wrenched

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. —Martin Luther King, Jr.

I believe that, but it's clear that not everyone does. Take the guy who shook his head angrily, not even willing to respond to my "excuse me, sir, but I think I'm lost" last week at the state government complex. And maybe it's not even true, but I choose this belief in the hope that it matters what we believe, hoping these choices make our lives richer, sweeter, and just generally more like ice cream (with apologies to Simply Wait).

I say goodbye to this country, to this year of my life, in one week. More than anything else, I feel wrenched. Knowing you're going to be in a place for such a finite yet intermediate period of time, at my age, you don't settle in too hard. You buy a bed, but maybe not the most comfortable one. You need curtains, so you pick up some cloth in the 75% off bin at a fabric store. You make friends, but keep most of them at a distance.

So it's almost a relief to realize you did live here, after all. For me the realization set in when I had an aha! moment last weekend. It was Saturday morning, too early after a late night waiting for the incredibly resonant club across the street to close. Just like every Saturday morning, I was awakened by a man selling something, that much was always clear, but just what I could never tell. The informal economy is huge in Bogota; since there are so few formal sector jobs to be had, people buy things in bulk or make crafts and sell them on the street, usually developing a sing-song jangle to advertise their wares. This Saturday, I crossed what felt like a significant signpost, just as I'm preparing to leave: I finally understood what this man was selling. Now I can buy "bolsas para la basura" (how embarrassing for me that it turned out to be so simple) any weekend morning I want.

Wrenched is the best word I can think of to describe this feeling. Twisted and turned til I don't stick here anymore, from one culture back to another. This morning a friend's English students interviewed me for a class project. They all wanted to know how my initial impressions of Colombia changed after I got here. All I remember is being terribly apprehensive | oh my god, did Macondo just open? It's after midnight on a schoolnight! I take it all back, I can't wait to split. Menea, menea... | and really having no idea what to expect. I knew it wasn't like the depictions in Hollywood movies (one has Bogota surrounded completely by jungle) but I didn't have anything concrete to replace those images I'd deleted.

Next week, I go back to something recognizable, but equally opaque in some ways. Exciting, cause it feels like anything could happen. Nerve-wracking, because it feels like anything could happen. And all I'm taking back with me is the belief I started out with, possibly lifted from a late-night made for tv movie, that we're all connected somehow. An inescapable network of mutuality. That and the ice cream. I'll always have the ice cream.

Jingly jangly

I just figured it out. Why everything Christmas is so damn appealing to me right now: I don't have a job. While this puts a bit of a chink in my gift-buying routine, it also means this: I don't have an office.

Which means this: I don't have co-workers.

Which means this: No office party.

Read what The Cynical Girl has to say about that.

Unless, unless! I put in an appearance at Slim's (former co-workers being worlds less annoying than current ones) and I'm guessing no one asks me to make a copy in the middle of carving the turkey this year. But I exaggerate. Wildly.

No discussion of what to do for the office party, as if we were allowed to exercise judgment and do a single thing different from the year before. Meetings of the DOJ "kitty committee," as we were reluctantly known, a forced labor arrangement that involved purchasing large quantities of bagels, then putting up with the snotty attorney who simply must have her favorite flavor, and with the right kind of cream cheese, or she's destroyed...where was I? Oh yes, the "kitty committee" meetings are designed to maximize your migraine: three hours later, "now about the decorations - what did we do last year? Did we have lights or candles, I can't remember..."

Attending your fiancee's office party by choice, in all seriousness, is a different beast entirely from having to attend your own. I can drink too much and insult the boss (not too far from an ordinary work day at DOJ) and no fear of being fired. Who am I kidding, his boss is great and drinking gets me all sappy and silly. Well, no fear of facing people I got ridiculous in front of the night before, anyway. Small blessings are the best kind.

So. Here in Colombia, I'm insanely attracted to every single blinking light, every hint of possible jingly bells like music (so far, nothing), every family-oriented pastiche of holiday bliss, each whiff of cinnamon in the air. It's revolting.

Christmas last year, Dad's foot on film.

I love collecting, then wrapping, gifts. It's like when I was a kid and was always bribing Kathleen to play the packing game. Putting things into boxes has a strange meditative quality for me. Maybe I can get one of those jobs wrapping other people's gifts at the mall! It's clearly a symptom of my disease that I typed that sentence, click-clacking happily away. The mall. Good lord, it's worse than I thought.

Secrets lost and found

I have too much to do. I'm leaving in ten days. You'll probably be seeing a lot of blog entries in the next ten days. Related events?

Two things I came across/was led to tonight:

One, a Book: LONDON: CITY OF DISAPPEARANCES edited by Iain Sinclair. Review here. I don't know about the book, but the review, by Peter Ackroyd, makes me feel mysterious, lost, and a tiny bit shiveringly, delightfully, decrepit:

The city is built upon lost things. It is constructed in a literal sense on the ruins and debris of the past; it towers above forgotten underground rivers and discarded tunnels. It is built upon old graveyards and burial pits.

...The city devours its former incarnations, leaving not a wrack or wraith behind. It buries its dead, and forgets where they lie. That is the source of its strength and its power. The living will in any case soon enough pass into darkness. The city itself will always rise again. It will be renewed when those who read these words have utterly disappeared and been forgotten.

There are stories here of other lost people — not dead but forgotten, relics of a past London culture that faded in the way that everything in the city fades. It is, also, a city of failure and disappointment that are the same thing as absence. That is why many wish to lose themselves within it.

I want to lose myself in it, I do!

Two, an Admission: "Colombian senator acknowledges singing loyalty pledge to paramilitary groups"-- and he wasn't the only one:

BOGOTA, Colombia: A pro-government senator revealed Sunday that he and dozens of other politicians, some of them now members of the government, signed a loyalty pledge in 2001 to right-wing paramilitary warlords.

They were supposedly forced to sign the document at a meeting they were "ordered" to attend. Who knows. It's possible they were not willing accomplices, but at least one senator is accused by Colombia's Supreme Court of "murder for his role in 'organizing, promoting, arming and financing' a paramilitary massacre of 20 people in 2000."

The senator who admitted signing the agreement also stated that some of those implicated in the scandal may claim status as paramilitary members to take advantage of the lighter sentences and greater protection this status provides since the hopelessly, even offensively, misnamed Law of Justice and Peace passed in 2005.

Passed by many of the same members of Congress who now stand to benefit from its measures.

Decried as incredibly lenient by human rights activists, legal observers, and families of the paramilitaries' victims. As Amnesty International points out, the law offers greatly reduced sentences, no extradition (to the US - this is huge for the armed groups, who are often involved in drug trafficking as well), short (in a vast understatement) investigation times that in practice in a country with a 99% impunity rate will only result in fewer crimes being prosecuted, in short, a multitude of ills.

A year later, we know that many of those called "reinsertados" in Colombia are once again involved in illegal armed activities. A demobilization process with no teeth resulted in, surprise, a justice that was swallowed whole and a peace that is indigestible.

Father Roy, founder SOA Watch

For some reason I felt compelled to check the AJC this morning. I haven't read it in months, so I'm not sure why today. On the front page is a link to this story about Father Roy Bourgeois, founder of SOA Watch and lifelong opponent of the US military training Latin American soldiers. I'm not often much impressed by the writing in our local rag, but this article really got to me. The reporter captures something about Father Roy that other articles I've read about the SOA watch did not. Check it out -- good Sunday reading: The protester-priest of Fort Benning.

Bourgeois is at a loss to explain how the Benning demonstrations grew from the passion of one man to an event of thousands. It is as amazing perhaps as his own transformation. A working-class boy who grew up in Lutcher, La., the son of a power company worker, he made it to college, even earned a geology degree at the University of Southwestern Louisiana. But the military provided his ticket to the world. After four years in the Navy, he volunteered for Vietnam.

The young ensign arrived in Southeast Asia in 1965, ready to serve. "I was ready to give my life," he says. But when he saw hatred in the eyes of the South Vietnamese, he was confused: "I really thought people would see us as allies. But there was another side I wasn't prepared for." In orphaned children with swollen bellies and open wounds, Bourgeois saw God. In the rice paddies surrounding Saigon, he felt his faith tugging. "That was my introduction to the victims of violence," Bourgeois says.

He had thought of a military career but decided to devote his life to healing, to being a peacemaker. After his tour, he entered a Catholic seminary. He picked the Maryknoll order — the "Marines of the missionaries: the toughest of the tough," he says. The Maryknolls sent him to Bolivia to live among the poor in the La Paz slums. He worked to start a medical clinic, day care center and education program. He watched the military take away community organizers, students and union activists.

"Men with guns were running the country," Bourgeois says he learned in the land of dictator Hugo Banzer, another graduate of the School of the Americas. Back at his hometown church, he began preaching taboo politics. He used words like exploitation to describe the fate of poor Latin Americans. Bourgeois went next to El Salvador and witnessed a war in which thousands of innocent civilians were tortured and executed by death squads that he says were extensions of the military.

"I was on fire when I came back from Salvador," he says. He knew then he could not keep silent any longer.

Atlanta!

In the Times: Atlanta among top five cities in attracting 24-35 year olds.

They are people who, demographers say, are likely to choose a location before finding a job. They like downtown living, public transportation and plenty of entertainment options. They view diversity and tolerance as marks of sophistication.

Good news for the Beltline, and for commuter rail. Of course, Charlotte is out in front of us. But have you been to Charlotte lately? I have flashbacks to my college days when I accidentally wandered into the khakied business school section of campus. Scary. When I'm in Charlotte, I feel a strange lightness inside. Then I get home to Atlanta and realize it was the soul being sucked out of me. I know, subtlety is not my strong point.

urbanismo

I'm reading an article that I'm thouroughly enjoying, for a change: "EVERYTHING IS ALWAYS GOING TO HELL: Urban Scholars as End-Times Prophets" by Dennis Judd at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Whether or not you agree with his conclusions, and I'm not sure I do, it's refreshing that someone is pointing out how an "end times" approach is not terribly useful in developing urban theory or for urban activists trying to change cities.

Post a comment or email me if you'd like a copy. Here are a few choice bits for you urbanists:

"...local politics became a vital field of study after World War II when it gave up its preoccupations with administrative efficiency and reform and began to consider questions “central to political science as a whole. Who had power? In what sense were cities democratic? Howcould the public interest be secured? What were the political relationships among social classes? Whatwas the significance of ethnic politics? Could race conflict be managed more peacefully in this century than in the last?”

"But soon, in Peterson’s view, urban scholarship turned away from such momentous questions...by abandoning the timeless questions of political philosophy, urban scholarship had become irrelevant to policymakers and dominated by “feudal barons” with narrow specialties in transportation, housing, and other policy fields, expertise in suburbia, the central city, or other restricted urban geographies, or specialties in minority politics of every stripe. The upshot was, “We no longer have students of urban politics” (Peterson 1981, ix-x)."

"Indeed, the reform impulse may be regarded as only one variant of an understanding, long shared among students of the city, that the city is always going to hell, that the changes under way (whatever they may be) are making everything worse, and that things will become truly dire if something is not done now or at least soon."

"The new turn in national policy was surely motivated by the political calculations of the Republican Party. But it is important to realize that the abandonment of the cities also was rooted in a coherent intellectual argument, one put forth in 1980 by a presidential commission appointed by a Democrat, Jimmy Carter:

“It may be in the best interest of the nation to commit itself to the promotion of locationally neutral economic and social policies rather than spatially sensitive urban policies that either explicitly or inadvertently seek to preserve cities in their historical roles” (President’s Commission 1980, 66).

The report of the President’s Commission was the opening salvo of what grew into a political and intellectual assault upon the most hallowed assumption underpinning urban scholarship: that federal aid to the cities was essential to the economic, social, and cultural well-being of the nation."

"Old habits die hard. It is still common practice for books and articles in the field to call for a resumption of federal aid to the cities (I will provide no examples here, lest I be accused of singling someone out). But as Bill Barnes (2005) recently observed, “The era of federal urban policy is, like,way over.”Even in a resurgent Democratic Party—perhaps especially in a resurgent Democratic Party—urban policy is not going to become any significant part of the political agenda."

"The narrative power of the Chicago school can be traced to its foreboding mood of fecundity, decay, and violence: As Hans Christian Andersen’s fables reveal, children, like their elders, are attracted to the tension introduced by these elements. In our own time, a similarly riveting narrative has emerged about urban life in the twenty-first century. Like the Chicago school of the 1920s, the L.A. school’s storyline derives its power from its sweeping and often dramatically bleak interpretation of urban life. (“Dramatically dismal”:
In MikeDavis’s writings, balls of rattlesnakeswash up on the beaches of Los Angeles; there are “pentecostal earthquakes,” “dead cities,” and the question, “who killed L.A.?”; Davis 2002)."

(and my favorite part): "These kinds of rhetorical indulgences may explain why a student in one of my recent seminars began a paper with the observation that 'hyperbole may have become the principal methodology of today’s urban scholarship.' Amen."

image by Zack K.

I am so in the right field.

a new low in the job hunt

seen while haunting craigslist's job board:

SHADOWLAND: The Publication of Terror and the Supernatural" is again open to submissions of: (1) Short Stories (2) Poetry (3) Art (black and white only)

Guidelines: Horror, Science Fiction, Fantasy (preferably in a classic or retro style-- classic Universal, Hammer, Harryhausen, Rod Serling, Hitchcock, H.G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs). Would like to see traditional themes-- ghosts, werewolves, time travel, prehistoric monsters, aliens, zombies, wizards/witches, vampires, sea monsters and so forth.

You know, maybe I've been limiting my writing unnecessarily by avoiding those "traditional themes." Coming soon to this blog: a nice, old-fashioned zombie story. I did have a dream the other night that zombies had moved in to the Buckmaster residence without my dad noticing. They had set up huge wooden boxes angled at 45 degrees out in the front yard in the places where my brother spent his childhood digging holes. Dad mostly noticed those when he went to cut the grass, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised he hasn't picked up on the zombie presence.

shameful.

I saw this happening at the University of Georgia after the HOPE scholarship was created. HOPE mainly benefits middle class kids, although lower income people buy more lottery tickets to fund the program.

NYT Editorial
Public Colleges as ‘Engines of Inequality’
Published: November 23, 2006

"Democrats who ran for Congress this fall made the cost of college a big campaign issue. Now that they’ve won control of the House and Senate, they can prepare to act swiftly on at least some of the factors that have priced millions of poor and working-class Americans right out of higher education. The obvious first step would be to boost the value of the federal Pell Grant program — a critical tool in keeping college affordable that the federal government has shamefully ceased to fund at a level that meets the national need.

But larger Pell Grants can’t solve this crisis alone. Policy changes will also be required in the states, where public universities have been choking off college access and upward mobility for the poor by shifting away from the traditional need-based aid formula to a so-called merit formula that heavily favors affluent students. The resulting drop in the fortunes of even high-performing low-income students — many of whom no longer attend college at all — is documented in an eye-opening report released recently by the Education Trust, a nonpartisan foundation devoted to education reform."

• Aid to students from families making over $100,000 has more than quadrupled at state schools.
  
• state flagship schools are measuring success by how many applicants they turn away and SAT scores, which favor richer students who can afford the study courses

first thanksgiving without

Bob Herbert, as usual, is talking about things that matter: "The Empty Chair at the Table"

While standing on the porch where she got the terrible news about her son, Ms. Zappala spoke of the many other families that have lost children, or other close relatives, to the war. “I’m very aware that it didn’t just happen to us,” she said. “For everybody, it’s the same horrible loss. It’s the same tragedy. It doesn’t make any difference whether someone was for or against the war. We’ve met families who were very supportive of the war and we were crying with them. The pain is the same."

knitting a world

Numbers do not tell stories. Millions displaced, the UN says. Thouands of human rights abuses a year, the international aid organizations decry. Grow the economy with "free" trade, our government disseminates. But today I heard the voice of human misery behind the stock figures, the catchphrases glibly tossed and dire warnings unheeded. I won't tell their stories here; they are not mine to tell. And I missed some things I should have picked up on as important. We were talking about grants, and one woman asked, "but they won't want to hear about our histories?" I realized later what she was really saying was -- does what happened to me matter?

I was meeting with ASMULIDER, an incredible group of women knitting their lives back together again, literally. They do have an awful name, though. It's supposed to be evocative of leadership (the "lider" part), but I'm pretty sure it falls well short of that, but then again, few words could describe their collective experiences, or who they really are. They are 25 or so women who have been displaced by the conflict. Displaced really doesn't come close to describing the horrors people who make the decision to pick up everything overnight and leave their homes have had to face. It sounds so clinical, one object moving into the space of another; ice cubes in a glass of water. This is anything but that. It's messy, humiliating, and degenerating.

The process of claiming status in the government's eyes as a displaced person involves bringing photos of your loved one's corpse, in triplicate. I cannot imagine anything worse, after the loss itself. So today the gruesome images made their teary way around the circle. It's hard for me to understand how people find the strength to go on, but somehow they do, at least that's what it looks like from the outside. As Gracie is fond of saying, the fight continues because we keep fighting.

weighing in

best. dailyshowclip. ever. (I know, I'll probably say that about the next one I see, t00)

still sick-ly. saw an excellent movie last night: Machuca, about Chile in 1978 through the eyes of two boys from opposite backgrounds who become friends.

at the clinic the other night, where they gave me a shot in the ass but did not test for malaria, just looked at me like I was crazy for suggesting it, no matter how many times I repeated, but I've been in Uraba...the nurse guessed my weight. she was about 20 pounds short, which I can't say I minded, but then I got home, ran out of clean clothes and realized she wasn't as far off as she would have been pre-6 hour hiking days. so I'm looking a bit urchin-like since everyone else in Colombia, seemingly wears their pants pressed on.

back to the couch I am. went to the library for some brain food but they couldn't find the books I wanted. is it just me, or does my favorite library in Colombia specialize in making it nearly impossible to view or check out books? something about the top-story cafeteria makes up for it though. the only place I can read in Spanish.

"Beset by Violence, Colombia's Nasa Women Resist"

“C’mon, muchachos, let’s go!” With this abrupt order, Celia Eumesa and a group of the Nasa Indigenous Guard under her command jumped into a van and drove off in hot pursuit of a handful of guerrillas that had just kidnapped some people from her community. Armed with no more than decorative staffs, which they carry to symbolize indigenous authority, they sped behind the guerrillas’ car with a caravan of 60 other Indigenous Guards trailing behind her.

The Nasa people, who number around 300,000, are Colombia’s second-largest indigenous group, mostly concentrated in the departamento (province) of Cauca. Their traditional homeland in this southwestern part of the country has been wracked by some of the worst violence in the country’s 42-year civil war. The armed conflict pits the Communist-inspired Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (or FARC in its Spanish initials) and smaller leftist insurgent groups against the Colombian military and its right-wing paramilitary supporters.

begendings

Why is it that once you decide to leave a place, things get a gagillion times better? Test it yourself, it's a proven fact. As soon as I had my ticket to ride on out of Atlanta, my life took a turn for the amazing. And while I wouldn't say exactly the same here, the circumstances being quite different, I have to say, life is good.

Today I had a paper proposal accepted to the XXVII Annual ILASSA Student Conference (now doesn't THAT look impressive, with those roman numerals and all...) in Austin in February. On a topic I don't recall. I submitted the 300 word proposal in a fashion you could conceivably call last minute (I realized ten minutes before the deadline that day was the day, and turned it in a minute before midnight). So I'm not quite as impressed with the quality of conference participants, shall we say, after getting my acceptance today. The fact that it was addressed to Emily Rebecca Serna (a lovely name, actually), didn't do much to increase my confidence levels. Speaking of which, back to that lost proposal. It did have quite an evocative title, which is I think what got it accepted: Participatory Budgeting in Bogota: Playing the Pinata. But I have no idea what it contains. Do you?

But back to Bogota making me miss it! Tonight was the big set-up -- I think it went well, probably because I had no hand in organizing it. I was just the convenient third wheel. I did get a delicious vegetarian meal and plenty of wine in the bargain though. Luscious tomatoes stuffed with brown rice, roasted eggplant and red peppers, basil, and asparagus. Not as good as Slim's stuff, but not half bad! And spicy...mmm. The luncheon Tom and Porter made Sunday was even spicier -- just what I have been missing here, just when it's time to go!

Also today we found out Trish is not leaving, not yet anyway. Her visa for the union job got postponed until next year. So now it's just me leaving. Better for Eli, so I'm happy, but it feels strange leaving everyone behind. Ah well, PorTom are still going home, so I'm not really the only one.

Last night I didn't have time to give my presentation on Community Justice in the Peace Communities, thankfully because as it turned out I hadn't the slightest what the presentation was supposed to cover. The professor, an expert in the field, sent me a very diplomatic email "suggesting" I make some changes, such as for starters hitting "delete" and starting over. Sigh. And today I spent the better part of the day translating the first Mauricio's letters of recommendation, which he wrote himself, for phd programs in political science in the states. The funny thing is, his research is on a topic I truly find interesting and important for the Andean region -- constitutional law and institutions. Things have been changing here -- Colombia has become the rightist exception to the leftist tilt. Although now with Uribe's senators being charged with paramilitary ties (to put it mildly: they may have participated in planning massacres), who knows what will happen?

That sums it up for tonight. I'm feeling agobiada (overwhelmed, my word for the day), exhausted, achy from a cold that wants to make its home, and exhilarated by the warmth of this freezing city, barely lukewarm showers and all. Tonight there was a conversation at least 10 minutes long devoted purely to the topic of gas water heaters, and who had them. One thing, at least, I won't miss.

parking minimums

Good article about parking minimums (sounds sexy, no?): "No Parking: Condos Leave Out Cars"

No mention of Atlanta, where apparently even discussing parking caps to limit the number of parking spaces developers must provide is considered "too controversial" for the first phase of Beltline planning.

how to be funny

Read this:
"How to be funny" compiled by babydaddy # 6, John Hodgman. (Yes I absolutely am hoping he links back again. What?) I just realized he is also the madman behind the scenes of "Ask a former professional literary agent," which I liked not quite as much as "Dispatches from a Public Librarian." Hopefully he won't hold that against me.

Of twists, turns, and Dramamine

In a new twist, "Rebels ask celebs to assist prisoner swap"

BOGOTA, COLOMBIA — Colombia's largest rebel group is calling on actor Denzel Washington and directors Oliver Stone and Michael Moore to help it reach a deal with the government on exchanging imprisoned guerrillas for rebel-held hostages, including three U.S. defense contractors.

Colombia will only be home to me for another 25 days. 25 days. Nothing, really. What a strange thing, this life. There's so much I'll miss of life here, but so much I miss from my life too. I'm almost ready to go home, but will I be ready to be home once I'm there? This train of thought is making me feel like Carrie...falls under the category of thoughts that may have profound implications for my own life, but aren't actually profound and probably should be handled internally. Blogs are ruining the world. People don't keep anything in anymore -- everything is public, shared, and less forceful because a dozen earlier memoirs said exactly the same thing. Restraint: an underappreciated emotional tool. Anyway. Back to me.

Colombia is both a really tough and incredibly easy place to dive into headfirst and grow to love, despite itself. Last night at Son Salome, an excellent salsoteca, a professorial type I was dancing with asked me how I felt about Colombia. I answered without hesitation that I loved it. What that means really I'm not sure, but the response surprised him. Why? Why in the world? he asked, dumbfounded. I don't know, I replied. It's the ánimo (a word I have a hard time translating) -- I love Colombia despite its Colombianess.

ánimo
1 (talante) spirit
2 (estímulo, fuerza) courage
3 (intención) intention

So there you have it. Today we had a second salsa lesson with an instructor recommended by our friendly star-reader. Tom and Porter basically had a private lesson; Eli and I got one too. It's hard to lead! I have more sympathy for men when they try to learn to dance after today. As the female half of the dance team (which makes it sounds like sequins were involved, but there weren't thank god), you are responsible for "following." It sounds sexist, but in some ways it's a relief. I wouldn't characterize Slim and I this way, but in past relationships I've had to do way more of the leading than I would have liked. It's tiring! So dancing can be a good way to let go of that for a while, and just follow along. It's a bit like the difference between writing a story and reading one aloud. Both are challenging, but the reader can relax into their own private world to some extent and not worry about the next move.

Me being me, I have a half dozen unfinished projects calling me before I leave. Not least among them a final presentation (Fulbright really asks so little of us, it seems petty to complain, but that probably won't stop me from doing it), a paper, a website, a grant to seek, a proposal to translate, a computer to locate, and so so many nasty phone calls. Nasty not because of the people on the other end of the line but because I hate making phone calls! Another thing Colombia has challenged me, well, taunted me with: my many limitations are even more limiting in Spanish. Gives me a whole new appreciation for immigrants, especially those who struggle with our messed up, irregular language.

Spanish, in contrast, is nice and neat. And it still kicks my ass many days of the week. I'm actually pretty competent most of the time, then something will happen like I'll make a phone call, introduce myself, then listen with dismay as the person on the other end of the line exclaims, "I can't understand anything you're saying!" And I will merely have stated my name. Now that's a humbling experience when it happens once. Try to imagine it happening once a week. What can I say, R's are tough for me. Mom, Dad, there are so many perfectly nice names that stay far far away from Rs...why couldn't I have one of those? If I ever live in Latin America again I'm changing my name, to Ana, or Diana, anything two syllables or less and easily recognizable when it leaves my twisted tongue.

In two weeks we're headed back to Medellin. I realize I still haven't completed the saga that was our trip to Uraba, and the "community" -- right now I'm just hoping the bus ride to Medellin will involve lesser quanties of dramamine. Speaking of which, I sure do wish there were some kind of dramamine that could prevent the motion sickness that accompanies culture shock. Atlanta, Bogota, Atlanta, Bogota, Atlanta. It's been a year full of adjustments, and there's one big one left to make. You know what, though? I'm ready. I realized this year how much I need to be around my big, loud, stressful family.

What I'm listening to: Never needed anybody, I never needed anybody // I never needed anybody, I never needed nobody // Don't worry about it, honey // I never needed anybody // I never needed anybody, it won't change now.

And you know what? It's just not true.
But in 25 days, I'll be able to go back to pretending it is. And that I'm looking forward to. Big, independent me. Inside though, I'll know. I'm more connected to my people than I ever realized; before I stretched those links across a continent, and they held.

nicaraguan elections

In Nicaragua, 70% turnout in presidential elections yesterday. 70%! from "Leftist headed toward victory in Nicaragua":

Mr. Ortega’s expected victory appeared to be another gain for leftists in Latin America, who, despite recent setbacks in Peru and Mexico, have also persuaded voters to abandon conservative governments in Brazil, Argentina, Chile and Bolivia.

Now 60 years old and balding, Mr. Ortega has maintained he is no longer a Marxist, but more of a pragmatist. He has promised to keep good relations with the United States and chose a former political opponent as his running mate. He has also vowed to help the poor and run a positive campaign around the themes of “peace, love and unity.”

E Day

Rainy season appears to have slunk past, nearly unnoticed in Bogota this year. Here's hoping for an un-rainy day in Georgia too! Dems hate getting wet. Republicans tend not to mind?

Last set of election day comics:

PreTeena

(Jeremy, there is hope!)
Brewster Rockit

Lalo Alcaraz

Election day strips

do you know who the police are?

Get Fuzzy

This made me laugh so hard this morning. I'm not sure it's really funny, but it did the trick. I'm nearly all caught up on my comics now after three weeks of travel and an adventure or two. But what Clara termed "quiet adventures, the kind you come back from." Although, I might add, you sometimes bring some microscopic friends back with you. Slim and I have been sick since we got back, but are all drugged up and recovering now. Maybe someday soon I'll even make it past 9 pm. Lately even full force Macondo hasn't been able to keep me up.

Candorville

a thousand words to make up for zero photos

"Courage is not the abnormal. Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches. It is the thing steady and clear. The marriage, not the month's rapture. The beauty that is of many days. The normal excellence, of long accomplishment. Not the Prodigal Son, but Penelope." -- poet Jack Gilbert

Last week this is the kind of courage we were to witness. And in the process, we had the kind of fun you love to complain about -- dirty, sweaty, backbreaking (from all the falling on our asses), dramatic fun. We hiked, incubated malarial jungle mosquitos, piled in a muddy heap on the floor, ate marvelous and simple food surrounded by donkey dung, and somehow just by being present helped accomplish something big.

We were in the mountains of Colombia to accompany a group of courageous people doing something that is extremely unusual in Colombia, land of the millions displaced: they were going back. Life in displacement camps had grow too harsh, too hungry for them, and they were going back to their land. We, the international wimps, were there to observe and hopefully prevent violent repression against the community, Colombian armed groups being reluctant to bite the long American arm feeding the ravenous military mouth.

But our presence was fleeting, and although FOR remains in the base community of La Union to help protect the decision to wage peace, in the Colombian conflict there are no guarantees and little precendence. This week the real work begins for the community of La Esperanza.

They are five families, striking in their quiet resolve, the kind usually portrayed in cowboy movies by men in hats of few words but always a piece of sugar in pocket for their horse. But this is different; this is no game of cowboys and indians, although it sometimes resembles one in its senselessness. The people of La Esperanza have been coming and going in fear of paramilitary reprisals since they were first displaced in 1996. Prevented from farming the land they had always known to be theirs, they have been aching to return ever since, and on this third try appear to have succeeded. Land in Colombia, where the exodus to the cities is a recent, bloody history, is not just land. It is power, money, sustenance, myth, and battleground.

Articles about peace communities, La Union, and La Esperanza

• San José de Apartadó - a model initiative under threat
• Recent Attacks and Threats Against the Peace Communities and NGOs
• FOR Peace Presence Letter from the Field: "Reclaiming the Promised Land"
• Letter from the Field: "The Hope of Return"

Yesterday Tom gave a talk about his thesis ("Good Fences, Good Neighbors, and the State: The Politics of Property Rights and Economic Performance"), so I'm fresh off a crash course in agrarian reform and land struggles in Colombia. More on this topic later, as I learn more about the history behind The Return. For now, on to my tale of two comfort-loving adventurers, arriving sleep-deprived in a city too hot for dreams.

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Chapter 1: Sleepless in Antioquia

We had quite a trip, leaving Friday the 20th on the overnight bus to Medellin. We emerged, ten hours later, frost bitten from the overactive AC and greatly enriched by our viewing experience. "The China Dolls" is a timeless classic, with a little something for everyone: kung fu fighting, a nihilistic attempt at feminism, Asian fetishism, stunning landscapes running with blood, some light kiddie porn, fights to the death, and a classic love story (boy meets girl, girl tries to kill boy, boy escapes and pursues girl to lock her up, boy carries girl's mother on his back to the hospital after her jealous mother-figure boss tries to have her killed, boy gets girl only to lose her to the allure of the sequel). Pretty generic stuff.

And after the final credits rolled (I took notes)...the music started up again. I took off for the front of the bus, on a collision course with destiny, or the control-happy bus driver, whichever I could find first. Luckily someone else beat me to him, and the rest of the bus ride was spent in frosty silence. Not because anyone was angry, just that we could see the breath steaming out of our mouths. We landed safely in Medellin, and after a nice taxi driver caught my mistake at the bus terminal and prevented us from going an hour out of our way to the wrong airport, caught our plane to Apartado. Met up with PorTom at the airport, and Trish&Co met us getting off the plane. All of whom were a sight for sore, bloodshot eyes...

to be continued...