The Sabins - Mike, Deb, Zach (12), Matt (8) and Elena (3) - will be spending the next two years in Colombia - land of epic beauty and infamous turmoil.
We are excited, nervous, dizzy, worried, crazy, completely ready and infinitely unprepared. Only five more weeks until departure, so we'll definitely be sprinting all the way to our plane!
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