The Rich

This past week, I began tutoring a third grader, Sophia, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  For an hour, the pay is an excellent way to save a few sheckles for my traveling.

Instead of taking the teacher bus home, I hitch a ride on a student bus fifteen minutes earlier.  The commute is much quicker until the end where we stop at every single student's building to drop them off.  Every...single...one.  Three kids exit the bus, the bus driver drives for ten more feet, and another three kids got off the bus.  Ummm....Isn't it just as safe for all of them to get off at the same time?  We can see both buildings at once.  Obviously, the parents do not agree, so I will get to know the buildings' names really quickly.

Sophia's building is the last stop at the end up the peninsula that makes up Castillo Grande, the neighborhood where most of the students live.  On one side of the peninsula is the bay where all the ships dock, and the other side is the ocean.  In Cartagena, I am considered upper middle class.  These people, however, are the rich.  Sophia lives on the fourteenth floor penthouse; an elevator actually opens up into their flat.

Upon arriving home, Sophia eats a quick dinner before we head to her bedroom to work on her science homework.  The family has two maids: one to do the cooking and the other to look after the two kids.  After offering me something to drink, they bring me the glass of water/juice on a tray with a coaster.  The hour passes quickly.  Since the mom would rather have her driver take me home/to school than pay for a taxi, I wait for Sophia to get ready for ballet.  While waiting on Thursday, one of the maids brought me the innards of a granadilla.  I'm stealing a quote here from where I looked up how to spell the fruit, but it is: "Hard, round, usually orange exterior best eaten by using your fingernails to crack the skin, then sucking the snot-like crunchy seeds out from the inside.

If you can get past the visual, it’s incredible."  It really is quite refreshing, and they brought it to me in a bowl on a tray.  

Fifteen minutes later, the maid, the mom, Sophia and I jump into the SUV where the driver, Ostermann, drops them all off at ballet practice.  I then ride in the lap of luxury to the university in Manga where I am taking my Spanish classes.  I'm not sure how long this gig will last, but I will definitely enjoy living the high life for a couple hours each week.  

Warning: Do not read before or while eating!

This past Sunday, Christy, Leah and I went on a food tour of three towns surrounding Cartagena.  It was an all-day ordeal, and we were literally always eating.  Yes, yes, I know: I wasn't supposed to talk about food for a while, but I do believe this is an exception.  

Our first stop was the Bazurto Market.  Sundays are not their busiest days, so we were free to amble along and take some pictures.  They sold everything to do with animals and plenty of fruits and vegetables.  We sloshed through fish scales, animal blood and juices, and tons of other gunk I'd rather not think about.  On a typical day, I really wouldn't mind the bacteria-ridden walk, but seeing how I still had an open wound on my toe from dancing the night before, I had to be extra cautious on where I stepped.  It's amazing gangrene hasn't crept in yet.  

These are cow eyeballs.  Don't they just make you want to eat them raw?  I guess they sometimes sell cattle testicles, too.  What a shame we missed those.  One of the items we did try was cow udder, a tan, hide-looking sheet that was hung up along different stalls.  When it was cooked later for us, it was downright chewy and incredibly salty.  The ladies said it was because they had such little time to prepare it.  Uh huh.  Because normally, cow udder has such a wonderful taste.  

I found the opened chicken with all her innards intact particularly magnificent.  Do you see the red-orange sacks on the left side?  Those are the poor girl's eggs!  There are at least three of them, and some of the chickens we passed had more, and the eggs were even bigger.  Our tour guide, Lili, was going to buy some for us to try, but after hearing we had to purchase the whole chicken, she changed her mind.  One of these days...

Colombia's got a long way to go in terms of recycling (a very long way), so this warmed my heart a bit.  All these used plastic bottles are filled with the Colombian version of sour cream.  I do wonder if they disinfected the bottles first or just rinsed them out.  In the front are big blocks of cheese.  Luckily, the cheese here is not my favorite, and I have no problem staying away from it.  

We all tried these sausage balls with lime juice squeezed on top.  Many people eat them with hard-boiled eggs as well.  They were quite tasty, but Lili said that most of the time they are made of all the leftover parts of donkeys or pigs, though the man insisted they were beef.   

There were enough guts for everyone, including the cats and birds.  

After a forty-five minute drive, we ended up at the edge of a small town to try some chicharrones, or fried pork rinds.  They were served with yucca and cheese and were just okay.  We also sipped some chicha (corn beer).  Being special guests, the owner gave us a tour of the outdoor kitchen, which was quite clean and organized.  There's a whole process to preparing the chicharrones and yucca; it looked like hot work.  

The drive through the countryside was spectacular.  Rolling green hills, tall trees, cooler temperatures.  I cannot wait to venture out again and maybe try some hiking.  

Since we obviously hadn't eaten enough already, we stopped by this restaurant where they prepared a full-course meal for us, including the cow udder.  Lili had bought some fruits from the market that the ladies turned into juices, which we drank while waiting for the meal.  

I feel rather badly for looking all gleeful next to the poor dead animals, but somebody has to be happy that she is still alive.  The first animal is a jungle rat and the second an armadillo.  Men hunt these creatures using a sling shot.  As much as I hate to admit it, both were incredibly tasty (of course, cooking them in coconut milk probably helped) and the rat particularly tender.  

This is the dirt-floor kitchen where they prepared the juices and smoked the meat.  Since we were out in the middle of nowhere, there was no running water (this included the bathroom).  These people must be immune to just about everything.  

Our final stop was the town of Palenque, the first free, black settlement to arise in Colombia.  It all started in the late 16th century when Benkos Bioho, a former prince in Africa, decided he was sick and tired of slave work and led a group to freedom.  Although the Spanish government tried to recapture the 200 runaway slaves, the time, money and effort became too much, and the Spanish king eventually told his minions to give up.  

The statue was in the center of town along with a church and playground, by far the nicest area around.  The Colombian government continues to shell out money to help preserve this historical village.  Right now, they are working on the sewage system, and the roads were muddied with drained "water".  (Remember my toe?) 

We visited this lady's house where she showed us how to make these delectable sweets.  All you have to do is pour some milk, sugar, and shredded coconut into a large cauldron, stir until it's the right consistency, and wala, you have dessert! 

The conclusion of our time in Palenque was visiting the ninety-year-old witch doctor and trying some of his cure-for-all-ailments remedy...alcohol with seven different plants mixed in.  Man, was it strong!  This man chooses to live very humbly and sleeps on an old mattress in a room much like this one.  He told us Palenque used to be safe, and people would leave their doors open all night.  In the last thirty years, though, crime has sky-rocketed.  It sounds like what is happening in many other parts of the world.  

Eight hours later, we drove home, drowsy from all the food and sugar, but now having experienced the other side of Cartagena.  

Dancing

Yes, I know, the headline is laughable if one knows me at all, and this past Saturday was no exception as I "danced" the night away.  It was Kike's birthday, and Michelle had us all surprise him by showing up at his favorite salsa place, Quiebra Canto.  This was my third and favorite time going out dancing; the other places were way too packed, and, hmmmmm, there is no way my body can do the moves.  At all.  Salsa, fortunately, is a little easier...if you have a good partner.  

One of the guys from our group led me out onto the floor when the night was still young and only one other couple was dancing.  This was not good as all eyes could see just how horrible we were.  Although this dude can move his hips a bit, he doesn't know salsa, and he might need a little practice leading.  But, yes, we can blame me.  We danced about half a song before slinking off the floor, red-faced, and knowing that no dude in his right mind would ask me to dance now.  

Thankfully, my old Spanish tutor, Wilson, came to the rescue.  Not only is he a good tutor, but he is a very patient teacher and taught me the basic moves.  Sure, we didn't look as great as everyone else on the dance floor, but we kept to the rhythm.  Then Brian pulled me out.  He knows the primary steps and was able to lead me around, so it was pretty painless.  In fact, we were able to have a conversation with me only getting off beat every once in a while.  

The first man, seeing how the other guys made it look so easy, mistakenly believed he could now handle twirling me around.  Sigh.  We danced two more songs in a row before sitting down, and let me tell you, those were by far the most painful dances of my life.  Although we were a bit better than the last time, he managed to step on my high-heeled feet three times...at the minimum.  Ahhhhh!!!!!  Smiling through the torture, I played it off as if all the nerve endings in my toes were not screaming to my hypothalamus.  It's a good thing he has such a good sense of humor.  

Once back at the table, I checked my poor, abused feet to find blood bubbling up from my big toe.  Racing to the bathroom so my new sandals wouldn't get stained, I staunched the blood flow only to find a large chunk of my nail stuck to the paper towel.  Ughhhhhh....So typical.  I am due for a pedicure and now have to wait until an inch of nail grows back.  Don't even get me started on the infection part.  

Amazingly enough (yes, I'm patting my own back here), I continued dancing, though without the steel-toed man.  All in all, a good night.  

*For some of the more squeamish people, I apologize if you were eating while reading this.  You can thank me for not posting a zoom-in picture of my toe, though.  

An apple a day...

I have received apples from students in the past, but I cannot recall a time when they were written on in permanent marker.  This one says: "Ms. Brennan.  Ur Awsome.  Your super cool.  Dont eat without pealing     Att: Ana, Tore, Zarate, ValeD, Sofia, Juli C Juli P."

The Match

On Friday, there was a "friendly" match in Miami between Colombia and Brazil.  [For anyone who followed the World Cup, there were some angry complaints against the referees' calls during the game (Colombia vs. Brazil) that ultimately got Colombia kicked out of the competition.] 

We met at Laboratorio in the Getsemani neighborhood.  This bar served only rum drinks, including fruit-infused rum.  Some of us ordered the blackberry, mango and pear rums, and after trying them all, I can safely say that not all things taste good with mango.  

Yes, I realize that some were not prepared for this picture, but it's hard to get everyone looking at once in a loud bar.  

The owner, Diego, has this vicariously hung projector spanning across the ceiling.  Someone accidentally unplugged it in the middle of the game, and it took about five minutes to get up and running again.  Nobody seemed to mind, but I'm pretty sure a fight would've happened had it been a major game.  

At first, I felt badly for the bartenders because their backs were to the game.  That is, until I saw them looking at the giant mirror directly behind me.  Needless to say, I was quite disappointed that I hadn't noticed it before; what better way to check my teeth than letting the whole bar see me?  

On a completely unrelated note, Brazil won, one to nothing.  

Grading

I had to laugh when I saw this.  This boy and I had a few issues in the beginning of the year, but we have now come to an understanding.  The ironic part is he was held back last year (although I believe he's quite intelligent).  

Realizing My Abilities (or lack thereof)

  For the last few weeks, I have paid a guy, Wilson, to come to my house for an hour each Wednesday and tutor me in Spanish.  I desperately need the practice and figured this was a good way to do it.  This week, he brought his lawyer friend, Javier, because he wanted me to experience a typical Costeño's accent and speed.  It was a good time, and I feel like I learned a bit more about Cartagena's past.  The last fifteen minutes, however, my brain was shot, and I had a hard time following.  I had already attended three mostly Spanish meetings at school that day and stayed an hour later than usual, so my poor head was shutting down on me.  
  Afterward, they dropped me off at el Centro, and I met Michelle for zumba.  The instructor was full of energy and quite entertaining to watch as she had a huge personality.  Unfortunately, this class only confirmed what I already knew: I inherited my dad's rhythm.  (Sorry, Dad.)  This problem was only magnified as I watched all the Costeñas' hips and butts move with amazing fluidity.  Needless to say, Michelle and I stood in the way back, but even then, I could see the twinkle in the instructor's eyes every time she looked over at us.  Although I was unable to follow every move to a tee (let's get real over here: at all), I do believe I still burned some calories because there was no A/C, and the open windows provided no breeze.  I'm sure you can imagine the sweat and smell of the place.  

The Storm

Tuesday morning started out typically enough: an early alarm, beautiful sunrise, granola with yogurt.  By noon, the clouds began rolling in.  Being the rainy season, that's normal, so I thought nothing of it.  

 At 6:15, I was all dressed in my workout clothes and ready to meet Michelle for a zumba class.  In the ten minutes it had taken me to get ready, the weather had taken a turn.  It was like a hurricane had sprung up.  There was a broiling pot of angry clouds, lightning and wind, and it was incredible. Unfortunately, it meant that walking, or even taxiing, to the class was out of the question.     

   Twenty minutes later, the power went out.  The apartment building's generator took an hour to start working, and even then, my wifi was kapeesh until Friday afternoon.  

 Taking these pictures probably wasn't the smartest choice in the world because the lightning was close.

  Don't worry: I eventually ran down and up the stairs and did some weights, so everything wasn't lost.  While running the stairs, I found a couple disturbing sights.  One: people were still swimming in the building's pool while the storm was raging.  Two: between floors fifteen and sixteen, someone had let his dog relieve itself and failed to clean up after it.  I took extra wide lunges around that area.  

Slow Moving

I am beginning to see what prior teachers were talking about when they said to just wait for the internet to go down.  There was a magnificent storm (of which I have pictures) Tuesday night where the power went out for an hour or so.  Luckily, my apartment building has a generator, so that wasn't a huge issue.  My wifi, however, has not been so quickly restored.  It is now Friday, and according to my portero, the crews are still working on it.  Ummmm....no big deal, but I think we all know how much I enjoy writing about my life.  Plus, there is research I must do for upcoming trips.  I just might have an excuse now to get a Chai tea at Juan Valdez Cafe while using their wifi (they have a caramel/apple mix).