From beans and rice to sauerkraut

A ray of sun reaches through my window and wraps itself around my forearm, which rests lazily over my summer blanket. I awaken from the heat illuminating my body and let the sound of crickets and trickling water from the pond outback be the first signs of life that make their way into my consciousness.

I open my eyes to Park St - an empty paved street lined with green trees and houses on both sides - but then shut them quickly, not ready to let the image of this Massachusetts dawn replace the one thats freshest in my mind: morning life in Quatshausen, where I was just a few days ago. 

Its now a bit after 6:00 am and I feel my tummy grummble. It’s begging for Mittagessen. I keep my eyes closed and imagine trotting barefoot down the steps of my grandmothers house, floating through the tiled hallway and past the grand piano, and into her small kitchen, where I find my mother preparing the midday meal. She’s seasoning boiled potatoes with parsley and by her side is a fresh green salad, steamed sauerkraut and an array of juicy bratworsts and charred sausages. Dad’s methodical, thumping footsteps tell me that he’s on his way up from the keller with a case of beer. Oma is already sitting outside, waiting patiently by the outdoor table leading to her small garden, her presence almost invisible if it weren’t for the soft tune she’s whistling. She’s set the table, yet some places lack forks, others have two knives, and water glasses are scattered around in a confused fashion, signs of dementia that grow stronger each time I visit. A heavy tick, tock, tick, tock comes from the grandfather clock inside, letting us know that its 12:30 and time to eat. Around the village other families are gathering for the same occasion, evidenced by wafts of braised meats, savory sauces, and cooked vegetables that float out their windows and through the streets of Quatshausen. We gather at the table outside and Mom puts an apron around Oma, whose white pleated pants might otherwise become the receptacle for salad dressing or drops of mustard. A late summer breeze passes through, wrapping around us in the gentlest way, but we’re so ravenous and we hardly notice the chime jingling softly by our side, arousing a deep and corporal nostalgia for childhood. 

I try not to stuff myself as much as I did at breakfast, or last night's dinner or yesterday's lunch. But the flavors are so rich and before I finish one bite I'm eagerly awaiting the next, and soon I’m already heaping seconds onto my plate, wiping up the sauce with a fresh brötchen roll and resigning to the fact that I’ll return home several pounds heavier, as I usually do after a visit to Germany. I wash it all down with a cold beer, a nice contrast to the sun that’s shining on my back and warming up my shoulders. 

We sit for a long time, listening to Oma’s stories, many of which I’m hearing for the second or third time, but I enjoy every second of it. Her cheerful energy and youthful giggle somehow contradict the sunken eyes and pale skin that mark her gaunt face, signs of growing old and surviving so much pain and sorrow. Despite her grief, at having lost her husband and son to cancer and having her only daughter across the world in America, she manages to be sunny and charming. I love her so much and am reminded of being a young child in her home, playing boardgames, listening to her play the accordion, watching her knit socks in her rocking chair by the chocolate cabinet.

I clear the table and mom and Oma sing together as they wash the dishes. I retire upstairs to my little bedroom. The afternoon sun makes my pink walls sparkle and I peer out my window to the clutter of old tiled roofs that gather in the center of the village, with sprawling fields and pastures in the distance beyond. I remember playing dolls in this room with the other girls from the village.  Antje, Katje, Silvia. I wonder what they're all doing now. After a long day at the playground and running through the streets past the baker and the butcher (who would always give us free ice cream) we’d retreat to my room to eat Milka chocolate bars, gossip about Kevin from the Back Street Boys and hide from my brothers in the storage room by my closet. Now, in the drawers by my bed, I still find childhood drawings and old photographs, even a lone D-Mark, dating back to life before the Euro. 

Me und meine liebe Omachen, right before delving into a home-made Black Forest cake

Oma, Mom, aunt Zdena, me

Mom and I at a castle in Marburg, a city 30 min from her childhood village

my cuz Cristoph, hard at work

In early august I arrived in Germany after a few days with my parents in Denmark, where we visited old friends in a lovely town along the North Zealand coast, about a 50 min drive from Copenhagen. The weather felt shockingly cold upon arrival, at least that’s how it seemed to us New England wimps, freshly tanned and still sweaty from the thick August heat that had marked this past summer, one of the hottest and driest in recent history. The rugged Danes, on the other hand, couldn’t be phased by the wind and rain. Our hosts were eating outdoor dinners by the bonfire and skinning dipping in the icey Nordic waters. “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing” Marianne told me, flashing a warm smile. She and my father met traveling in Marakesh in 1970 and they have remained close friends ever since.  Marianne’s children, now grown, have come to stay with us in the US many times and in turn her daughter Sine graciously put me up during the summer of 2008 when I interned w the Red Cross in Copenhagen. 

So we heeded Marianne’s advice and put on our thickest sweaters and raincoats and wandered along the gorgeous coastline, biked through the countryside and picked wild mushrooms in the forest. We cooked big dinners outside over a firepit and old friends of my parents from Norway and Sweden came to visit. My dear friend Jenelle, who I met in Colombia, also joined us for a couple of evenings and many bottles of wine. 

searching for mushrooms w Mads

fresh picked herbs

Jenelle on a crisp morning, contemplating the beauty of life!

little Augusta, mom, me, Simone + Marianne

our Danish hosts

The country’s subtle beauty was in stark contrast to the loud and bombastic colors of Colombia that I had been used to seeing over the past two years. Here, instead of gigantic green leaves, lush palm trees and vibrant tropical orchids, the landscape was made up of soft tans and browns and greens, dotted with gentle lilac wild flowers and endless wheat fields. The houses weren’t bright pastels but rather old wooden structures of white and brown. The Danish sun, unlike the fiery and brilliant Colombian rays, is soft and penetrating. It seeps into houses and illuminates kitchens and turns hair into golden blonde. It is gentle and long lasting in the summer, making the days feel endless.

                                      

From Copenhagen I went to Berlin, where I spent a few days 

at Leah’s house, my best friend from high school whose living with her fiance, Noah, and dancing with the Berlin Opera. One of Leah’s friends lent me a bike and we spent our days cruising through the streets, drinking cappuccinos, lounging in grassy parks, doing yoga and eating Kebabs. One Tuesday morning we happened upon a Turkish market in the center of town.  It was full of colorful fabrics and fruits and rows of baklava treats. We pushed our way through the crowds, munching on juicy peaches and tasting the fresh feta, olives, dates, and baked bread that tempted us along the way.  Though I'd spent time in Berlin as a youngster (we all uprooted there one summer when mom got a job at the Jewish Museum) it felt as though I was experiencing the city for the first time. Much grungier than Copenhagen, but I found charm in the nit and grit. Berlin is green, lush, has great public transport and is super bike-friendly and diverse, not to mention really, really cheap. 

Now I'm back in Northampton, approaching page 100 of my endless thesis, and soaking up every second of life changing around me. I recently spent a few days hiking in the Vermont woods with some old college friends. It's been so nice to reconnect with friends and family, but also with the landscape I grew up with. Years have passed since I've experienced fall and I love being around to witness the changing of the seasons; somehow it feels fitting as I myself let go of one chapter of life and move onto the next. 

Hasta luego mi querida Colombia

Not a day has passed in the last week without me breaking down in tears. Whether its walking down the street, riding the metro, hugging a dear friend, or sitting alone on my balcony and watching the day turn to night, at some point they eventually surface. Today, as I was riding the bus, they seemed to come out of nowhere, the kind of huge elephant drops that can't be hidden with the wipe of a sleeve of the dab of a tissue. The old woman sitting next to me reached over and placed her hand on top of mine. Don't worry, she said, looking straight ahead. Todo se arregle. It all works out. Las lagrimas limpian el alma.

Saying goodbye to Colombia reminds me of graduating college: its poignant and sweet and sad and confusing all at once. A deep, intuitive sense that the time has come to move on is intertwined with feelings of attachment and twinges of doubt over leaving, that maybe abandoning this incredible community is in fact a huge and terrible mistake. This morning as I was packing my suitcases and cleaning up my apartment, taking down wall hangings and clearing out desk drawers, I came across business cards of old connections made upon arrival and I began to reflect on how much I've grown over the past two years ago. I was mopping the floor, salsa blaring in the background and salty tears dripping onto the floor below me and I felt (feel) a bizarre combination of sadness and joy. This country is so amazing. The land, the mountains, the unpredictable afternoon downpours, the old men sitting on street corners, the whistling fruit vendors... it’s all so beautiful and so alive. The unique and painful history that Colombians have lived through has turned them into an unusually sensitive, intellectual, lively, and joyful people. There’s an appreciation of life here that just feeds your soul. Last night my friends organized a goodbye party for me at my favorite mexican restaurant. We drank beer and tequila and ate enchiladas and told jokes and reminisced and laughed and cried...afterwards my dear friend Farid walked me home and as we approached my house I couldn't help but absorb the sweetness of the evening; the warm breeze and the sliver of moon above us, the gentle hum of music flowing out of nearby windows ..and I felt a full and overwhelming sensation of love. And faith. Sadness for leaving this place but faith in what lies ahead and love for all the amazing people that have touched my life along the way. 

I know the transition back to the US will be challenging, but I am looking forward to the next chapter - whatever it is. There have been moments of weakness and vulnerability, many, but overall this experience has strengthened me in so many ways and has left me with a deep sense of integrity. I feel I have not only survived the challenge of starting from scratch, but have thrived in it - and for that I am very grateful. It's time to move on, but Colombia will always stay with me. Knowing that I will return here in the future (and definitely in a few months to defend my thesis) makes saying goodbye much easier.

Now it's time to reconnect with my family and friends and fill my lungs with  Massachusetts summer air !

This morning I had a long conversation with my classmates about the current political and social state of Colombia. There has been a frightening erosion of security in the last few months, much of which is heightened along the atlantic and pacific coasts (in the last two weeks more than 10 people have been murdered (one decapitated) in Quibdó, the capital city of the Choco department; there have been bomb threats and mini explosions, and major roads are closed down due to hijackings by the FARC. In this light, it's hardly shocking that the US state department recently reissued its travel warning to Colombia. To a foreigner living in a middleclass neighborhood of Medellín, attending one of the city’s best private schools and surrounded by hard working and educated friends, its easy to think that Colombia is rapidly moving away from its legacy of violence, poverty and warfare. (After all, Colombia has one of the fastest growing economies in Latin America, in 2011 the government signed a long awaited Free-Trade Agreement with the United States, and the city of Medellín is increasingly considered a model for urban development and social transformation). But according to my friends this morning, the sense of security and stability is nothing more than an illusion. “We’re walking on thin ice”, one classmate said, shaking his head. “This place is still jodido. I mean, I love my country. Colombians are some of the best people in the world, but we if we don’t have security we have nothing. And we don’t have security”. Sure, citizens of Medellín no longer face the same brutality they lived through in the nineties when an average of 20 people a day were murdered and no one was exempt from the risk of kidnappings, car bombings, stop-light robberies and murders. But the violence and corruption that plagued the country a decade ago has long from disappeared (as much as many Uribistas would like to believe otherwise); it’s simply been diverted from the rich and bougie neighborhoods and almost entirely concentrated in the poor communes. Narco-traffickers still reside in all parts of the city, including the most luxurious areas, but it’s the microlevel hustlers from the ghettos who provide the image of drug dealers and take the slack for Colombia’s current predicament. Perhaps it’s hard to imagine that folks who speak 2 or 3 languages, drive BMW’s, go on vacation overseas and have studied in some of North America and Europe’s finest institutions are involved in drug trafficking. But in fact, it’s actually the big-time players, those who may be upfront prestigious business owners, PhD professors, or CEO’s of important corporations, that are deeply involved in Colombia’s drug trade (if not entirely running it). “Narco trafficking is the engine that drives this country, Sonya. It is the basis of our economy, and more people than you can imagine are involved in some form,” my friends told me, with a focused, lets-break-this-down-for-the-gringa look. As much as I’ve studied the drug conflict in Colombia, the truth is it’s still hard to fully grasp just how intertwined it is in the economic, social, political, and cultural realities of everyday life here. Take, for instance, the aesthetic of beauty in Medellín. It is a social conception that comes directly from the Pablo Escobar era and the legacy of cocaine cartels. Drug lords in the 80’s who went from rags to riches would pay for their girlfriends to get breast implants, nose jobs, lypo-suction, etc and soon the cookie-cutter barbie style beauty became a general symbol of wealth and status around the city. This has not disappeared. I should be used to plastic surgery by now, considering its everywhere and on everyone - including men - but I still get thrown off every now and then by copious amounts of silicone. Last night at the gym for instance, I took a spinning class and was blown away by all the straightened blond-streaked hair, dangling earrings, and exaggeratedly fake boobs flopping around beside me (at the GYM. Just imagine what a night club here looks like).

Yet, despite the complexity of problems that exist here, It’d be impossible to deny that this country is moving forward. How could it not with its vibrant energy, breath-taking natural beauty, and millions of smart and creative people? I guess the key is trying to keep a holistic perspective; it’s naive to think narco-trafficking and violence are woes of the 90's, and excessively cynical to believe there’s no space for transformation. Ultimately, the long term development of this country will depend on effective education initiatives, military control over FARC terrorist activities, and international policy change (i.e the legalization of marijuana and cocaine. I know, highly unlikely, but I think its one of the only feasible ways of ending the violence and warfare that is crippling the Americas. As long as there is demand, someone will do whatever it takes to make sure there is supply). As United-Stateseans, we too have to critically analyze and take responsibility for the current drug conflict, which I believe is at the root of Colombia's massive crisis of the state (marked by poverty, failed democracy, social inequality, unemployment, social exclusion, lack of participation in formal education systems, and youth involvement in illegal markets). For some reason, the stigma associated with cocaine is placed on the producers, providers and hustlers (mostly poor latinos) rather than the consumers (often middle class and rich North Americans and Europeans). This is of course wrapped up in all sorts of racist/classist paradigms and complex power structures, which allow the United States as the world hegemon to get away with lack of accountability for the destruction left in the wake of unfair policies (nothing new for us).

For more information check out: http://www.stratfor.com/weekly/colombias-new-counterinsurgency-plan?utm_source=freelist-f&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20120329&utm_term=sweekly&utm_content=readmore&elq=45d91061a6f946b39be899a82f01c47b

On another note, I’m now full swing into my last semester of school. In december I graduated from a certificate program at EAFIT University in Geopolitics. It was an amazing experience overall, but in order to finish the Masters I had to switch institutions (EAFIT doesn’t offer Masters programs in Political Studies - only certificate programs). So in January I began classes at la Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana (UPB), a catholic and rather conservative university a 15 minute bike ride from my house. Classes start every day at 6:00 am. To be honest, getting up before dawn isn’t particularly fun, but the truth is there’s actually something lovely about waking up when the rest of the world is still asleep, having a cup of coffee, and jumping on my bike while the sky is cool and dark and the birds are just beginning to sing. I love the sensation of cruising through the empty streets of my neighborhood with the breeze against my face and watching the sun rise as the city slowly comes alive. After class, I usually head to the library to grind on my thesis. Im writing it on youth participation in public policy in Medellín's most precarious neighborhoods through Participatory Budgeting, a relatively new democratic process in which regular citizens work together with the municipal office in deciding how to allocate 5% of the city’s overall budget. Its a really cool form of community activism and participation in a society where most citizens, especially the poor, have historically been isolated from political decision making. I’m still working for my old boss on the side and teaching private English classes on Monday and Thursday afternoons. In general, life this semester is much more low-key, which is suiting me fine as I focus on finishing school. Weekends are dedicated to spending time with my honey, being outside, and cooking. Last weekend Jose and I made home-made corn tortillas, soy milk from scratch (wayy too long and arduous of a process) and a Coq au Vin dinner for a group of friends. Most weekends are pretty mellow though, and sometimes I find myself in bed by 11 pm with a book, which has its own charm. Sunday nights I usually play pick up soccer with friends. If we’re lucky our French friend Claire invites us over afterwards to indulge in one of her killer home-made deserts. (Last weekend it was a passion-fruit cheese-cake to die for). This weekend i’m heading to a national Rotary conference in Manizales, a city high in the hills of coffee country. Ex-president Alvaro Uribe will be giving a conference on the current state and future of Latin America. The following week is "semana santa" (holy week) and Im going camping with a group of buddies to the northern most tip of Colombia - la Guajira - where desert meets ocean. My cousin Jordan is coming to the coastal city of Cartagena with a bunch of his friends so we'll spend a night with them along the way. Can't wait! It's always so exciting when I get to share part of this experience with people from home :)

(Below: at a themed dinner party w/ Rotarians and fellow ambassadorial scholar)

The weeks are flying and before I know it this semester will be over. I wish life didn’t go by quite so fast! I am trying to soak up every last moment of this experience and just enjoy, without letting the anxiety of my thesis, or the “what comes next?” question, or the daily stresses of life take up too much space.

Making light of the banalities of life!

I’m back in Medellín and about to start my last semester of my Master's program. Making the transition between such different worlds is never easy, in fact I struggle with transitions in general, but this time it seemed particularly difficult to say goodbye to the comforts of home. It was just so wonderful to spend the holidays breathing fresh, winter air and surrounded by the warmth of friends and family. Now, as often happens after spending time away, I feel like I’m seeing Medellín with fresh eyes. I find myself particularly aware of cultural differences that will become customary as time passes or until the next change of context. Thankfully i have amazing people in my life here who help make these moments of homesickness short lived. I thought I’d use this moment to reflect on some of my favorite things about living in Colombia (taking the quality and charm of the people as a given):

Lunch menus (“el plato del día”).

This combo offered in all restaurants, comes with a surprisingly substantial amount of food, including an appetizer soup, fresh juice, and sometimes desert... all for the whopping equivalent of 3 or 4 dollars. In fact, lunch culture in general I love. It does make more sense to eat your heaviest meal in the middle of the day when your body has hours to use and burn the energy, rather than at night right before collapsing into a horizontal position of immobility. El almuerzo is considered the most important meal in Colombia, which explains why most businesses shut down for 2 hours at noon so folks can enjoy a solid and relaxing lunch, often in the company of friends or co-workers. If you’re lucky enough to have comfortable chairs in your work space, there might even be time for a short siesta before getting back to the grind.

The ease of riding buses.

Unlike in the United States where catching a bus requires waiting at a bus stop, here it simply calls for a quick wave of the hand. Most buses will pull over and pick up pedestrians at any given place on the street.

$3 manicures.

Ohhh, guilty pleasures. One of my favorite cultural nuances that I’ve adopted is indulging in frequent visits to the peluqueria. I wish I could pretend getting my nails scrubbed and polished all while watching juicy Colombian soap-operas didn’t give me as much joy as it does. Occasionally I’ll splurge the extra 5 bucks on a pedicure too.

The prevalence of good music.

Sure, we’re all probably familiar with spanish kitsch songs (Ricky Martin, “The Best Thing About Me Is You” comes to mind), but generally the mix of Salsa, Vallenato, and Cumbia is an awesome back drop to almost all settings. Ill even take raunchy Reggaeton songs, esp if it’s Friday night.

The climate.

I am a New England girl at heart, and while I love a good cross country ski and playing in the snow, there’s no denying the splendor of year-round 70 degree weather and sunshine.

The size of coffee cups.

You know that moment in the afternoon, around 4 o’clock, when you need a little pick-me-up but aren’t ready to take on a full cup of coffee or the intensity of a double-espresso? Or perhaps your more familiar with the immediate post-lunch itus that brings on a similar sense of lid dropping drowse. Well, Colombian coffee (watery though it may be) is served in small portions - about 1/2 the size of a standard US small cup, which is really perfect for having several throughout the day and the ideal amount for a late afternoon boost of energy without signing up for a night of insomnia.

Exotic flowers.

One thing i'll miss dearly when I leave Medellín is the accessibility to beautiful, cheap, abundant, and fresh flowers. They are sold in markets, on street corners, at red lights and are so lovely in and around the house. These specimens of nature are so sacred here that Medellín even pays homage to them in an annual "Feria de las Flores" festival. Flower Power!

Fruit juices.

In my opinion, traditional Colombian cuisine does not take enough advantage of the abundance of fresh vegetables that grow effortlessly here, but it sure throws down when it comes to fruit, especially fresh-squeezed juices.

No-shame mouth gear.

Let’s be honest, braces are never really fun, but they especially stop being cute after the 8th grade. It’s unusual to see adults in the US with braces; most people after 20 would probably rather opt for a crooked smile than for a grill full of colorful wires and rubber bands. This is probably due to feelings of bashfulness (cultural immaturity?). In Colombia, on the contrary, full blown professionals of all ages (i’ve noticed them on restaurant owners, professors, bank-tellers, even news anchors) seem to have no problem rocking a mouth full of metal.

Coming from a culture where customer service, timeliness, efficiency, and commitment are rigidly valued, at times I can get easily irritated with the pace of life in Colombia, where things naturally take a bit longer, are a little less organized, and often are accompanied by what feels like excessive bureaucracy. These feelings of frustration tend to be particularly heightened after visiting the US. But then I remember (or am reminded) to just breathe deeply and not try to compare the two counties or place value judgements on either one. There are so many incredible things about Colombia that make up for little annoyances, and indeed many of them we United-States-eans could undoubtedly learn from (i.e. humility, not taking things too seriously, and general politeness, especially towards neighbors and strangers). There is much I miss about “home” - a vague and somewhat non-existent concept indeed - but mostly it’s the people. (Well, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and good Indian food rank high up there as well). On days like today when I feel a bit nostalgic, it helps to recognize all that I have here and the beauty of getting to experience a different way of life.

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree...

This post is dedicated to my parents; two of the coolest people I know and my best and oldest friends. The two who raised me, who taught me to be outside when the sun is shining, to not answer phone calls during meals, to always offer to do the dishes when a guest in someone’s house. Yes, this special pair deserves a post on their own, for it is their legacy, their amalgamation of forces in the universe 30 years ago in Cuzco that made my very existence possible and inspired my recent trip to Peru. They taught me to open up my arms and heart to the world, to indulge in her tastes and smells and cultures, and to always follow my nose. And the seed they planted in me has sprouted a deep love for adventure, and for that I’m eternally grateful. Thanks guys.


I can just picture it now: my father, a strapping 30 year old man stopped in his tracks by the slender and confident blonde. They would sit along side one another on the train to Aguas Calientes and he would offer her one of the bananas he’d bought at the central market earlier that day. She would enamor him with her cool poise, broken English and radiant smile. They would hike Machu Picchu and fill up on ancient energy and the fresh, cool air that is so unique to the Andean high-lands. Perhaps it was the altitude, or too many Pisco Sours, or simply the power of an initial attraction, but whatever it was they decided to each abandon their respective plans and forge a new path together. I suppose it seems fitting that such a dramatic country would set the stage for three decades of marriage. The mixture of hot and cold, dryness and humidity, desolate Andes and thriving jungle is symbolically representative of two beings whose acute differences compliment each other and strengthen their overall union ("the whole is greater than the some of its parts"). I wonder sometimes if it could have occurred to either of them when they met that first night in Cuzco that they would lead a life together and raise 3 kids together. Could mom have possibly imagined what she was signing up for when she agreed to sell her train ticket and travel the Amazon with this stranger? That in a matter of months she would give up her apartment and café in Germany to start a new life in the United States? Did she know that she would drop routes in Northampton, MA, raise her children Jewish, and (by obligation if not will) become a life-long Red Sox fan? I wonder if dad had an instinct that this lady could become the mother of his children. Could he have possibly understood, that first night, that he’d be getting the most beautiful, wonderful, intelligent and dynamic woman on the planet? How could they have known. At the time it was simply an adventure, a leap of faith.... but I must say, gracias a dios for it.


I imagine the Cuzco I got to experience is quite different today than it was in 1980. Much of the local way of life has been hampered by mass tourism, commerce and consumerism - all of which have increased exponentially in recent decades. Downtown Cuzco is a dizzying array of hotels, restaurants, tour companies and artisan shops. I found it a bit sad, though not surprising, that indigenous families sit on street corners and charge tourists to take their picture (can you blame them?), every archeological site is full of craft-sellers and tourist-hagglers, and Machu Picchu is teaming with tour guides and international back-packers. But to expect anything else would be naive and romantic. This is the 21st century and a place as magical and historically rich as Peru can’t possibly exist without thousands of people, like myself, curious to explore that magic and history. It’s mind-boggling, really, to think that just a century ago Machu Picchu - the cradle of Inca civilization - was “discovered” by Yale historian Hiram Bingham. Even more shocking is that the Spaniards managed to bring down such a rich and extensive civilization centuries before that (unless, of course, theories are correct that suggest the empire was already crumbling from within and the European conquistadores only added the finishing touches). The Incas were brilliant architects and their domain spread from southern Colombia to Chile, including parts of Argentina, Bolivia, and Ecuador. Although they were predominantly a mountain-dwelling people, the Incas developed trade routes leading to the jungle and the coastlines. The coca leaf, for instance, famous for helping combat altitude sickness and aid digestion, was chewed by Incas but originally comes from the Amazon lowlands.
Not long ago a group of archeologists discovered that Inca rulers in Cuzco had a diet consisting of fresh fish from the ocean. This was a marvelous fact since at the time obviously no form of rapid transportation existed between the mountains and the coast. Cuzco is an inland city at an altitude of 12,000+ feet about sea level. As it turns out, the Incas had established a sophisticated set of checkpoints along a trail from Cusco to the sea, with ‘stations’ every 20 miles or so. An obviously very fit athlete would take fresh fish from the ocean and sprint with it 20 km to the first checkpoint, where it would be handed off to another runner who would carry it on to the next. The fish would be passed along in spurts until it reached the Inca in his Sacred Valley. Symbols of wealth never die: today the rich and powerful eat fancy foods from across the world; in the days of the Incas, they got hand-delivered seafood.


Despite the inevitable effects of globalization that have altered Cuzco for better or for worse, Inca history is omnipresent: it’s in the faces of the people, the taste of the food (chicha corn beer and quinoa are staples of Peruvian diet) and is what characterizes the landscape. Indigenous people still speak Quechua and practice traditional agriculture. Scattered ruins fill the Sacred Valley with remnants of once bustling temples and ceremonial buildings. Cuzco is surrounded by drastic mountains and steep hills, many still marked by ancient techniques for growing potatoes and corn. Crops were planted on step-like beds of soil along the side of a mountain so that different altitudes would be conducive to growing slightly different types of potatoes.


After living 1.5 years in Medellín where bumping into tourists is still relatively unusual, it was surprising to be in a much more touristy place. Colombia still hasn’t made the cut for many South American backpackers due to its dangerous reputation. Peru, on the other hand, and esp Cuzco due to its proximity to Machu Picchu, is probably on the top of most travelers To Do lists when touring the continent. Perhaps for this reason I found it more difficult to connect with people and break the invisible boundaries between local and foreigner, whose most common relationship is defined, in one way or another, as seller and buyer. Folks seemed to me to be a bit exhausted and annoyed by the endless slue of visitors inhabiting their city, but who can blame them.


Overall, I left Peru in awe and admiration for the incredibly rich history that has shaped the country and its people. I feel like there is so much to see and do in Peru (visit lake Titicaca, fly over the Nazca lines, eat Ceviche and rumba in Lima, hike ruins along northern coast, take a boat from Puerto Maldonado and explore the Amazon... to name a few) and my 10 day trip was just enough to wet my appetite. If I ever get the opportunity to go back, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

A Long Weekend Trip to the Coast: Trigana, Capurgana, Sapzurro

Colombians say despite international press that tends to focus on the dangers and problems of this country, the biggest risk of all is that once you come here you’ll never want to leave ("Colombia: el riesgo es que te quieras quedar"). I must say, this risk is becoming a reality for me! Monday was a national holiday, so a group of us decided to take advantage of the 3 day weekend and accompany our friend Andrea to an isolated corner along the Atlantic coast where she was doing a training for work. Her NGO, Makaia, provides basic internet and computer classes to indigenous and Afro-communities in Chocó. So we all piled into an over night bus and rode 10 hours along a pot-hole ridden highway to the city of Turbo. From there we took a boat to Triganá where we spent the weekend hiking in the jungle, swimming, and falling asleep to crickets and ocean waves. We cooked big dinners and sat along the dock telling jokes and playing games. It was quite an adventure for such little time, but well worth it despite the bumpy drive and the back-breaking, wave-smacking boat ride. We returned to Medellín Monday night tired and sore, but with recharged batteries to face another week of work and school.

I fell deeper in love with Colombia this weekend, partly due to the natural beauty of its geography and partly due to the warmth and positivity of its people. The golf of Urabá is a region where the Caribbean ocean meats the Antioquian and Chocoano departments. If you’re looking at a map of Colombia, it’s situated on the upper left corner by the boarder to Panama. This weekend we stayed mostly in the territory belonging to Chocó, the only state in Colombia that has access to both oceans. As noted in my last entry, in September I also traveled to Chocó, but to the Pacific side, which - despite being the same department - has a whole different vibe and history from its Atlantic counterpart. Along the Pacific coast, the geography is marked by thick, wet jungle and persistent rain with less frequent glimpses of sunshine. This weekend on the Atlantic side, however, I tasted a drier, milder and less dense version of Chocó. The jungle is still there, and it kisses the coastline, but the climate is less humid and more typical of the Carribbean. Despite the negative consequences that undeniably come along with being one of Colombia's most abandoned areas (see previous post), from a naturalist perspective, Choco's isolation has allowed it to maintain its pristine beaches and rugged mountains relatively untouched by both Colombians and foreigners alike (those with most contact to this region have been migrants and outlaws).

The golf of Urabá has historically and strategically been of extreme importance to Colombia - serving the communal interests of both the government and armed terrorist groups, resulting in heightened clashes between the two. It’s rich biodiversity and natural resources are valuable for attracting foreign investment (Chiquita Banana, among other multinational corporations, has chosen to set up shop within the region), but for the same reasons the territory stretching between both coastlines and including the Darien Gap is attractive to many illicit groups, such as the FARC. It's location along the boarder to Panama means virtually all of the drug trafficking between the Americas passes through this region. This, combined with a lack of state presence, explains in large part why a potentially thriving tourist hotspot has taken long to gain momentum.



For us, however, having peace and quite away from the buzz of other travelers was absolutely perfect. A dear friend Yomaira let us all crash in this dream house on the water for free of charge. We wandered the coast and visited her neighbor, Juan Guillermo, who had designed her home and lived in his own little refuge back towards the jungle.

One afternoon we took a boat ride to the quiet town of Sapzurro. From their we climbed over a hill to the Panamanian border and continued to La Miel, the first beautiful cove on the Panamanian side.


Now, back in Medellín, I can already feel the city winding down for the holiday season. Here the Christmas fever starts way into November: most stores and houses are already adorned with flashing lights and everyone is talking about their plans for December. I just can’t believe how fast the time is going by... it seems like Christmas just happened!


My friend Astrid from Denmark is back in Colombia, preparing to work on a sustainable development project in the northern desert area of la Guajira. For the next few weeks she’ll be staying in my apartment. We met up for dinner and drank tea on my balcony while watching a rainbow form over the city. Reconnecting with good friends never gets old!

Vive Colombia, Vive Chocó, Vive San Pacho!

These last few months have been a slew of travels, visitors, school (finishing my political studies program and graduate on dec 15!) and work. I recently finished translating my boss’s doctorate thesis on innovation and development, and am now helping out on various other smaller projects at ECSIM. As previously noted, translation work is pretty uninspiring, but the office environment is great. I love my co-workers and my boss, and this job has allowed me the flexibility to create my own schedule, which is particularly convenient when visitors are in town.

This past weekend I went with a group of friends on a 4 day adventure to celebrate and participate in the annual San Pacho fiestas in Quibdó, the capital city of the coastal department of Chocó. San Pacho is a two week long cultural and religious celebration, in which Afro-descendants along the pacific coast pay homage to patron saints by dancing, singing and marching in elaborate parades throughout the city. Surprisingly, these celebrations remain widely unknown throughout the rest of the country. Our group was comprised of 8 Colombians (Paisas from Medellín), 1 Italian, 1 German, 1 French, 4 gringos, 1 Kenyan, and 1 Australian. We were quite a neon spectacle and represented a high percentage of all the foreigners in town, which attracted the attention of various news anchors who followed us around with video cameras.

Chocó is the poorest and least developed department of Colombia. It has historically been isolated from the rest of the country due to a harsh terrain of swamplands and thick jungle. Building roads through this area is difficult and expensive, which has resulted in poor infrastructure and lack of development. The department overall has been largely abandoned by the state and considered a hopeless case due to political corruption and overwhelming conditions of poverty. Indeed, the Colombian government has - dare I say, carelessly - pumped money into the region only to see it vanish into the hands of several elite politicians. While Chocó is practically bursting with natural resources and wildlife, a lack of clear vision, proper leadership, community responsibility (“pertenencia”), and effective programing has left the area economically devastated and largely undeveloped. Most people lack basic needs like food, shelter, and health care. There are few schools and even fewer with quality education. Due to a lack of government presence, its vulnerable population and highly geostrategic location (the state of Chocó contains all of Colombia’s border with Panama and access to central America), the department has become a stomping ground for many guerilla and paramilitary groups as well as an important narco pathway for the illicit trafficking of drugs.

Perhaps it makes sense then, that despite the awesomeness of this event, San Pacho remains ignored by much of the rest of Colombia and the world at large. It surpised me that so few people in Medellín, including classmates, co-workers, friends and neighbors had any clue what San Pacho was. In Quibdó, this is the sole most important cultural event of the year, as it involves the whole city and months of preparation. Each day a host of onlookers would congregate on sidewalks and rooftops to watch the colorful parade and dancing troupes pass by.

We stayed with the lovely Jose, who was born and raised in Quibdó, though now attends one of the best universities in Bogotá. His father opened up his home to all of us for the weekend. Everyone slept on the wooden living room floor, lined up like sardines. Because there were so many of us using an already delicate plumbing system, at least once a day the water shut off, which meant bathing outdoors with buckets and using no-flush toilets. But it was a great excuse for group showers! Overall we had a blast.

The hospitality of Jose’s family gave us just a taste of Chocoano warmth and generosity. Despite the economic poverty that faces the region, the people are so rich in culture, spirit, wisdom, and energy. It seems that the Chocoano people have a natural positivity to them that shines through the way they smile, walk, talk and interact. During the day, neighbors or cousins or friends would come by Jose’s house and stick their head in the door to share fried corn patties, or offer us traditional Sancocho stew, or simply to say hi to us and witness the goofy parche of foreigners. The quality and style of life in Quibdó reminded me a lot of life in Botswana, where I spent my junior year of college.

Our time in Quibdó was basically a pattern of waking up in the morning, eating breakfast, and hitting the streets in one flashy mob to dance the day away – rain or shine – until our voices were hoarse and our legs wobbly. We would then come home and rest for a few hours, eat dinner, splash some water on our faces, and change before going out again for the nocturnal part of the fiesta.

Choco is the wettest region on earth... it rains over 50% of the year. There seems to be a perpetual drizzle, though the rain has hardly stopped locals from carrying on with life. At least every day there was some sort of shower, but folks would still be out and about riding motorcycles, selling fruit, walking in the streets, singing, dancing and marching in the parades. At night, the rain would often lull us to sleep. Those who weren’t already utterly smashed from passing around bottles of Aguardiente all day would let their last bit of consciousness drift away with the pit patter of water on the tin roof. It was wonderfully soothing as it drowned out the perpetual thumping of reggaeton and salsa beats that seemed to fill every space in Quibdó.

On our last day, we took a bus outside the city, through a windy jungle road to the beautiful Tutunendo river. We spent the whole afternoon wading in the fresh, cool water and laughing about the weekend (or at least what we could remember of it). We finished off the afternoon with a delicious Sancocho that was prepared on a big pot near the banks of the river. A heavy downpour started on our ride home, just in time for a late afternoon nap.

The whole trip was really amazing and allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of Colombia’s diversity and richness. I hope one day people loose their fear of Chocó and open their minds to the energy and uniqueness of this region. May more people discover the beauty of Chocó, not to steal its riches or exploit its population, but to appreciate all it has to offer and help improve the grave situation that Chocoanos are facing. May the country come together to find away to support the sustainable development, protection and integration of this special land and its inhabitants. Vive Colombia, vive Chocó, vive San Pacho!