I To Go To The Good Airs!

I'm going to Buenos Aires tomorrow!

So, this is a slight (last minute) change of plans.  As I noted in my last entry, my dear faithful traveling companion, Jennifer, left me a few days ago for a farm in Samaipata, a city further north in Bolivia. I stayed here in Tarija, intrigued by locals' propensity towards the three hour daily nap, the rich wine-producing valley, and the similarities its culture shares with that of Argentina, as it is the largest city before the border.  My heart melted upon arrival here with the immediate linguistic inundations of ''¿vos cómo andas?'' and ¿qué se SHO?'' Ahh, they have the accents of Argentines but their woman don't have eating disorders! An eating culture! Yes! Yes! Jenn, you go on ahead, I'll be so fine here alone. True, I don't start work at the next farm for a week, but still...I can handle this alone time! I can catch up on my journal and maybe finally finish my Gárcia Márquez book! I can spend my birthday and New Years in solitude--yes, One Hundred Years of it, maybe! Now I'm getting into character!

So, my first night alone was spent reading in bed, completely naked, listening to my music. Ya know, the things you can't really do when you're sharing a room with someone (or some two, three, or ten, as the case had been in the past, as we typically opted for dormitory-style lodging when we were traveling through the continent). I even had my own room--such hedonistic luxury! I rocked out to my mp3 player, I danced a little, I felt the freedom of the open road ahead of me--no real plans for a week!

The next day I went to the market, bought some fruits and veggies, went for a walk, and made plans to meet up with a friend who I had met on a bus, who seemed interesting and worth a potential short term friendship. Maybe he could be my ''in'' to a social scene here. I'd have friends in no time! And if not, it would be fine, cause I could handle being alone!

He suggested I take a taxi to get to him, but oh no, not Ali, the ever locally-comporting traveling queen--I hopped on a local bus and forty minutes later, I was in what appeared to be a very, very residential neighborhood. Just houses and ladies with baby carriages. I climbed the steps of the main square, stood next to the giant granite head of some old European conquistador (or some Latin liberator, same diff, who knows) and looked around, right leg resting one step higher, shading my eyes with the palm of my left hand, perched like a conquistadora in my own right. Where was my friend? Nowhere to be seen. Which was strange, since he had told me he was already there, waiting.  The voice of my father, High Security Greg, popped into my head, ''Ali, it´s a trap. He brought you here to rob you, in fact, he's not even going to show up. Any minute now a band of twenty-something punks is going to accost you and rob you of all the pesos you have with you.''  My inner voice responded with, ''Ah, but yes, this is why I brought no more than a few coins with me. I am my father's daughter.'' Before H.S.G. could respond, a text message appeared on my phone. Well, really, my sister's old Bolivian phone that she gave me before she flew back home.

The text read:
''Se me presentó un problema, me vas a disculpar, ok, besos.''
Translation:
''A problem was just presented to me. You're going to forgive me, ok? Kisses!''

Uh, no. I'm not going to forgive you. Could you have even just waited for like, um, five minutes until I arrived to tell me this? And you're doing it via TEXT message? I'm sorry, no--this is unforgiveable. Get some social skills. I'm done. I called him to say what the hell, he mumbled something about his mother needing him, and that was that. Welp. I crossed the street, fuming, and got on what was probably the very same bus I took there, and headed back into town. Loooove wasting my time (and I had just so many things to do that afternoon!). Good thing I didn't pay for a friggin' taxi.

This unfortunate event did, however, yield one rather positive result. Upon returning back to the city center, I took a different route to walk home, since the bus left me on a different street than the one I had taken to hail it. Just one block ahead, a little happy oasis, a big flourescent sign with a picture of an ice cream cone. Heladería! Yes! I'm treating myself to an ice cream. Don't even care if it's the typical, soap-flavored, ice-chunk variety that is the standard in every other country down here except Argentina. I'm going for it--this is my reward for taking the bus and not a taxi.

I ordered the biggest one my seven pesos would buy me. Unfortunately, seven doesn't buy you much when you're two blocks from the center of town. Essentially, what I received was a bowl for Barbies. ''This little bottlecap of ice cream needs a little garnish of sorts,'' I thought. Thinking myself cuter and flirtier than I probably am, I batted my eyelashes and asked the girl at the counter if she could put a little bit of whipped cream on the top, just for me. She smiled and said of course.''Score!'' I thought, ''free whipped cream!''

Uh, wrong. Al, you're not that cute. The bill came--the whipped cream was two pesos extra. TWO pesos! For like, a fart of whipped cream. A mere suggestion of whipped cream! I should have asked if it was free, but I was half just hoping it would be free, since I had just one peso of leeway. Sometimes I think magically like that--that if I hope for something, it will just happen. Good, responsible method of decision-making for a 23 (almost 24) year old traveling alone through foreign lands, don't you think?

A cold sweat immediately rushed over me. This has never happened to me before! I had to sheepishly tell the poor girl that this white girl in a dress standing in front of her, who undoubtedly comes from a nation far more prosperous than hers, could not afford the ice cream she had already HOOVERED--alá Lay off me, I'm Starving style (rest in peace, Mister Farley. We miss ya, big guy). It was actually really good ice cream, at least, super surprisingly.

I apologized profusely, promising her on my firstborn child's life that I would return to cancel my debt. She just kind of smiled and said, ''está bien.'' No, it's not bien with me, I have travel karma to take care of.

I returned today to the ice cream parlor, which was jam-packed with clients, as it was a hot afternoon, and I think I caused the server more of an annoyance than anything else, as she was zipping around grabbing empty ice cream bowls off one table and running back to the kitchen to grab full trays of colorful soft rainbow mountains of frozen creamy treats. She clearly had no time to talk, and she proceeded to avoid my attempts to grab her attention.

I chased her around the parlor, pushing through the line of would-be patrons as they waited outside the door for a table to open up. The pressure was on, and I only had about 3.5 seconds to explain myself. She appeared to not even recognize me. I nipped at her heels and she finally paused, tray in right hand, three empty bowls in left, and it was my time to shine, to explain. I choked.

(Rough translation):
Good day! I to please cancel the debt that I to carried from the yesterday! I buy a ice cream that I not pay for all together! Not enough money yesterday! I to still owe the ONE peso! You to have it! You to have it! Take!

I pushed the coin into her hand, turned, and ran out the door, horrified at how my years of latin american travel and work experience and spanish language classes have culminated into one very awkward, nervous, high pressure exchange. Señora Nocera would not have been proud. If only the server had asked me to recite the vowel song! I can do that! Las vocales en español, las vocales en español, A E I O U!

So, anyway, my karmic energy is in balance. Hopefully, my bus will not fall off a mountain tomorrow.

My bus to Buenos Aires! So, to bring it back to where this entry started, I had a revelation on day two of solitude, after spending the day meandering around a sleepy city, being stood up by a flakey Bolivian man, and then laying in my bed writing what must be about 50 pages of introspective journal pages and then laying in the dark, wide awake, listening to my weirdest music. What was I trying to prove, waiting around this city without a social circle or any firm plans for the rest of the week, especially when it included my birthday and new years? And to whom? Is it just a societally-ascribed notion that we want to spend special events with those who we love? Or is it a desire we all share as naturally social human beings, regardless of culture? And who really cares where the desire comes from, anyway--did I need to be a stone-cold emotionless monk during this week, drinking a solitary glass of wine in my tiny room as I entered my twenty fourth year?

No. Don't need to prove anything. I had my alone time. Now, I want to be with people. I don't want to rot away in my little room. I don't need to wander the streets, looking for the next café, hoping to bump into someone who would invite me to a New Years party. I don't want to get groped by some desperate single in a bar on the night of the 31st. I am going to stay with Rosana and Enrique, my old host family from when I studied in Buenos Aires in 2005. They're thrilled I'm coming, and I'm psyched and also relieved to be with them.

I leave early tomorrow morning, and thirty hours later (yeowch, yeah) I will arrive via bus in one of my very favorite cities in the entire world. The city of men with mullets and skinny girls in, well, skinny jeans. The city that gives you little cookies on a plate when you order a coffee or tea. The city of real dulce de leche, of desserts that often look better than they taste (the eternal south american dessert letdown) but where artists and rockers and revolutionaries and bohemian bead-makers and old men who play chess all walk the streets in one colorful, raucous wave at all hours of the night!

¡Voy a Buenos Aires!

Please sir, is there room at the inn?

It´s holiday season, and I´m wearing a sweaty sundress. Not very typical of my ghosts of Christmases Past, but the air is buzzing with holiday cheer all the same, and I´m feeling slightly Navidad-y. Only here, instead of quiet, snow-covered streets and bundled families hurrying and sliding down icy walkways from car to house, here it´s reggaeton music blasting from moped stereos (I didn´t even know mopeds had stereos), large groups of friends and families lounging at tables outside shaded cafes that surround the main plaza of the city of Tarija, and sprawling open-air markets selling cheap Made in China toys, pirated CD´s, and anything from lampshades to bottle openers to televisions to Monopoly board games to boxer briefs to llama fetuses and other common household items.

I´m enjoying that down here, the 26th of December doesn´t come accompanied with the Christmas hangover of up north yonder. Christmas is celebrated until New Years Day, and so the parties, the street markets, the music, the rush of people in the streets, all of it is holding strong for at least a few more days.

Apparently here in Tarija, the custom is to set off fireworks on midnight of Christmas Eve. Jenn and I experienced this as we sat in our room that night, about to fall asleep. After the first explosion, I jumped and dove under my bed, fearing that we were under attack by the anti-gringa brigade. Soon after I realized that it was simply the way of celebrating baby Jesus. Interestingly enough,  now that we´re 36 hours past the customary firecracker hour, you can´t go more than five minutes without hearing a crackle BOOM somewhere nearby. I guess people must have a secret stash of dynamite stored away. Maybe everyone wants to make sure their firecrackers are the only ones people hear, each with its own explosion, instead of joining the cacophony of surrounding ones--more of an individualist response to a shared holiday tradition.  Either that, or the eastcoast-westcoast rapper warfare has trickled its way down through the borders of many latin countries. I better take off that TuPac bandana I´ve been wearing around my head.

Christmas Eve found Jenn and me wandering the streets of San Lorenzo, a little sleepy town outside the (relatively speaking) bustling town of Tarija. Now, Tarija is a place where everyone takes three hour naps in the afternoon, so please understand the nature of San Lorenzo´s tranquility. We assumed we could just show up, find a little hostel, and hang there for Christmas. Didn´t take into account there would potentially be only one hotel in the entire town. There was. It was booked. We walked around the square like little turtles, lives strapped to our backs, searching for anyone who might know of someone who was renting out a room. No one had any space. Exhausted, deflated, and quite hungry, we decided we´d return back to Tarija after all, but not before we found some grub. It was siesta time, of course, which meant that no one was open. It was like a bad Mary and Joseph reenactment. We swaggered and swayed with the weight of our belongings, enquiring at every little shop we saw if they had anything other than candy and soda. Nope. Nothing. Evenutally, we found a nice old lady who had some leftover cold empanadas, and we ate them in silence, contemplating the way that history will inevitably happen again and again.

Back in Tarija, and Jenn and I are saying goodbye for a little while. She´s heading up to Samaipata to check out this farm that really interests her, and I´m going to hang out here and work on a vineyard in the valley about thirty minutes from here, starting in a few days. I took a wine tour a few days ago and tasted the products from the boutique vineyards in that area, including that from the one where I´ll be working, and to be honest, it´s not the best. Most people are still making their wines extra sweet, almost port-like, and the practice of aging them in oak barrels before bottling has not really caught on, at least at the smaller places. Most of what I tasted was more akin to grape kool-aid and vodka than anything resembling wine, but I´m hoping to at least learn the general practices of cultivating the grapes and creating the juice that eventually ferments and becomes one of my favorite beverages. And if worse comes to worse, I´ll take a bus to the Argentina border (1 hour away) and hole away in one of the vineyards down there.

In Bolivia, por fin!

Well, folks, I've made it to Bolivia. Nine days after leaving Manizales, after 60 hours spent on seven different buses and two airplanes which crossed through four different countries, I am finally in Cochabamba, Bolivia, the city in which my little sister has been studying for the past three months. It is a most welcome pleasure to be able to just spend time in one place for a little while after so many days in motion. It's also great to see Emily, since it's been more than four months!

This entry would be about nine hundred pages long if I were to recount all of what happened in these past days, which is interesting, since most of the bus days have the same format:

- Arrive at bus station fifteen minutes before scheduled departure, as per the recommendation of the friendly bus company employees. You are, of course, the first to arrive, including the bus driver and/or the bus, save maybe one or two other whities with giant backpacks and Velcro sandals.
-All other passengers arrive one to two minutes before scheduled departure time, as does the bus you'll be taking. Bus leaves about 15 minutes late.
-Board bus. If it's a fancy one with TV's, it will inevitably be a D-list, straight-to-DVD feature, which will be either exceptionally violent or crude, or both.
-Stop in dusty town. Pick up more passengers.
-Fall asleep for about 45 minutes. Wake up, paranoid, check bra for the cash you've stuffed there, underwear for the rest of the wallet, reach into shirt to check for passport, pat the inner pocket of your jeans to make sure your ipod is still there. It would be rather unnerving for more than one reason if the ipod were not still there, not so much because you've lost your ipod, but rather since the music is still coming through the headphones you have crammed into your ears.
-Stop in another dusty town. Pick up some more passengers.
-Fidgit. Change position from the traditional upright, feet planted on floor position, to knee-to-chest, right leg out window. Accidentally kick Jenn in the temple in an attempt to stretch out. Hip cramp. Back spasm. Readjust. Invent new sitting positions for an hour or so, finally landing back in the traditional one.
-Sleep a little more. Head slams into window when bus hits a rough spot. Wake up, dry mouth, starting to feel desperate to get off bus. Whimper.
-Begin to obsessively check the time. Wait five minutes. Check again. In fact, forty five seconds have gone by. Good.
-Finally arrive to the bus terminal. Be accosted by taxi drivers. Pretend you know where your hostel is and use that bluff it to talk down the original price of the ride. ("No way, it's only like ten minutes from here. That price is exorbitant!") You've probably still been ripped off, but you're feeling triumphant about arguing the price down to half the original amount.
-Wander around city aimlessly, sleep in hostel, start the same thing over again the next day.

So, now that you know the general format of my last ten days, here's where I've been. I've stopped in Popayan, Colombia; Quito and Guayaquil, Ecuador; Tumbes, Lima, and Cusco, Peru; La Paz, Bolivia, and finally Cochabamba. So many border crossings. I thought we were going to get robbed by the police in Tumbes (on the Ecuador border) for sure. Jenn and I hopped into this charming little moto-taxi, which is essentially a motorcycle-drawn buggy, and headed towards the airport (we flew from Tumbes to Lima to break up the trip). The sun was setting over the desert terrain, wind was whipping through our hair, and we were grinning with the feeling of freedom of no more buses for a few days when suddenly we were pulled over by the national police. A John Travolta-like specimen with a harsher face jumped out of the police pickup truck and shuffled his way over to us. He demanded my passport, and I asked him to please show me his ID first, since I had heard about police robbing travelers by the border. He looked incredulous, and not in the mood to play. ''But you see my uniform, my police truck, my GUN. I am a police officer. Now hand me your passport."
''I see all of those things, officer, but I would feel more comfortable if I saw your ID, just to be sure."
"In your country, do you demand to see the police officer's information?"
"Absolutely. It's expected."
"But I have a gun. Do you not see my gun?"
This went on for a few minutes, and the more he refused, the more I was sure that he wasn't really a cop, and at any given moment he would turn his precious weapon on me and take everything I owned. Somehow, though, the seemingly pointless conversation yielded favorable results, and he walked back to his truck, emerged with the ID, and shoved it in my face. He had also put on his police beret while he was back there, which I found charming. He was a police officer, after all. I gave him my passport, and after the customary five to ten minute waiting period in which he radioed into his base to check to see if I was a fugitive, he let us go.

Tumbes was weird. In the airport, we met a man from Lima who spoke beautiful English. He chatted with us about how he had studied in the U.S. in the 70's, went to some great concerts in Boston including Pink Floyd and the Styx. Then, while waiting in the departure lounge, we heard a POP! POP! BANG! which sounded like two shots from a cap gun and then a heavy object thrown into a glass wall. Our Lima friend burst through the doors leading out of the security checkpoint, followed by two or three security guards yelling, "Senor! Senor!" I was reminded of the chicken coop at Cecilia's farm, because this scene caused an eruption of whispering speculations among the seated passengers, and the sound was not unlike the noise the chickens would make whenever a large animal passed by the coop and tried to break in. "awwww que pasaaaaaaaa con ese hombreeeeee awwwwww visteeeeeeee? Awwww..." Anyway, the security guards grabbed him and pulled him into a secret room, where I assumed he would have to stay for hours answering questions, but oh no, as I sat down in my airplane seat, there he was, about ten rows up. I waved.

Since I've already been to Peru, I am okay with not really spending time there, at least on the way to Bolivia. I was just so anxious to get here, and I'm so glad I finally made it. Next week, Emily goes home and I head to Tarija, which is on the Argentine border, and is the winemaking region of the country. I will spend two weeks at an eco-resort on a lake, and then I hope to spend a couple of weeks on a vineyard. I'm itching to get my fingers back into the dirt.

In Quito and over it.

Ok, clearly not really OVER it; it's a gorgeous, cosmopolitan city. But it has definitely been a shock to the Colombia-adapted system. This. City. Is. Expensive. Did you know that Ecuador's national currency is the dollar? I found that out the night before I left Colombia. It was a surreal moment for me when, after crossing the Colombia-Ecuador border on foot with all of our belongings fastened to our backs like pack mules, we were accosted by cherubial Ecuadorian men with official ''money changer'' badges around their necks, fanning thick stacks of U.S. dollar bills. I hadn't seen George or Abraham in a while.

So yeah, this place is expensive. It's kind of funny--upon arrival in Colombia, Jenn and I spent the first week or so using mental math to calculate the pesos we were spending into dollars, to have an idea. Now that we're in Ecuador, we've been calculating our dollars into pesos because they seem more familiar. And clutching our chests everytime we arrive at the total, because every coffee, every little snack, every internet café, everything except breathing in the fresh mountain air, costs exhorbitantly more than it did in any of the cities in Colombia, Cartagena included.

It's also a strange feeling to be within the majority, at least phenotypically speaking. Tall white people run amock, they travel in packs, they fumble with their fanny packs. I have to remind myself, however, I'm much more of a Helga than a Julieta, at least on the outside.

Quito is beautiful, though--don't get me wrong. It's another one of those dreamy mountain cities that rests in a small valley surrounded by fog-covered rolling hills. Classic colonial architecture abound, and the Ecuadorian people are truly beautiful. I think I'm just feeling fatigued after yesterday's 15 hour bus ride. I'm sure if I had more time (and a little more money) I'd be singing Quito's praises.


You know you've been traveling in Latin America for a while when, after being served a coffee with two good quality napkins, you squeal in delight and say ''YES! Toilet paper!'' (and then you stuff it into your already existing plastic bag filled with a collection of similar napkins you've swiped from other restaurants). It should be noted that you are now familiar enough with napkin quality to make a discerning decision. Similarly, yet another indicator is the salvaging of plastic bags (''This would be a GREAT raincoat!'').

More busing tomorrow, hooray.

¡Ay Papito! ¡Ay Mamita!

Greg and Janet Smizer came to Colombia last week. Yes, it´s true! My parents joined the orioles and flew south for a few days (four, no more) to come visit me. The decision was made hastily--in fact, I didn´t even know (and neither did they) that they would be coming until about a week and a half before they arrived. It was delightful having them here, and also pretty hilarious. Those of you who know them will undoubtedly understand the limitless potential for good laughs and awkward moments.

For example. Consider the average sized Colombian and then consider me. Take into account that which I´ve previously written along the lines of size disparity, especially on the farm. Now consider Greg Smizer. Six foot two, solidly built. Petite and delicate? Hardly. Watching him cram his long spindly legs into the back seat of the car upon picking him and Janet up from the airport elicited from me a feeling of empathy and also giggly childish delight. Knees pushed nearly to his adam´s apple, chest heaving slightly to try to make room for limbs that would not rest in their preferred anatomical location, and the strained smile that attempts to convey the idea that everything està bien--we´re in Colombia!

Since their time here was so short, we didn't really do many touristy things. I wanted them to see my day-to-day, and my farming budget doesn't really allow for day trips into the mountains or high-end dinners. They came to the farm, we hung out in the city, we rode the brand new aerial cable, we went to my favorite cafe, and we cooked a delicous meal for all of our friends the last night they were here. I think they enjoyed themselves. I think it's so cool that they wanted to come to Colombia.

Anyway, much has gone on in the life and times of yours truly since I last wrote. After my parents' spontaneous trip to visit me, I took a spontaneous trip of my own. I officially left Cecilia's farm and decided to take a few vacation days before heading out in search of another farm further south. On the morning my parents left, Jenn and I took a road trip up to Cartagena, a city up on the Carribbean coast. Apparently, Gabriel Marquez' ''Love in the time of cholera'' was filmed there, so it seemed more than appropriate to travel to that region, especially since I currently find myself deeply entrenched in that very book. In Spanish, of course. I am reading it at the white-knuckle clip of about 1 page every five minutes.

We drove up there with our friend Maria, who is the owner of the boarding house where we would stay on weekends in the city of Manizales. Twenty three hours in the car. One way. Weirdly, it didn't feel nearly as long as it was, at least on the way up. I must have taken about 500 pictures out the window as we rounded curvy mountain passes, climbed up steep green hills, and joined the traffic caravans of large banana trucks and tractor trailers. The variety in the landscape was astounding. The temperature would climb and drop within an hour, to a point where you could be sweating like you've never sweat before at 1pm, experiencing zero wind and an unrelenting sun, and then by 1:30 you've climbed to the top of a hill where the breeze finally reaches you and the air has dried out, and you find solace in the shadows. By 1:45 you reach into your bag for your sweatshirt, it's actually not warm at all anymore, and you're high up above the valleys, and by 2pm, you're climbing down the mountain and quickly peeling off your layers of clothing once again. The towns through which we passed changed with the climate, too. The hot weather yielded vallenato music, which is that accordion and guitar tropical beat, and the people sat outside their homes in rocking chairs or hammocks. In the cooler weather, we found men in jeans and cowboy hats, cows grazing for miles and miles, and coffee drinkers on patios. I saw so many different shades of green, blue, and yellow, and I also discovered something especially delicious about traveling by land in Colombia: road food.

This is not your Roy Rogers or Sbarro experience. No senor. Think little roadside restaurants which serve heaping portions of freshly made cheese, hot chocolate, coffee, arepas (thick corn patties), avocadoes, savory soups, grilled meats, homemade sweets, and agua panela, which is kind of like really unrefined sugar, maybe a cross between molasses and brown sugar, mixed in with cold water and lemon. Delicious. And you need not travel through thirty miles of nothingness in desperate search of those big blue signs with the fork and knife logo, sponsored by McDonalds, as in my country. The rest stops on the highways of Colombia can be found pretty much every 5 km or so, which means that you never go hungry on the road. And highways are mostly one-lane roads with double yellow lines that everyone ignores, especially when you find yourself stuck behind a donkey truck.

Cartagena was immensely touristy, but also breathtakingly gorgeous. Situated on the ocean, the old part of the city boasts colonial European architecture with balconies overlooking narrow streets illuminated at nightfall by antique lanterns which emit a warming yellow hue. Bright pink and purple bougainvilleas wind whimsically around doorframes, balconies, and banisters, and musicians roam the streets with their classical guitars and it's all enough to make even the most callous of human beings fall in love. Jenny and I were lamenting the fact that not only were we broke in Cartagena, but single as well.

Maria's brother lives in Cartagena, and he let us stay in the vacant apartment over his store. Un. Believable. Also located in the old sector, the most sought-after real estate in the city, with high ceilings and french doors that led out to our very own balcony. We have been shown such generosity in this country.

One of my favorite things about Cartagena was ever-available coffee vendors in the streets. They walk around with thermoses and little cups, and there seemed to be one on every corner. Coffee when and where you want it. Heck, you don't even have to leave your house. The apartment where Maria's brother lives had a little basket with a string attatched to the handle. If you're feeling super lazy, or just too hot to peel yourself off the rocking chair, you can lower the basket over the balcony down to street level with your money, and the coffee vendor will place the coffee into your basket, at which point you just have to pull it back up (ever so carefully so as not to spill it!) and there you are! So much fun. It was like fishing for coffee.

Since realistically Jenn and I couldn't really afford to do this trip, we simply pretended we could, dealt with the expenses we couldn't control (transport, etc) and kept it simple with things we could control (food). We ate a lot of yogurt, bananas, and granola. Good bang for the buck. Punch for the peso. But don't you worry, we still left room for plenty of quality food, probably the best food we could have found, which happened to be some of the cheapest:

Example: Arepa de huevo. Egg arepa. Arepas in Manizales and other landlocked cities are more like thick corn tortillas, cooked over the fire. Arepas in Cartagena are fried, then slit open, at which point a raw egg is cracked and dropped inside, along with a little bit of cooked ground meet, then the arepa is thrown back into hot oil. The egg fries inside the arepa and when it is scooped back out with a slotted spoon, it's ready to eat. They must be eaten straight from the oil, because once they cool they get soggy and flopsy. You squirt some hot sauce or tartar sauce (or both) on it and eat. Delectable. Because what can be better than fried food? Food that is fried TWICE! But the arepa itself is only half the charm of the experience. These arepas cannot be found in standard restaurants in the luxe confines of Cartagena center, oh no. We had to venture out of the tourist area into the neighborhoods, where the arepas de huevo are sold on street corners. A few chairs are set up next to the arepa stand, where a television is almost always mounted on top of an egg crate so that patrons may watch their favorite soccer team while they eat. Good food, good soccer game, good time.

Also, if you go to Cartagena, don't leave without eating arroz de coco. Coconut rice. Sticky, dark brown from being cooked with panela, that molasses/brown sugar stuff I wrote about earlier, and of course, coconut milk. It's more of a dessert than a side dish, which I heartily appreciated. We took some with us on the road trip back to Manizales, but after digging our spoons into it at a rest stop, I accidentally left the box on the roof of the car. We saw a white little box-shaped bird flutter away and bounce down the road, spewing brown stuff, in the rear view mirror as we picked up speed upon driving away, and I had to try really hard not to show how incredibly devistated I was. Tranquila.

Maria's brother, Carlos, was one of the funniest people I've ever met. We spent the day on the beach of the island, Isla Tierra Bomba, and we got silly on beers and rum and gave them an English class. Carlos was convinced that the word for scissors was "chicken," and kept doing the scissors cutting motion with his index and middle fingers and saying "chee-kan, chee-kan!" We taught them the word "scissors," (SEE-zahrs!) of course, as well as "knife," (NYE-eef!) and "I don't understand" (Eye doh nonderstahn), among others. Sometimes, when Carlos spoke too fast and we asked him to repeat, he just repeated the same words at the same pace, just in his version of gringo Spanish. So funny. As if that would help us understand. And so for the rest of our time we all spoke Spanish with this weird harsh "r" sound (eg. "Varrmos ar lar playarr" instead of vamos a la playa), and it never got old. I like accents.

Tomorrow Jenn and I begin what will be the longest series of bus rides of either of our lives. We will travel from here to Bolivia in about one week. Not excited to sit still for a long time, but I am excited for street meat!