It's been some weeks since my last entry and that's because I haven't really done anything bar discover that children hate me, and I am glad I don't have any. As of a few days ago, I have been reassigned in my duties as it became clear that the small one was NOT going to change her mind about loathing my guts. I am now head chef of the household with the occasional foray into the role of educator of children in face of adversity. You know, things like "what does the cat say?" "this is blue" "you have brown eyes" "yes, I'm crying!" and "when did it come to this?". I'm not sure that being a gourmet chef to a family who are largely vegan is really my spiritual calling, but it is really kind of them to adapt to my Mary Poppins failure and provide a role for me. Plus, it's only 50 days till I am reunited with Angela and Matt. So. Yes. Pass the puy lentils and the stimulating Lego bricks and lets vamos.
Apart from alienating 2 year olds, I have done two touristy things of note. The first is travel to the small town of San Fransisco, which is about a two hour drive from Bogota. The family are building an Eco house there- or just outside it- and it's an absolutely gorgeous site for a home; a lush, forested landscape which teems with huge blue butterflies, yellow song birds and little brooks and burns. It feels ye olden day, with wizened little farmers still tending the land using spades and hoes and drivers frequently have to stop the car for horses and carts on the main road. It's a good bit warmer than bogota and has a completely different feeling. The land the family bought has a small farm, with mandarin, avocado and pawpaw trees, and a river running through the bottom of their garden. There is a field of white horses and its paradisiacal in general. The house they are building is wonderfully bonkers; it's igloo shaped with trees carved into the outside walls, and bleached branches 'growing' out the centre of the rooms inside. All the windows are round like a ship and its solar powered with a flat roof to lie on and catch the sun. It's fab, like a mixture between a Mediterranean whitewashed holiday home, and a hobbit hole. I love it.
One of the days we were there we went to a conservation gathering in a nearby forrest. I would love to relay what it was about, but understood precisely 2% of the presentation. It was pretty funny (VISUAL JOKE) as they were all talking about global preservation and Eco woo-woo stuff, but arrived (without exception) in their massive 4x4s. They were all very nice though and seemed very passionate about the project and the conservation work happening in Colombia in general. They certainly talked for a long time and used a lot of hand gestures. That's about all I can say for sure, as having spent the first hour establishing that 'árbol' was probably the word for tree, I gave up attempting to follow anything. I have to say, I can't believe how crap I am at Spanish. Being musical and not a total fool (hem...) I secretly assumed I would be prattling away in a few months. 5 months in and I still struggle with introductions. I get so nervous and it's also boring. I can never understand much so my mind sort of drifts... Sad really. Anyway, this day was particularly depressing as I think it might have been interesting had I been able to grasp even the gist of it. I had a lovely walk though, despite it being slightly marred by the fact I got stuck behind a lady who couldn't walk very well, and she kept bellowing at me in Spanish. I initially pretended to understand, laughing and going "sí! Sí!!" but she kept talking to me as the day progressed, and it went on so long that I didn't really know how to tell her I didn't speak Spanish. I kept pretending to see really interesting leaves and buds every time she asked a question, and dashing off the path. She kept waiting for me though. It was pretty uncomfortable, and eventually I had to tell her I didn't speak Spanish, and she looked at me like I was mad. I shuffled off to the back of the group while she told her pals I was linguistically fraudulent. I sound paranoiac don't I? I think I am. Anyway, the best bit about it was the picnic. They certainly didn't eat like tree huggers; lots of ham and cheese.
The second thing I've done is go with Ines, a cousin of the family, to the famous salt cathedral in Z**** which is about 20 minutes on the bus from Chia, and well worth the trip. Even disregarding the cathedral, the wee town is lovely. It has a gorgeous central plaza and lots of nice wee cafes and cobbled side streets. We got to the salt mine in the morning and it was already pretty busy. As usual I hadn't done any research, or indeed even listened when people were talking to me about it, so didn't realise it was ACTUALLY salt. It is. It's a working salt mine; something like 60% of Colombian salt comes from there and they built the cathedral to represent something about Jesus. I didn't understand. Shocker. Anyway, it's quite beautiful and absolutely colossal, with bizarre and kitsch Christmas lights and popcorn stalls lining the walls, which somewhat dispels the aura of religious sanctity which I'm sure was there somewhere. It's all made of salt, but the salt is a strange dark and sparkly substance which I kept licking to make sure, as it looked weird and like something else. There was a beautiful carving in the wall (I will try to upload a picture but this blog format is crap and hard to work) and its supposed to be an accurate representation of the one that indigenous artists painted way back In the day. Whether this was done in their own salty church I'm not sure. Again, didn't understand/listen.
I did enjoy it, but it smelled like sulphur really badly, and also I can't really have 100% faith in something made of salt being structurally sound (crumbling pillars of Jobs wife for example). What happens if it rains? Parts of it are still a working mine and so there were bangs and noises echoing through the vast caverns in a most unnerving way. I think basically though, I just have a (very xenophobic) suspicion of Non-European tourist attractions, and their comparatively flimsy health and safety quotas. Can't help it. I did once almost fall off a mountain in Ethiopia, whilst trying to get away from the psychopathic tour guide who was trying to snog me. My chivalrous Dad was temporarily absent as they (we) had left him writhing in agony with altitude sickness half way down, much to the hilarity of the 98 year old man carrying our bags. I gave him my hiking boots just to get away from him. That simply wouldn't happen on Ben Nevis.
Anyway after escaping the smelly cathedral, we went to have a nose at the town square. We ended up wandering all day, looking for shoes and presents for Ines' kids, and just had a lovely gentle time. We sat for ages outside the town church just looking at all the families enjoying their weekend. It was sunny, there were lovely wee kids everywhere and it smelled like enchiladas, morcilla sausages and jasmine, with maybe just an undertone of fart cavern wafting in on the breeze every now and again. We sat and had a coffee and talked about how Colombia had changed since she was a kid. It was really nice and interesting to hear her views on it. It doesn't feel like a threatening place at all any more, and it's strange to think there are still so many places you can't (or at least shouldn't) go for safety reasons. I know that drugs are really prevalent here, but there isn't much evidence at face value. Maybe just not in the circles I'm mixing in. Although, we were visiting a family pal recently and there was a borrachero tree in the garden. Ines told me that the dust on the petals gets you so wrecked that you become "suggestible to anything." It all sounded a bit Richard Whitely off Brass Eye to me, and I was going to take some of them to press in my diary, as they are really beautiful flowers. I absently thought that perhaps I would lick it on a rainy Sunday as well, and see if I felt sleepy. Mad, flower pressing, party-animal that I am, I forgot my intention but later looked it up online...the unanimous response (including Vice magazine) was that its effects were beyond horrific and DID make you suggestible- not to mention psychotic. People use it to rob folk here, making them trot happily to a bank machine and take our all their money before vomiting profusely and thinking they are Kermit the Frog- maybe for the next ten years. I don't know much about natural highs, but I'm pretty sure if vice magazine says its dangerous, that is bad. Apparently even lying underneath the tree is dangerous, as the pollen is so strong it can effect you just from landing on your skin! So, a lucky escape for old gabs. I will be less sceptical in future, though I still think its weird that a plant which makes you high as a kite is literally growing everywhere, but nobody takes it. Can you imagine it in Glasgow? Or Shetland?! Gads.
Anyway, we had a lovely day. Very "colonial chic" and it just felt nice to be doing something touristy. I can sometimes forget that I am anywhere exotic in this job. It's all a bit beige at times. Today I made banana bread and a batch of jam. It was wonderful and I loved it, though I was momentarily disappointed with the final result, as there wasn't any gingham for the tops. I think in one way this is terribly sad. I'm 27. Surely it's not the jam twilight yet? Maybe I should go and find that plant again. Except I probably won't, because the Queens Speech is starting soon, and it's orange and cardamom biscuits tomorrow! What larks. Cheerio for noo.
Sent from my iPhone
Thursday 18 April 2013
Wednesday 3 April 2013
Apologies
Erm, I've started talking to people again so gone back to normal. Apologies for last blog; a horrid combination of inept preaching and neurotic outpourings. To be honest, was one step away from shaving my head, and finding a British embassy, but I'm fine now. Even mum pointed out it was pretty weak on the old eloquence front. And when it's from someone who fills the interweb with forwarded images of "kittehs 4 ur BuTiful frends! Share if you agree LOL!!!!!!!" I have to take a good long think about content. Soz.
Tuesday 2 April 2013
Feminism and bannocks
I am lying on my bed (a setting which has sadly already been described during last weeks stimulating episode, or I would take this opportunity to bulk out my narrative), worrying. I have noticed that when I'm particularly bored and/or friendless, instead of finding a useful task to occupy me, I tend to stare into space thinking about awful things that could happen. Top worries today, include (in no specific order); incurring a deadly spider bite, blood poisoning, the war in N/S Korea, and the fact I may have bought bogus airline tickets. There are concrete (ish) reasons for these concerns. The spider one for example, is because there are lots in my room, and I realised last night that I don't know the Colombian version of 999. I think I would be too worried about looking stupid to alert a neighbour if a spider bite situation were to occur. Also, can you imagine the spanglish? The necessary miming? The potential for google translate to get it dreadfully wrong? No. The blood poisoning anxiety is because I pierced my ear with a needle. It hurts and went really red, so I googled blood poisoning. Admittedly this was a few days ago now - I expect it would have produced serious symptoms by this stage. The airline ticket anxiety is because I bought them from a website called "CheapOair", which seemed funny at the time. The money still hasn't come out of my account however, and in hindsight perhaps a company that makes you chuckle isn't necessarily one you should put financial trust in. The war in Korea is of course a genuinely terrifying turn of events. My knowledge of politics is at best flimsy, but any war is scary. Mainly, I'm afraid I get stuck here for years whilst nuclear missiles zoom around the skies. There is something very, very wrong in me making an entire war about myself, I recognise that, but it's what I've done.
Other than imagining my own tragic demise, I have been making a cook book for Claudia. Illustrated and in Spanish it gives some indication as to my levels of inspiration, that I spent 160 minutes colouring in drawings of peanuts, lentils and chickpeas. I also made a 3D, wiggly owl for the cover, for reasons that are as yet unclear. I wasn't really sure which tense to use for the instructions and I am worried it might sound aggressive.
I watched a truly wonderful documentary last night called "half the sky" based on the book by the same name. It was about the abuse of women's basic human rights across the globe, and it was jaw droppingly sad, and inspiring in equal measures. (Please stay with me?!) The book was written- and the tv series presented- by this couple, both writers for the New York Times, who feel that gender inequality is unquestionably the greatest impediment to a civilised planet the world will face this century. It looked at sex trafficking, education of girls and female circumcision amongst other things. So interesting, and quite staggering. The things that go on! It made me think about a conversation I had recently with two of my pals-both lasses- about the relevancy of feminism to people like us; or more specifically the young women we know and their reluctance to associate themselves with the term 'feminist'. To me it's a no brainer, and actually something that I get emotional(hysterical) about.* How can we be happy to accept all the progress we owe to the feminist movement, and at the same time acknowledge all the inequality we still have to overcome, yet refuse to align ourselves with the 'brand' as it were? To me it's almost offensive, but I also have to acknowledge that most of my female friends wouldn't call themselves feminists. They are all intelligent, ambitious and confident women, who would, if challenged, say they expect equality to men, yet they don't want to say they're a feminist. Most of them don't think that we do live in a particularly unequal society any more (despite what I deem evidence to the contrary), and most of them associate the term 'feminism' with an outdated cliche of the aggressive, man-hating political mould that they feel to be almost ridiculous nowadays. That model is for a start, not what feminism means to me anyway, but I also think that to ridicule even this style of feminism is to deny its importance in history. Like the radical black power groups in the states who were hostile to whites, its of course not ideal, but in my opinion it's a necessary part of African American progress, to the establishing of their own self worth. The same applies to the feminist equivalent. Without the women who were vehemently anti-male, or more importantly aggressively pro female, things wouldn't have progressed as much for women. They are part of the success of the feminist movement and therefore part of any of the benefits we enjoy today, even if their hostility to men jars with the true meaning of feminism- which is of course equality. I also don't understand why women in this country think they do have equal status as men, when unarguable data such as comparative wage rates, rape convictions (or lack of) and poor percentile representation in politics show the total opposite. And that's just in the UK. When you look at global women's issues, it's utterly depressing. All over Asia, Africa and the Middle East, women are second class citizens. Take a place like Sierra Leon, where rape and abuse toward women and children goes almost entirely unpunished. Rather the victims themselves are blamed and ostracised from their families and communities, whilst the perpetrators will be unlucky to be even questioned by police, never mind held accountable. It's a place where little girls have their genitals mutilated in the name of culture; where they don't receive even a basic education or chance to exist as an economically independent adult. A place where they will die at the average age of 43 due to poverty. Even if you don't think feminism is relevant to your individual circumstance, surely we have to acknowledge its importance and need on a global scale? To be honest, I think at its root, reluctance to say your a feminist, is because its seen as being unattractive to men. I'd be lying if I said it was something I myself was keen to bring up during a first date, but that's something I'm actually quite ashamed of. I don't want a boyfriend who thinks its unattractive to believe that I'm just as valuable as him. If saying you're a feminist throws up connotations of hairy armpits, dungarees and aggressive political rhetoric, then that's a pretty limited scope you've got regarding equality, WHICH IS WHAT FEMINISM MEANS. Anyway I am not ashamed to say I've dabbled with all three of those character traits (especially dungarees) and I didn't notice it impeding my ability to trick someone into going out with me. I think things like the making of a 3D cookbook featuring woodland creatures has more to do with my 'wandering lonely as a cloud' status. I'm not sure how I've managed to end this rant on a "how to get a boyfriend" note, but it seems I have. How depressing. Watch the programme anyway. It's fab. And George Cluny is in it!!!! Bet he likes a dungaree. I wonder if rambling on about a tv programme for 3/4 an entry counts as travel blogging? Does the rest of it? Talking about a bus I caught and a sandwich I saw through a window isn't really V S Naipaul, is it. (Rhetorical.)
The family are back tomorrow. I'm so glad. I haven't spoken to a soul since Thursday (Monday now) other than the shop assistants where I go to stock up on coffee, my old friend. When you live alone, your real eating and drinking habits become revealed; there is nobody else to blame for the three packets of coffee you get through in 10 days. No wonder I'm anxious. I really need to talk to someone soon, or I fear I will go bonkers. The Internet isn't even working at the old folks community centre where I usually lurk (yes it is weird and no it has not gone unnoticed). I had to check my facebook by lurking in the frozen produce aisle of a supermarket. I felt really nervous and was sweating a lot like I was doing something wrong. My solitude must be leading to mild paranoia. On that note, goodbye. I'm going to make some cheering bannocks.
PS mam, if you're reading this, I don't have blood poisoning, they are likely just common house spiders, and I am probably not yet an official target of any chemical warfare plans by Kim Jong what's his chops. I will call you if any of these suppositions change, because whilst I don't have Colombian 999 to hand I do have YOUR number, which is a genuine- if geographically misguided- comfort.
* In fairness to my pals, whatever their stance on the matter really is, the joy they get from watching me implode into a humourless rant about Lap-dancing, in front of strangers (excessive spittle included), probably means I will never really know the truth.
Other than imagining my own tragic demise, I have been making a cook book for Claudia. Illustrated and in Spanish it gives some indication as to my levels of inspiration, that I spent 160 minutes colouring in drawings of peanuts, lentils and chickpeas. I also made a 3D, wiggly owl for the cover, for reasons that are as yet unclear. I wasn't really sure which tense to use for the instructions and I am worried it might sound aggressive.
I watched a truly wonderful documentary last night called "half the sky" based on the book by the same name. It was about the abuse of women's basic human rights across the globe, and it was jaw droppingly sad, and inspiring in equal measures. (Please stay with me?!) The book was written- and the tv series presented- by this couple, both writers for the New York Times, who feel that gender inequality is unquestionably the greatest impediment to a civilised planet the world will face this century. It looked at sex trafficking, education of girls and female circumcision amongst other things. So interesting, and quite staggering. The things that go on! It made me think about a conversation I had recently with two of my pals-both lasses- about the relevancy of feminism to people like us; or more specifically the young women we know and their reluctance to associate themselves with the term 'feminist'. To me it's a no brainer, and actually something that I get emotional(hysterical) about.* How can we be happy to accept all the progress we owe to the feminist movement, and at the same time acknowledge all the inequality we still have to overcome, yet refuse to align ourselves with the 'brand' as it were? To me it's almost offensive, but I also have to acknowledge that most of my female friends wouldn't call themselves feminists. They are all intelligent, ambitious and confident women, who would, if challenged, say they expect equality to men, yet they don't want to say they're a feminist. Most of them don't think that we do live in a particularly unequal society any more (despite what I deem evidence to the contrary), and most of them associate the term 'feminism' with an outdated cliche of the aggressive, man-hating political mould that they feel to be almost ridiculous nowadays. That model is for a start, not what feminism means to me anyway, but I also think that to ridicule even this style of feminism is to deny its importance in history. Like the radical black power groups in the states who were hostile to whites, its of course not ideal, but in my opinion it's a necessary part of African American progress, to the establishing of their own self worth. The same applies to the feminist equivalent. Without the women who were vehemently anti-male, or more importantly aggressively pro female, things wouldn't have progressed as much for women. They are part of the success of the feminist movement and therefore part of any of the benefits we enjoy today, even if their hostility to men jars with the true meaning of feminism- which is of course equality. I also don't understand why women in this country think they do have equal status as men, when unarguable data such as comparative wage rates, rape convictions (or lack of) and poor percentile representation in politics show the total opposite. And that's just in the UK. When you look at global women's issues, it's utterly depressing. All over Asia, Africa and the Middle East, women are second class citizens. Take a place like Sierra Leon, where rape and abuse toward women and children goes almost entirely unpunished. Rather the victims themselves are blamed and ostracised from their families and communities, whilst the perpetrators will be unlucky to be even questioned by police, never mind held accountable. It's a place where little girls have their genitals mutilated in the name of culture; where they don't receive even a basic education or chance to exist as an economically independent adult. A place where they will die at the average age of 43 due to poverty. Even if you don't think feminism is relevant to your individual circumstance, surely we have to acknowledge its importance and need on a global scale? To be honest, I think at its root, reluctance to say your a feminist, is because its seen as being unattractive to men. I'd be lying if I said it was something I myself was keen to bring up during a first date, but that's something I'm actually quite ashamed of. I don't want a boyfriend who thinks its unattractive to believe that I'm just as valuable as him. If saying you're a feminist throws up connotations of hairy armpits, dungarees and aggressive political rhetoric, then that's a pretty limited scope you've got regarding equality, WHICH IS WHAT FEMINISM MEANS. Anyway I am not ashamed to say I've dabbled with all three of those character traits (especially dungarees) and I didn't notice it impeding my ability to trick someone into going out with me. I think things like the making of a 3D cookbook featuring woodland creatures has more to do with my 'wandering lonely as a cloud' status. I'm not sure how I've managed to end this rant on a "how to get a boyfriend" note, but it seems I have. How depressing. Watch the programme anyway. It's fab. And George Cluny is in it!!!! Bet he likes a dungaree. I wonder if rambling on about a tv programme for 3/4 an entry counts as travel blogging? Does the rest of it? Talking about a bus I caught and a sandwich I saw through a window isn't really V S Naipaul, is it. (Rhetorical.)
The family are back tomorrow. I'm so glad. I haven't spoken to a soul since Thursday (Monday now) other than the shop assistants where I go to stock up on coffee, my old friend. When you live alone, your real eating and drinking habits become revealed; there is nobody else to blame for the three packets of coffee you get through in 10 days. No wonder I'm anxious. I really need to talk to someone soon, or I fear I will go bonkers. The Internet isn't even working at the old folks community centre where I usually lurk (yes it is weird and no it has not gone unnoticed). I had to check my facebook by lurking in the frozen produce aisle of a supermarket. I felt really nervous and was sweating a lot like I was doing something wrong. My solitude must be leading to mild paranoia. On that note, goodbye. I'm going to make some cheering bannocks.
PS mam, if you're reading this, I don't have blood poisoning, they are likely just common house spiders, and I am probably not yet an official target of any chemical warfare plans by Kim Jong what's his chops. I will call you if any of these suppositions change, because whilst I don't have Colombian 999 to hand I do have YOUR number, which is a genuine- if geographically misguided- comfort.
* In fairness to my pals, whatever their stance on the matter really is, the joy they get from watching me implode into a humourless rant about Lap-dancing, in front of strangers (excessive spittle included), probably means I will never really know the truth.
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