The First Thing That I Noticed About Colombia

Winding my way through the humbling Andes of southern Colombia on a minibus, I was captivated by all of the people in the lively, one road towns that we passed through. Vibrant buildings, hammocks and pool tables beneath light canopies of banana leaves, dissipated into the arbour as quickly as it they had come into existence two hundred yards back. Some we passed through rapidly, and they registered as nothing more than blips in the window, each a fading mirage. Others we drove through slowly, noticing every smiling face as women carried baskets of watermelon on their heads to the minibus, men momentarily put down their pool cues, and children looked up from behind the cash register of their family's shop. The elders sat in plastic chairs, in front of every home and shop, guitars and drums resting upon their knees. Shopkeepers hung out windows and stood in doorways. All around people were working and talking and smiling.
Each town was the same, every thirty minutes coming upon another, their happiness and energy so contagious that even those of us on the bus, tired and hot, trying to wait patiently to arrive at our stops, couldn't help but be overcome by their animism. We would buy their juices and fruits, become energised and begin talking with them, and continuing amongst ourselves after we departed, until once again the heat drained our energy. The towns became our oasis, infusing us with life each time we passed. As the day wore on, and the sun faded behind the mountains, the lights of the town served as beacons in the dark while the cool night air revitalised us and the women in the towns sold chicken and soda. Throughout the entire southern region, these towns dotted the Andes like ornaments on a Christmas tree, giving off energy, love and camaraderie.
The Caribbean Coast offers more of the same, sandy white beaches replacing the lush green foliage of the mountains. From the villages to the cities and beach towns, the atmosphere does not change. Shopkeepers hang out their stores talking with the street vendors. Those who are not working visit their friends who are, seated upon plastic chairs in outdoor foyers. In every direction the narrow lanes are filled with people talking animatedly. When evening falls upon the town and shops close, folks gather in the plazas to talk about their days.
Enveloped in such an atmosphere, it is impossible not to be overcome by the joviality of Colombia. Though civil wars have cast a shadow upon this land for over a century, often throwing the country into mass depression, now there is a catharsis of good vibes permeating throughout.

Winning the Lottery

     I imagine that winning the lotto is an amazing feeling- I wouldn't know. I've only played the lotto once, and it was only because it was my turn to play Santa, and I filled the stockings with a dozen or so lotto tickets for my family and myself. Winnings were conditioned upon the fact that if anyone actually won, they had to use the money to go towards funding a family compound. I think the most any of us won was a free lotto ticket. No cash. Certainly not enough to fund a family home.

     I hear one is more likely to be stuck by lightening than to win the lottery.

     In fact, I've never really won anything. Well, I have won sports contests- but nothing like a new car, or money, or some random prize in a raffle. Wait- I won an ipod once. Funny story. I had been up all night (in Vegas) partying with my friends. When 7:00am rolled around- I was still rollin'... My friends and I were all in some sort of daze, hovering in and out of sleep, the various drugs in our systems vying for control of our mental activity. When I realised the time, I jumped off the couch, suddenly fully alert. The room full of people looked at me confusedly, still in my work uniform from my shift the previous evening.

     I've got to go! I exclaimed.

     You're not really going to that party are you? They all wanted to know. It's lame! It's not like you're going to win the ipod or anything. Somehow I had found myself in a room full of people that had all worked where I was working, had all been to the same company party, and had all been fired. I didn't even know that there was an ipod being raffled off- but apparently, they do it every year. Ironically, I did win it- the last prize awarded, and the only one I received.

     So, I do know what it's like to win something. It's a good feeling, and almost makes up for the feelings of disappointment of consistently not winning anything, an entire day full of prizes awarded, none to you. But perhaps an even better feeling would be the one you have when you tell someone that they've won something. You get to vicariously experience their joy, without the preceding trepidation of thinking that you'll never win.

     One of the greatest feelings I've ever experienced was telling someone that they won the lotto. It happened like this:

     I was sitting by a window in an internet café in Machala, Ecuador, reading a book and sipping on a cup of bad coffee while my friend surfed the internet. Machala is an unremarkable town- it feels like any suburb in The States, but closer to the Equator. Sitting in the corner, I noticed in my peripheral a man approaching. He looked flustered, holding a stack of papers in disarray, his glasses tilted, and slightly hunched over, his demeanour suggested that he was internally fighting between hopeful anticipation and disappointment, frantic and confused.

     He walked directly towards me, so I gave him my attention. In Spanish, he introduced himself, and said that my friend had indicated that I may be able to help him. The stack of papers he held were in English, which he could not read. My friend, neither a native English nor Spanish speaker, had expressed that I would be able to better help him.

     I smiled, introduced myself, and explained that I could tell him, generally, what the papers said, but would not be able to provide a direct or complete translation. He smiled eagerly, sat down, and handed me the papers.

     Before saying anything, I briefly looked over the pile. The first few pages were certificates, of sorts, and licences. Then letters and emails originating in England and Nigeria. Intrigued, I began to tell him what they were. A licence of operation. A certificate of funds awarded. A certificate of authenticity from the FBI. Then, multiple letters from a law enforcement agency in the UK, from the FBI, from some random woman in Nigeria. Also, a notice of funds transferred, and a notice of fees for funds transferred. As I read over the documents, A story began to emerge:

     The man with whom I was speaking had been told that he had won a UK lottery. When the money was to be transferred, it went from Nigeria, to the UK, the US and finally to Ecuador, sending off numerous red flags to the appropriate agencies. A Nigerian man in the UK was jailed and my new friend was informed of the apparent fraud. A week later, at the internet café, he had checked his email to find dozens of letters from the various agencies. They explained that no fraud had taken place, the Nigerian had been released from jail, the money was in the process of being transferred, for a fee of £11,000, and that he was, in fact, the recipient of £250,000.

     The only thing that didn't add up: a letter from a mysterious Nigerian woman, dated more recently than any of the other documents, saying that she hoped that she and the Ecuadorian man could keep things quiet and between them, until the matter was all sorted out. However, the dates on the other documents indicated that it had already been resolved. My only explanation: it still takes longer to get information to Nigeria than to Ecuador.

     It was a crazy story, for me reading the documents, and for the poor man whose hopes and dreams were continually raised and dashed. To be the one to tell him, definitively, that he had, in fact, won $400,000 is perhaps one of the coolest things I have ever done.

     Now, if only I got a translation fee...

Feral Dogs and the Societies That Raise Them

In the US, there are no feral dogs. Feral cats abound, an epidemic that animal lovers bemoan, in cities and towns, hills and countryside. Organisations do their best to pick them up, have them neutered and spayed, to little avail. Dogs however, do not suffer the same indecencies. A loose dog may roam about for an hour, maybe two, before it is picked up by either a good citizen or the 'doggie police.' Those dogs will be euthanised if not claimed by their former owner, or if they were in fact feral, by some family wanting to adopt them. What does that say about the citizenry of the US? I don't rightly know, as I had never given the matter much thought before coming to South America.

Since then, however, I have learned to discern a great deal about a culture through the behaviour of its wild dogs. In cities and beach towns, second- and third-world countries, I have realised that much may be deduced about a citizenry by both the way that a community treats their animals, and the behaviour of the animals themselves, which often mimics the attitudes and characteristics of the citizenry.

Before arriving in Argentina, I was told by an expatriate friend living in Buenos Aires to be prepared for the abundance of feral dogs- something that at the time, surprised me to hear. It had recently become illegal to kill feral dogs, and now they had taken over. I was admonished to look down when walking in the streets, so that I could avoid stepping in dog feces. Weird, I thought, but didn't really give the matter any more consideration. Then I arrived in Iguazu, Argentina. What surprised me most were the feral dogs inside establishments. No one kicked them out. In the hot muggy air of Iguazu Falls, dogs took their respite inside banks, shops and restaurants. I had been prepared to see them, but not inside the ATM booth. The fact that Argentines had decided that it was immoral to kill wild animals is a tribute to their compassion, especially the extent to which they live side by side with these animals, not even shooing them away from their businesses and homes. Unfortunately, the character of these dogs says something further about the attitudes of Argentines.

In Iguazu, Buenos Aires, and every other town I visited in Argentina, the feral dogs were the same: dirty, mean, usually injured, and going about living their lives doing whatever they'd like. The few that seemed like they would not bite you should you offer your hand, had open sores, their ribs poking through their matted fur coats, and mouths ajar with their dry tongues hanging out. One had to remind themselves that it would in fact be a stupid decision to offer ones hand to a feral dog. They often fought in the streets, gave chase to each other (and sometimes people) and fought over women and territory. The feral dogs, really the first that I had been exposed to, were everything that I thought they ought to be: wild, mean, and dangerous. The dog's behaviour was reminiscent of how the Argentines themselves behaved. Noses in the air, one foot carefully placed before the next, and an aura of self importance and entitlement visibly emanating from them like a heat wave in the desert. They were proud and possessive, just like their dogs.


As it turns out, though, not all ferals exhibited those same behaviours.

In Montevideo, the capitol of Uruguay, feral dogs were practically non-existent. That made sense: there were plenty of nicer places for a happy little homeless dog to go. The sparsely populated country contains plenty of rural beaches and towns for them to roam in peace; in the beach towns feral dogs abound. However, the dogs seemed more like community pets than wild beasts that only survived because it was illegal to kill them. They were friendly, followed around tourists and natives alike, and possessed nice coats and full bodies. Well fed and friendly, these dogs had a place in their community. Though Uruguayans are generally poor, they are warm-hearted, giving, and take care of each other and their communities, including the animals within them. These dogs, too, shared many characteristics with the citizenry of their communities: relaxed, friendly, and beautiful.

And so it was that I began to realise that dogs, like many things in life, are a product of their communities.

In Bolivia and Peru, feral dogs were less abundant, though still present. They were chased out of city centres and tourist areas fairly well, yet still existed in the small villages and open country. Though in these circumstances, they did not fare well. As in Argentina, they are malnourished and disease ridden. They scavenge for food in countries where there is little, and do not survive long. For outside of the few prosperous areas in these countries, whence the dogs are exiled, there is not enough to go around. Food scraps are not tossed aside, but used to feed families and livestock, and there is nothing left for an animal without a care-taker. For Bolivians and Peruvians take care of only themselves- left destitute after centuries of conquest, all that is left to them is survival. And in the larger and more prosperous cities, they shove aside tourists and dogs alike, wanting their cities to be theirs alone, after finally have gained them back from the Spanish.

After seven months of travelling South America, the first thing I noticed about Ecuador was its feral dogs. Which abound. Like Uruguay, Bolivia, and Peru, they were kept out of the prosperous cities, which were sparkling clean, developed and westernised, and left to roam the villages along the coast and in the mountainous regions. And in these places the dogs enjoyed a visible presence and place in society. Though not always well fed, the dogs in Ecuador receive plenty of attention, are friendly and playful, and eager and energetic- just like the Ecuadorians themselves. Vibrant and full of energy.

These dogs provide a good argument for nurture over nature. Regardless of the breed, these animals possessed similar qualities to those that bred them. Their treatment by society, as well as the general attitudes and characteristics of said society, would seem to heavily influence the nature of their feral dogs. Thus, the nature of a society may be aptly deduced by a quick study of the behaviours of their animals.

An American in Bolivia

   It isn't the most pain-free experience getting into Bolivia with an US Passport.  Even if your Spanish doesn't suck, you're not wanted in Bolivia, and they really don't care how much you try to speak Spanish, or the fact that  you want to be there, it really doesn't matter how much you appreciate their culture and want to experience the wonders that their country has to offer- they don't want you.
  US Citizens are the only folks in the world who have to pay to get into Bolivia, $135USD, for a five year, 90 day per year visa.  It's reciprocal, of course, but it's not my fault that the US Government makes it really hard for everyone to get into the US (of course, to be fair, it's not the average Bolivian's fault either).  Generally, US citizens, Australians and Canadians are the folks who have to pay entrance fees or get Visas, but not in Bolivia.  Here, US citizens are the only ones who have to pay when they get off the bus...  which may explain why, in the seven weeks I have been in Bolivia, I haven't encountered more than a dozen other US citizens (even though I am working in the largest hostel in Bolivia).
   So pay I did.  After all, there is too much to see and experience in South America's least developed country- the Salt Flats, Amazon, Lake Titicaca, Ruins all over...  native tribes and traditional culture that wholly (or at least mostly) leave aside and resist Western influence...
  But at every corner I meet resistance.  When checking into hostels in Sucre, Bolivia, I was constantly faced with consternation when filling out my passport and personal information- a few made negative utterances not-so-much under their breath.  Two hostels nearly turned me out- but I had a friend staying in one, and a reservation at the other, and was able to talk my way in.  In Potosi, a mining town with limited tourism, 'Fucking Grinigos' was shouted at us a number of times; once, we had a bottle thrown at our group of five, my shoulder being the unfortunate place upon which it shattered.
  Generally, I find Bolivians to be quite friendly, especially when I am able to communicate with them in Spanish.  Some places less so than others- the less tourism the less friendly.  The general feeling is that tourists bring money, and as long as they attempt to speak Spanish, and don't stay too long (90 days is the maximum anyone can get a tourist visa for), they're okay with you.  That friendliness, however, quickly changes when they learn that I'm not a Euro-gringo, I'm an American.  A typical encounter between a Bolivian and myself:  I approach someone at a market, or at the park, or in a cab, and greet them in Spanish.  We exchange pleasantries, discuss whatever brought us together, and then the conversation inevitably turns to them asking where I am from.  Now, I usually manage to avoid the answer with remarks like, 'no es importante' or 'estoy aca ahora.'  However, sometimes that isn't good enough, and then things go south- like they did one night at a club...
  After work one night a large group of us went to a club called Mongos.  When I say a large group, I mean, that around ten every evening, the staff of the hostel at which I work and the one around the corner decide where they want to go that night, and for the rest of the evening whenever a guest comes to either bar and asks 'where's the party tonight?' we have an answer.  At any rate, Mongos: mind you, this club advertises to gringos, and changes the music from traditional Bolivian music to American hip hop around three am, when we all get there.  So this surprisingly tall and attractive Bolivian man starts hitting on me, and we are speaking in Spanish for a good ten minutes, during which time he is constantly asking me where I am from, and I am giving him everything in my arsenal of deflections.   Eventually, after a concerted effort on his part, I concede and admit where I am from, at which point he turns around and walks away.  A few minutes later one hears the church bells chime three, and on cue, the music changes for the last hour of business.  I watched my would-be suitor walk out of the club at 03:01.
   When I was younger, I remember asking my sisters what it was like to be black.  After seven weeks in Bolivia and hours of tears spilt, I think I'm coming close to understanding.

Buenos Aires

As I wander the streets aplenty

I stare in awe at the city's bounty.

Overhead the buildings towering

Shine gloriously with their gold trimming.

The angels singing from their perches

Beckoning, they seek your patronage.

Carved perfection in marble and stone

Their essence captured yet somehow unknown.



And down another street I turn

New wonders abound for which to yearn.

Though here the shops don't stand so tall,

Yet their colours are cause of enthrall.

The bright structures do inspire-

Cause gaiety, forgetting mire.



And as I round another corner

Majestic music drifts on over;

Mirthful melodies to please the ear

As people gather, drawn in near

To hear the flutes and guitars and drums

Allowing the beats to overcome

Invokes within us peaceful musings

Of loves and losses and summer flings.



But even as the crowds do flock-

Still many others take no stock.

For though their pace be leisurely,

They have else they needs or rather be:

To San Telmo, at the street fairs;

Perhaps on Subte, to sell their wares.



Down to the tunnel did I descend,

To take the Subte to its farthest end.

Bust'ling and loud, peace there is never;

Sounds echo through the tunnels forever.

The squeaks and creaks and cracks of the tracks

Mimic the murmurs of folks at my back.

Whipping and spinning around corners-

Doors ajar grant I witness the wonder.



Envel'ped I paid no attention-

Abruptly I reach'd my destination.

Out from the darkness I did climb

Onto the calle, where church bells chime.

Immediately I'm accosted

Beggars and pedd'lers not abated!



Beyond, I continue on my way

To Recoleta, I shall spend my day

Among the tombs and mausoleums,

Serving History as its Lyceum;

Speaking for Argentina's belov'd

Evita's dreams forever confronted.

Eternally Heroes remembered-

Lama's legacy always admired.



Alas it's time, I must depart-

This place bestowed all it can impart.

By a new route I shall return

To behold new sights, from which to learn.

Through the park I start to wander-

Am overcome by its grand splendour!



As I pause to reap in the beauty

Earth's bounty I find has achieved full glory-

The trunks of the tress grow meters wide;

The boughs- an umbrella, doth shade provide.

Colors possessing such vibrancy

Like Alice wander I into fantasy.

My mind racing, infused by passion-

Nothing to stop my reckless abandon!



As I spin from reality

A tango dancer I'd rather be!

Passions ablaze, hearts of fire

Consume each other, ne'er to tire.

Faces so close, two become one-

The tease of the dance never outdone!



Eventu'lly I am distracted

From my dreams, no longer enacted

In my mind, by a scent so divine

As to tear me from a tango so fine.

As the smells come wafting o'er I find

That I cannot be appeas'd in my mind

Lest I head o'er to the parilla

Whence I discover meats fit for Hestia.



Their meats renown throughout the world

They were not lies- all you have been told!

Served juicy and rare, perfectly

Cut, flavours that cannot be equally

Match'd, only masked by seasoning

And marinades cause ruining!



To it's guests this city keeps giving-

It's chest full of treasures is unending.

Tango dancers, meats for royalty,

It's architecture and diversity

Of people and places, exuding

Beauty, music nothing less than pleasing.

History and culture emanates

Whence leave have I no desire to take.

Americans Don't Know the Right way to Eat Meat- Or Do They?

    It was once pointed out to me that one can always discern an American while dining by how they eat their meat.  Apparently, Americans are the only utensil-using culture on the planet that hold their knife while cutting meat in the same hand with which they subsequently eat their meat with a fork.  That is, we cut the meat, lay down the knife, switch the fork from one hand to the other, and then enjoy our hard cut, if not hard earned, meat.

    Now, I had never really thought about it before- and it didn't really seem like that weird of a thing, until I began watching how people eat their meat, and indeed, it does seem somewhat awkward.  So this afternoon I find myself in this quaint mountain village, La Cumbacita, eating a milanese (the worst I've ever had- by the way), and after I had cut my first slice of meat and laid down the knife, and switched my fork from my left hand to my right, I think, this is silly.  I should cut the meat with my left hand, and not move the fork.*  

    This was much easier said than done- and in my defence, I was provided with a butter knife.    I suppose that I could have tried eating with my left hand, rather than cutting with my left hand, but either way I foresaw near equal difficulty.  As I'm sitting there, struggling to cut my meat, I think to myself, 'damn, I guess I'm just not that dexterous with my left hand.'  Then I think, wait, dexter- as in dexterus-a-um, which is Latin for right.  As in correct, favourable, right, right-handed.  And ambidextrous (I wont bore you with the etymology) literally means both right hands. 

    So I wonder, what the fuck is wrong with both cutting, and eating, with the right hand?  Maybe for once the Americans have something right...

*Now, you may have realised that I'm right-handed, given the description of how I held my utensils, and the following revolves around that fact, so if you are left-handed and easily offended, you may want to go ahead and stop reading now.

Pocitos

When you go to Montevideo

I know where you can find,

A welcome home where you can come

And everyone is kind!

At Pocitos they know how to treat vos-

Always an asado too,

Where you can party and eat some carni

-That's what Martin and Nacho do

But when you want quiet, you can find it;

Peace and tranquillity...

You can unwind with peace of mind

In their garden of serenity.

When I'm around you know I can be found

At my home away from home,

Where friendly faces turn up in all places

The best!  --Uruguay's own!

Brasil: Lesson Learned

Spending most of February in Rio amounted to a month long party. And the party doesn't stop in Rio, it goes throughout the entire country, and it doesn't stop in February- it goes all year round. Though I had had enough by the time I left, this party life-style is just one faucet through which the Brasilian attitude emanates... You can get hints of it on the roads, where street signs are merely suggestions. You can see it at the beach by way of sungas and bikinis, or even walking down the street where sarongs, shorts and sandals are the dress code; bras and tee-shirts optional- even at work. You can see it on the faces of those in the slums and the favelas, and in the eyes of the folks asking for your empty beers to recycle. You can see it in children swimming in dirty water amongst plastic water bottles and wrappers. You can hear it in the Brasilian accent, and relaxed speech.

This attitude is so prevalent that it emanates from every aspect of the Brasilian character and life-style. It doesn't have to be spoken- it is felt, and understood. In a few days one realises that there is something different about Brasil- something spectacular. In under a week it becomes clear what exactly is going on.

Since leaving, I have continued to meet a plethora of Brasilians. Many in their young twenties study abroad, where higher education is more affordable. In these folks, too, is their attitude omnipresent- it is the Brasilian character. It's simple, serene, and accepting. It doesn't matter what one looks like, where they live, if they missed their bus, or how they'll find their next meal- to be Brasilian is to accept life, and enjoy it- to be able not just to say, but to believe, "Don't worry..."

Playa del Carmen, Mexico

When I arrived in Cancun I had no idea where to go. With no hostel reservations or bus tickets, I walked out of the airport feeling completely liberated. Standing outside, looking around at all of the buses lined up, I decided to check out Playa del Carmen, a town which I had first heard of through a guest at the bar at which I had worked, and then read a bit about in Fly Solo,* a book with travel ideas for women vacationing alone. When I got off the bus an hour later it was easily 32° outside, sometime after 12:00, and I hadn't slept in over 24 hours- I was bogged down by heavy jeans, my backpack, and the extra piece of luggage I was awkwardly carrying for friend; my face was glistening and back sticky with sweat. Feeling overwhelmed by both wonder and fear, I wandered around town looking for a place to stay, and a shower. Pacing up and down the same road, Avenida 5, the most touristy avenue in town, I began to feel that I was going about it the wrong way... After about an hour I found an internet cafe and searched for hostels. I quickly found one, which I chose solely because of its proximity to the internet cafe, and went off in search for it. After about another half hour (the place was roughly three minutes walking distance away) I finally walked into Maria Sabina. I could tell instantly I had made the right choice, if for the wrong reasons- Maria Sabina is the Patron Saint of mushrooms and gonga.

Maria Sabina was a phenomenal place, good vibes, good people, and a place at which I instantly felt at home! I had initially booked two nights there, still not sure when I would want to either try another hostel or go to Cancun, and also mindful that there were likely other nearby places to explore; I ended up staying there my entire time in Mexico, save for my last night. Every morning I woke up and thought, 'nope, still not ready to go!' My room mates and I quickly bonded, as I did with most of the guests and staff at Maria Sabina. One of my roomies, whom I will visit when I eventually hit Europe, was an adorable French girl on vacation by herself. Another was a vagabond like myself, who left Scotland with the same intentions I had when leaving the States. She constantly exclaimed to me, 'stop being me!' That's what makes staying in hostels often so amazing- I will likely never see some of the folks I hung out with again, but there are many more with whom I know I'll cross paths in the future; I will be back to Playa someday, I will go visit my friend in France, and I will travel with the Scottish vagabond.

So Playa del Carmen... amazing place. Very touristy but not for Americans- they all stay in Cancun while the Europeans and South Americans go to Playa. It's a beach town, with some of the most amazing beaches in the world; the Caribbean truly is magnificent! It's also ridiculously safe- open air restaurants stay open after closing, you could literally walk in at three am when no one was there, but would quickly be arrested by the constant and massive police presence. The two main streets are Avenida 5, which runs parallel to the Caribbean, and is a complete tourist area, and Calle 12, which runs perpendicular to the beach, and is where all of the night clubs are, many of which extend onto the beach for an outdoor evening of drinking and dancing. The Blue Parrot Beach Club is located at the end of Calle 12. Every night at 10:30 they have fire dancers on the beach, right next to the outdoor dance platform, adjacent to which is a covered bar. In Playa, even the locals go to the beach all day, and then to the clubs all night, work and weather permitting.

Playa was a great location from which to visit other nearby towns like Tulum, the only place in Mexico with ruins on the beach, and Akumal, another (though slightly less) touristy beach town with great surf, and famed for their snorkelling and sea turtles. I took day trips there with other folks from town. I of course met them at the hostel, but many of them were foreigners who were living in Playa, some but not all of whom worked at the hostel. Most of the people I met and befriended were folks who had visited Playa at one point, and then came back to live. This allowed me to enjoy the safety of the town but experience it as the locals did, eating and shopping at the places they would, rather than the expensive and touristy places on Avenida 5.

Eventually, sadly, I had to leave, I had a flight to Rio I didn't want to miss- after all Carnaval awaited! So my last night in Mexico the French girl and I went to Cancun together (she and I both had flights out at near the same time, and stayed in the same room for the entirety of both of our stays there). All I have to say about Cancun: it sucks!

Here's the thing, when I arrived in Mexico, I still hadn't realised what I was doing and how I was going to do whatever it was. I was a bit overwhelmed at the newness of everything, and too timid to use the little Spanish I knew. By the time I left, I felt confident in my abilities to communicate, aided much by my new friends who helped me to improve my Spanish while I was there, and excited for my next adventure.




*Rodriguez Williamson, Teresa. Fly Solo: The 50 Best Places on Earth for

a Girl to Travel Alone. New York: Perigee Books, 2007.

My Twelve Days in Rio

On my first day in Rio my friend said to me,
"Let's go hit the town and party!"

On my second day in Rio a Brasilian said to me,
"Hop on my bike and hold on tight and we'll tour the city!"
Then he showed me how to party...

On my third day in Rio Sugarloaf said to me,
"From my peak I view the streets, the mountains and the sea!"
And we watched the city party...

On my fourth day in Rio our driver said to me,
"You're the most fun I've ever had, while as a cabbie!"
That's 'cause we know how to party...

On my fifth day in Rio my friends said to me,
"Let's score some drugs, we'll have some fun and make felicity!"
And then we shall really party...

On my sixth day in Rio the police said to me,
"You'd better fucking chill or we'll end our hospitality!"
We still hit the town to party...

On my seventh day in Rio Carnaval called to me,
"We're thousands deep, we fill the streets; stronger than the sea!"
Then it washed me into the party...

On my eighth day in Rio my instincts said to me,
"You ought to leave at home your camera and money!"
To Lapa- a giant street party...

On my ninth day in Rio my conscience said to me,
"Now you have no camera 'cause you were foolhardy!"
Still we went to another party...

On my tenth day in Rio the bouncer said to me,
"Welcome to the Sambadome, enjoy the grandiosity!"
Man, they sure know how to party...

On my eleventh day in Rio the Sambadome spoke to me,
"Feel the beat, find a niche, and live the fantasy!"
Then he and I made our own party...

On my twelfth day in Rio my body said to me,
"It's been fun, but you're insane, I'm ageing too quickly!"
Shit, Rio knows how to party!