People Magazine Stole My Story!

...which I stole from the Spanish edition of the Associated Press. But at least I credited them. Here's what happened.

It all started Thursday afternoon. I'd written a lot that morning, cooked lunch and was ready for a break. Then Giovanni calls to me: "I've got the perfect story. Shakira is for Obama." Oof. We write about anything involving Barack Obama and Colombia and just about anything at all involving Shakira, so this was a must. I sat down and knocked it out.

The next day it was linked by "The Most Visited Black Website In The World."

And if you're a snob like me and think capitalizing prepositions and articles is a little over the top, check out the headline it ran under: LATINA POWER!!! Shakira OFFICIALLY Endorses Barack Obama!!

Normally we get about 1,000 hits a day. But the link single-handedly brought 6,793 visits to the story. Counting all sources, the story, at last count, had been viewed 9,279 times--nearly nine times as many as our next highest.

One of those visitors, apparently, was from People Magazine. Their version is not a letter-for-letter reproduction. But I find it remarkable that they used an identical three letter opening. And the same exact second graf quote (which is likely an imperfect translation). And put in a biographical line that looks oddly like a paraphrase of a Bill Clinton quote that I had in the very same position. C'mon.

Now look who, of course, is on top in Google.

Random Thoughts

Been doing too much online reading and browsing lately. Here are some highlights:

"If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don't bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible psychological reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV on primary day. By all means stay home if you want, but don't bullshit yourself that you're not voting. In reality, there is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard's vote." --David Foster Wallace quoted by Roy Clark in Poynter Online.

A very harsh, well-documented analysis of the beginning of 2007 for New York Times Andean correspondent Simon Romero, who I happen to think is a fantastic writer. Juan Forero of the Washington Post, however, has been breaking the great stories lately. The article is by BoRev, who has no end of criticism for American reporting on South America and reserves particular bile for Romero.

New long-form quarterly planning to do away with the false mantle objectivity in foreign reporting while publishing, among other things, 19,000-word pieces on the real Borat of Kazakhstan. They've got a lineup of heavy hitters and a minimalist website to try to convince you to pay $60 for four magazines. Try an excerpt if you're not convinced--they're longer than most articles you'll find anywhere.

New Yorker staff writer Tad Friend--is that the coolest name or what?--speaks out about how he chews pens and other subjects. Rabid fans of the magazine that uses umlauts over the second 'o' in words like cooperative and never says unique when sui generis will fit take note.

On a personal note (Colombia being a personal topic these days), I came across a five paragraph story (Spanish) that hid under a very numerical lede that the country's Prosecutor's Office say reported disappearances have cuadrupled since 2007 and grown by a factor of 14 since 2003. President Alvaro Uribe, in unrelated news, was elected in 2002.

And I discovered that the Economist agrees with me that Semana magazine, which just released an English edition, is badass. Incidentally, the present cover story published Monday about the military possible murdering citizens is a translation of the Spanish version, which Adriaan reported/transcribed the Saturday it was published. In other words, we beat them to their own story (while giving them credit).

Finally, a virgin appeared on a ceiling, one model 'almost pushed' another and police prevented two people from being resurrected in a busy day for our Trivia section. The most read story I've written for Colombia Reports, by the way, is about Satan's influence over Colombian teenagers. Guess people opt for imaginary evil over the real thing.

Heading things up

Medellín, COLOMBIA--Last week was a good week for headlines. Here's my top three, working from the back:
3. The lede that follows outshines this headline, but I still like it:." (Good thing they didn't steal a Modigliani -- or anything with more than four letters.)
2. This story, at first glance, didn't offer much in the way of headline material, but a stroke of inspiration made something out of nothing: "Colombians causing trouble in paradise."
1. Credit the story, nothing more: "Devil possesses more Ouija-playing teenage girls."

Kay and Kumar go to Colombia

Medellin, COLOMBIA -- As I mentioned in a previous post, despite our offices being located smack dab in the middle of Colombia's second-largest city, the bulk of Colombia Reports' work could be done from anywhere in the world. Part of it is choice: we get Spanish news into English fast. But most of it is resources: we have three writers, one who does only sports.

This isn't the long-term plan. Adriaan's goal, albeit distant, is that the site supplements our swift news feed with original reporting (beyond our new, all-original travel section). Yet for now we mostly translate, compile and summarize. In fact, sometimes, when we're rushed and don't see any value in doing our own version, we lift English-language wire stories. It was doing just that a few days ago that I realized we're not so different from the big boys.

It was the day we'd launched our new website. Eager to cram it with brand new content, we were working hard into the afternoon. My story count, including three that were accidentally lost, was at eight or so. So, when word came that Colombia's state-owned oil company had made its first Wall Street offering, I was happy to see there was a Reuters article available. (After all, for business stories -- peso movements, oil drilling -- we often turn to the British wire service or Bloomberg.) I dragged from just past the dateline to the final sentence. In the credit line, I read, to my shock: "(Reporting by Shivani Singh in Bangalore; Editing by Savio D'Souza)." Reuters, one of the largest, most respected wire services in the world, reports on Colombia from Bangalore, India.

Not that this is news. The fire started with Pasadena Now, who last May unabashedly announced city council meetings would henceforth be reported from, well, the other side of the world. They were followed in June by the Orange County Register, a paper that has actually picked up a handful of Pulitzer prizes over the years, announced an Indian firm would take over some copyediting duties. And while the pair caught a lot of media heat for their moves, bigger fish have also taken the plunge. The Miami Herald had began sending advertising and community sections design seven thousand miles away at the beginning of 2007, and shortly after The Sacramento Bee followed suit.

So, does that mean there is no shame that sometimes I feel like Rajesh?

Oh musical fruit!

Medellín, COLOMBIA--Last week, after more than half a year in Latin America, I learned how to make frijoles. I had bought a few pounds, or maybe kilos, during my first shopping trip here and after exhausting the rest of my more familiar supplies -- rice, lentils, eggs -- I turned to the beans. Being new to the business, the chance presence of my Colombian roommate Giovanni's mother was a blessing. Managing a kind of trial-and-error communication -- her swift, heavily colloquial, paisa patois was a bear for me to untangle -- we assembled a soup that the following quantities, cooking times and order of directions may, just possibly, recreate:

Three cups red beans, soaked overnight (no predjudices against white, black, brown)
One 8-inch plantain, cubed to your pleasure
Two onions, finely chopped (red, white, yellow, whatever)
One carrot
Salt, to taste
Magical cube of seasoning provided by Giovanni
More ingredients which you will buy because you aren't too lazy to go to the market

Rice, as much as you want to eat when the soup is ready
Garlic, if you like your rice that way

Drop the beans, the plantain and the carrot, along with a lot of water into a pressure cooker. Heat until it explodes. Turn it down and go review how many tons of cocaine were recovered by the Colombian authorities in the last half hour. Take pressure cooker off burner, avoid frontal burning thanks to crystal clear warnings not to try to open it right away, instead use fork to hold up steam release until the pot clears. Open, remove now sodden carrot, drop in blender with some juice, blend, return liquid carrot to soup. Toss the onion and seasoning in to the cooker, seal 'er up and put her back on the hot spot. Now is a good time to make the rice, but be sure to wash it first, as that will earn the compliments of any Colombians in the kitchen. Once the pot explodes again, things could possibly be ready to eat. Or they may need another hour on the stove. Eventually, in any case, you will eat them. And, if all has gone well, your roommate will curse the fact that you ever learned.

Back in black, midnight black

Medellín, COLOMBIA--In lieu of actual personal news, I present an update on my friend Midnight. I was checking my email this afternoon, which I am prone to do with the frequency of a goldfish crossing its bowl, and found a new comment message from Juancho--a fellow Midnight groupie, if you haven't fogotten. It read:

I am such an idiot, i just got the whole Ken and Barbie thing.

Whoa. That would be big news. Immediately I checked Midnight's post, a snippet left under my article on the many protests and marches in Colombia this week:

Social activism in the name of rights for the people, excellent!

Ken,

What good is it at all if you can’t spend it on yourself now and then or act like a rock star.

BARBIE

So, what is Juancho's theory? That Barbie's letters are Midnight's take on the Jane and Joe Schmoe point of view? If so, I don't agree. It doesn't explain the servomechanism and the cocaine caviar. Midnight is a nut, an indecipherable, across the board, over the top nut. His nuttiness is only surpassed by my willingness to write long posts about it. My apologies.

As opaque as Midnight

Medellín, COLOMBIA -- Sometime after newspapers went to the web, they began to allow comments. I never used to take much notice. The few lines peeking up from below the article always confirmed my assumptions about such public exchanges--nothing but snide and poorly punctuated partisan blabber. (I can recall only one recent occasion in which I read through the comments. It was an article about journalism internships.) Since I started writing for Colombia Reports, my outlook has changed little. But I have gotten to know one particularly special commentor. 'Midnight'.

Penning an appropriate introduction has proven beyond me tonight, so I will simply present Midnight (man? woman? beast? I'll use a male pronoun for ease of reading) in his own words. This gem, far less opaque than his usual opinionating, came in response to an article I wrote on the lack of a Colombia-U.S. judicial cooperation bill:

Gee Ken,

I don't think that the DOJ, or Supreme Court need anything not even a video to expedite a hearing for the murders, not in this country. I may be wrong, I have been before but I believe that they have what they need right now. I have the family, family rules or what?

BARBIE

Yes, he is BARBIE. No, he is not always so lucid. And no, he is not always Barbie. For part two, I'll give you a more typical example, but stick with the family theme. He wrote this one today under my article about Colombian president Alvaro suggesting possible successors, including two women:

Excellent idea. I am just shocked, very generous, if you love something you will always find your way to this. Nobility is a just cause.

There are always those who will deny justice but in the end it will prevail. Isn’t that the funny thing. When some people say one way or another, they say it to defy justice, and when others say it, they say it to rectify or enforce it.

Ken,

It’s always the family, always, right now.

BARBIE

Despite the vast majority of our visitors coming from the U.S., Canada and the United Kingdom, a disproportionate of posters are, I assume from their grammar, non-native English speakers. This is fitting, as Adriaan is Dutch. But there is no guessing where Midnight hails from. Perhaps another planet. Here is a serious rant prompted (?) by an article I wrote on a Danish judge refusing evidence because it might have been gained by torture:

Common sense, yes thats what I expect. Common sense.

Ken,

If I have to take time to move I’m going to let the family scrutinize you. Will Colombia be there when I get back? Will you still be eligible for my spontaneity and humor? Can you follow family rules?

I will watch as closely as possible but there is a lot going on right now. I have to keep up with your better half. This I can do while not paying attention. You will find that when you get done with your cleaning and all of you are right now that you will once again be gaining ground all of you together. There is a plan and a feasible one.
Unlike myself you still have a budget, I belong to the servomechanism, please don’t make them come get me, it only causes us all to get upset.

DO YOU HEAR ME NOW?

BARBIE

I want to hear more about the servomechanism. Actually, Midnight is not always nuts. Sometimes forgets his role as resident nut and turns out rather cogent analysis. But that's only sometimes. The rest of the time it's off-the-wall commentary followed by Mattel-inspired garble. I wondered about this bi-polar schism until I came across this post:

Oh no! People do not think that, no not at all. Most people actually realize a wise investment in the future themselves. I myself check out the entire south basin all of the time, the wildlife and one never knows what I may have my hands in too. We don't want, "a rich man from this very website to catch on though." Machismo and all.

I was raised right outside of the gates of a military base however, and he's not only grating on my last nerve he is now squeezing my mainline. You understand.

Funny story one time another Ken launched all out warfare with me using bugs. The fifth month into it he looked terribly ragged and wanted to know how I came so clean.

The time before another Ken launched all out warfare on me and claimed to have the ability to make a mother f888ing junkie out of me. A few months into it and unsuccessful he parked his van outside of my house, unshaven and discouraged he caved right there.

You would not believe some of the ideas that I have had to endure.

Ken,

That dirty wash was not for free, no more cocaine caviar for you I didn't even like your predecessors. If I did know they were getting bags dumped on their heads I was on the East coast listening to the Sultans of Swing.

BARBIE

It seems we've been hearing from BARBIE -- why is it all caps all the time? -- the whole time. No fascinating split personalities here. Just one unforgettable one. And I'm not the only one who appreciates it:

Juancho to Midnight -

Your comments are extremely mind boggling to read. I am yet to understand one single comment, but I tip my hat to you midnight. You are fun to read. Don’t go sane on us now.

I second that.

A day in the Colombian news winds

Medellín, COLOMBIA -- It started out as a normal day. I knocked out a poll story, then our fourth piece with a headline starting "ICC Prosecutor..." -- although my now old friend Luis Moreno Ocampo had long since finished his three-day Colombian tour. Then suddenly the president was going to prison.

"Uribe's arrest ordered," one bold copywriter put it. I figured it was the latest volley in the battle of words between the country's Supreme Court and Colombian president Alvaro Uribe's administration. But surprisingly, the culprit was a court in the tiny department of Sucre. Apparently a bunch of judges, clerks and other court employees weren't happy their wages had not been equalized as promised.

A few other articles came and went, I spent a long lunch making beans, but when I sat down to eat, there was Uribe. He said he was going to appeal. I finished my lunch at the computer, banging out the new development.

But the story hadn't even been moved from ready to published before the final news of the day hit: the Supreme Court had overturned the prison sentence. The Colombian soap opera of the day was over.

In the course of reviewing the various media reports for each article, there was only a single piece that spoke with a legal expert. Seeing as the Supreme Court's position was, simply, this isn't allowed by the Constitution, that would have seemed an obvious reference point. But it didn't break with custom. In Colombia, you don't call to get the other side's story; you write another story. I'm still getting used to that one.

On Virgins and... not virgins

Medellín, COLOMBIA--A few days after I started writing for Colombia Reports, our readership more than doubled. We’d been floating at around 600 visitors a day (selfish self promotion: you could be one of those!) and suddenly it was nearly cresting 1,400. It was 1,644 the next day. Then 2,031. My head might have swelled a bit had I not known what Adriaan had published right before the climb began. Tucked among the latest drug raid and a fresh accusation in the ‘parapolitics’ scandal, was this gem: “Colombia loses only pornographic channel.” The extra kick? Playboy News Online picked it up.

These days, virtually any newspaper you visit offers a list of most emailed stories. It wasn’t always this way. I remember going to the San Francisco Chronicle’s website in the early days of newspaper websites—in other words, not long ago. They too had a list, but it was of the most read stories. I’m pretty sure there was some major news breaking that day because otherwise I wouldn’t have gone to the site. Yet the list, well, might as well have been the lineup for Star magazine. Michael Jackson led off, with Brittany following and Madonna in the three slot. Something about O.J. Simpson batted cleanup. (If it sound like an unlikely array, I plead pop culture ignorance.) It was a mirror to our priorities and it wasn’t pretty. It was a lot like looking at our site traffic.

On the second day of our pornographic channel-inspired explosion, I found a story about Viagra sales in Colombia. I didn’t even have to confer with Adriaan—I knew I had a winner. I banged it out right away and we put it up. In the next 24 hours, it barely made a ripple. However, a story I’d written a few ticks before, a breather after hammering out two exploring the latest ‘parapolitics’ cases—clearing the vice president of charges and calls for a top minister’s resgnation—brought a second wave. “Virgin appears on bucket near Cartagena” got picked up by SpiritDaily.com, a kind of religious DrudgeReport.com, and became a runaway success. Religion triumphs over sex.

Actually, sex usually wins. In our all time top ten, which is more of a top eight because one is the homepage and the other is the news homepage, you get right to the end (my Virgin) before you see an article unrelated to sex or, well, sexiness—Miss Universe results hold the number 4 spot, while speculation on Miss Colombia’s chances is firm at number seven. Our all-time non-homepage leader, with nearly a thousand more views than the nearest competitor, is “Yidis Medina”—a former congresswoman who says she was bribed by Uribe’s supporters to vote for his reelection—“poses nude in magazine.” Number nine is a tag search for Yidis Media—draw your own conclusion. The remaining two is our recent porn channel triumph and a Shakira-and-boyfriend sex tape rumor piece. We like to stay astride all Colombian news.

Given what has been going on in Colombia—a ‘parapolitics’ scandal is reaching further each day up the current administration’s ladder, demobilized paramilitary leaders are spilling the beans about their crimes, a steady flow of negative human rights reports, Uribe fighting for a currently unconstitutional third term—the top ten list is a little disheartening. It’s not that I don’t understand the draw—I too was fascinated to learn that with the loss of Kamasutra TV, Colombians will no longer be able to watch “Erotic Cuisine,” “The Other Side of Sex” and “The Porn Guru.” I just thought things were a little more high-minded. On the other hand, Adriaan and I have been discussing a running series on the strip clubs of Medellin. We’re businessmen.

[First, I realize that by linking them I only entrench their positions. Well, let the mirror be accurate. Second, if you got this by email, it's because I added your email to an automatic send function. If you don't want to receive it, just tell me. Same for if you don't, but you'd like to. Also, I've started using datelines because the first question you all ask me is, 'Where are you now?' That said, retrospective blogs will dateline from where I was. So I guess the real reason is just because I like the false sense of professionalism. Finally, Adriaan and I have yet to do any research.]

What I do here

Medellin, COLOMBIA -- Work usually starts with Adriaan knocking on my door. Although most nights he's out with one of his parade of girlfriends or playing billiards until late, he always manages to rise before me. I chalk it up to countless cups of tinto--coffee, Colombian style---and cigarettes. So, my boss is also my alarm clock. After the knock--which I usually respond to in Spanish, despite both of us being more comfortable speaking English--I rise, dress and shuffle to my desk in the living room. I mumble a sleepy 'Buenos dias' to Giovanni, who is also inevitably already in the desk in front of mine. The gringo is the lazy one in the house. Work begins.

We scan the morning news for about half an hour. I gamely begin at the bottom of the list of new articles that my RSS feeder (if you don't have one, get one; if you don't know what they are, look them up, then get one) has culled from nearly a hundred sites, but am quickly overwhelmed by the pop-up notifications of the latest news. The feeder will accumulate more than 500 new articles in the course of the day, mostly in Spanish, which is several hundred more than I could ever review in 30 minutes. Ultimately, I choose a couple stories from the bottom of hte list, where I started, a couple from the top, where I end up, then check Google news to make sure I've got the big stories. Simultaneously, Giovanni is talking to me in a foreign language--it starts sounding like Spanish after about an hour--and sending link after link over MSN messenger. After 30 minutes, or really whenever, Adriaan walks in and we have our editorial conference.

Almost all stories fall into two categories: serious or odd. (Nevermind, for a moment, that some of Colombia's regular political stories are seriously odd.) Ongoing developments in the parapolitics scandal, which has found nearly a third of the country's legislators--primarily pro-president Alvaro Uribe ones--were in league with the country's rightist paramilitary groups, have taken a few spots each day. Next up are random business or weather stories--volcano erupts, coffee harvest down, etc. Finally, are the silly ones, like the 26-pound yuca, or cassava, and the virgin that appeared on a water bucket (but more on these in a coming post). When we can combine these two, like doing a textile sales story with a lede about underwear, we are happy men.

Decisions made, me and Adriaan bend our heads and let our fingers fly. I can usually do five to six articles in the roughly four hours--pretty slow considering we don't make a single phone call. My process goes something like this: skim entire article, realize you can't skim in Spanish, read entire article, find there is a word you don't understand a word in a key sentence, paste article into Google translator, waste more time comparing "translation" to Spanish words and working out the real meaning, open Google news to find other stories on the same topic, repeat process. Break for lunch.

As you may now realize, despite our office sitting a block off the dead center of Colombia's second largest city, our work involves nothing you couldn't do with from anywhere in the world with an internet connection. There are a number of reasons for this. Yes, Colombia's low life expectancy for journalists is a unseen, but acknowledged deterrent. Yet more than that, however, is that besides our sports man in Madrid, there is just two of us writing, so just getting the days news out is a struggle. And even more debilitating is that, for me, the local paisa accent often leaves me in blinking uncomprehension. But above all, it's our niche. We get the news out fast. Bite-size summaries are what our readers want. Except when they want to read about virgins...

Written without my glove

On a rainy evening in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala a few months ago, Zoe and I went to shoot pool at a dimly lit place a few blocks off the main square. The small hall was only mildly attended that evening, but the table next to ours was occupied. It was at least half an hour before I realized that the other table had just three balls. And no pockets.

Billiards is a odd game. Well, it's an odd game to a former pool player. In an evening of pool, you have a series of climaxes. The balls are racked, broken, pocketed and then you start again. The conclusion of each game offers an opportunity to quit. Yet with billiards, there is no natural stopping point. The balls are still there, tempting you to try again.

For those who don't know, the point of billiards is to hit one ball so it hits the other two. And then do it again. And again. This is harder than it sounds--and I'm not just talking about the again part. I first tried about a week ago, on my first night in Medellin. (Adriaan, my boss, housemate and drinking buddy, who to "prepare for my arrival" bought me a billiards glove, enjoys billiards just as much as you would expect of someone who buys people unsolicited billiards gloves.) I made three in a row--then one more in the next hour. It's not just odd, it's fucking hard.

[Oh yeah, happy birthday me!]

Day Four (Three is on the way)

My first few clips at Colombia Reports:

Killings of ex-paramilitary leaders continue - I was making lunch in the kitchen when I happened to glance through the doorway at our new TV. "Ex-paramilitar asesinado," I read, alongside a dateline of Medellin. 'Hey, that's where I am,' I thought. 'HEY!' Ironically, the killing took place in the ritzy part of town, far from the reputedly dangerous but actually quite sanitized city center where I live. Not that it matters: I'm too stuck to my laptop to leave the apartment.

Two Colombians dead, three survive Spanish plane crash - I suspect that none of our readers cared about this. Of course, the site's greatest daily hit number came today, after Playboy.com discovered Adriaan's story that Colombia's only porn channel had shut down. Cue my 39-part retrospective. (I forgive those who don't get the SF Chron humor).

More than 600 displaced by Cauca violence - This was actually the very first thing I wrote for CR. The first hard news story I've written in more than 8 months. And the first thing on deadline in that same period--explaining why freelance ideas are so abundant, but my bank account so slim.

Guerrilla faction gives up arms - I know you didn't even get this far, and if you did you're probably not reading the articles, which you shouldn't really. We specialize in quick news briefs, not in-depth or narrative work. This is partly because Adriaan is physically revolted by drippy writing and partly because until now he was responsible for all the content. So I may yet beat the pavements of Medellin, instead of just the websites of Colombia's newspapers.

Day Two

Adriaan threw his half-smoked cigarette on the pavement and stormed up the steps. We were taking a spin on the Metro and there was no smoking allowed. Or eating. Or, it seemed, anything which might leave a trace. The train’s platform was—and I looked hard for trash, scum, anything—as sterile as a hospital ward. As Adriaan put it: “If the actual action didn’t dirty the place, you could eat off the floor, if you know what I mean?”

The train—which I noted ran on rails unlike Mexico City’s rubber tire and guide line system—was equally spotless. But as the city started rolling by, I quickly forgot about cleanliness. In every other city and town I’ve visited in Latin America, walls are generally made of gray cinderblocks. In Medellín, while the cinderblocks have gone nowhere, they’ve all turned to a light maroon. It is as if all the houses that climb up the sloping walls of the valley, large and small, finished and unfinished, were made of brick. It is beautiful.

A few stops after we got on, a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother boarded the train through the door closest to us. In the otherwise crowded train, the space immediately between the inner and outer doors was clear, but the design of the train—near the doors the low roof bars curve up to the ceiling and out of reach—left the daughter grasping for a hand hold. She couldn’t reach the curving bar and as the standstill time ticked away, her even shorter mother started looking around in a mild panic. To the mother’s relief, as the doors closed a man relinquished part of a vertical pole, and the daughter, after a slight stumble as the train started, wedged herself into the crowd to get a handful of the lower hanging portion of the pole.

The whole episode, recounted here in far too much detail, made me naturally focus on the actual running of the train. And wow! In addition to being undoubtedly the cleanest metro system I have ever ridden—Atlanta’s system a close second, London’s interiors a very distant third, and New York, Paris, Miami, Boston, Mexico City and the Bay Area all not making the charts—it is easily the smoothest. (It likely helps there is really only one line, a long stretch along the length of the valley, with only one or two arms.)

Day One

MEDELLIN, Colombia--Since beginning this trip in late January (or mid-November, if you count my one month language program) in Mexico, I’ve bused my way, sometimes reclining in comfort, sometimes crowded four to a bench seat, through Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. More than a few journeys have been made over winding, unpaved tracks hacked through jungle or out of a hillside, but most of the real point-to-point trips on my slow creep south have been by the Pan-American Highway. This was not to be in getting to Colombia. Despite its name, the artery ends without ceremony in southern Panama, at the head of a jungle controlled by nothing but lawlessness.

Thus I decided, after much research, agonizing, calculating, hair pulling, and kicking myself for not planning ahead, to take to the air for the first time in my journey. The price of the next-day, one-way ticket had a clean kind of justice to it: the $377 total ate in almost a single gulp the $425 I had recently received for a handful of articles. My consolation: the alternative, busing to the Panama coast, taking a 5-day yacht journey to Cartagena, Colombia, then busing to Medellín, cost as much on paper and undoubtedly more in reality. Yes, I missed an adventure, but I get even more time to enjoy my unexpectedly expansive, if bare, quarters here in Pablo Escobar’s hometown.

The third floor apartment from which I write is in part bare because my new boss, Adriaan, and his roommates only moved in about 48 hours ago. As such, they’re still hurrying to do furnishing—we stopped on the way back from the airport to buy trays for their potted-plants. Yet it would take a large greenhouse to really fill all the empty corners. Even with two armchairs, two couches, a kind-of high foot rest, a low bureau and, of course, the potted plants, the vast living room feels vacant. A long, wide veranda holds only moving boxes. The hotel-like garden—a tiled plaza adjoining two rock gardens holding richly planted concrete planter boxes—has just a backless director’s chair sitting at its entrance. My room is empty but for an air mattress, a few odds and ends I haven’t yet put in one of the three built-in floor-to-ceiling cabinets, and myself. One of the few fully occupied spaces is Giovanni’s room, a smallish thing off the kitchen that, indicative of the apartment’s former grandeur, was once the maid quarters.

Clips: Popping My Freelance Cherry

Yup, this is the one that did it. You may have already seen it, but in order to drag this out (trusted sources say actual posts are on the way) I'm going to post all my articles, one by one, starting from the very beginning. Ironically, I hadn't even gotten paid for this article before day pack portion of the backpack was stolen.

The Ghost in the Machine, part 2

Spyware, I have found, provokes a succession of emotions not unlike the stages of grief. First I was in denial: these error messages don’t mean anything, these folders with “.exe” don’t mean everything, Windows always does weird things, etc. Next I panicked: I realized forces beyond my control were operating behind the scenes; I realized there was a ghost in the machine. I began by trying to root them out through official routes, using virus programs, diagnostic tools. They found nothing, so I just opened my C:\ and start deleting anything that looked suspicious.

As it became apparent my clear cutting had no impact on the ghost, I settled into acceptance: “Perhaps we can coexist,” I thought. “After all, not having internet is a mixed blessing. I cannot download an update that would destroy you, while you, my friend”—by this time I was having mental conversations with my ghost—“cannot communicate with your master.” Like a dog carrying a snake across a river, reaching the shore would put us both in danger.

But then the messages started. Every time I start up my computer I have to fight off half a dozen or more messages from my virus program urging me to “restart my computer to remove new threats.” If I were to say yes to each of these, I’d never actually use my computer. It seems even my friends have turned against me.

Add this to the little discoveries. I can’t display hidden files and folders, the option doesn’t even exist. Pressing Ctrl-Alt-Delete brings up a “disabled by your administrator,” despite the fact that I am the administrator. My virus program—friend? enemy?—quarantines about one new file every minute, each of them either 409, 410 or 18 kb in size. My laptop’s power gauge has disappeared.

Thus, I have now reached the final stage: cautious confidence. In the battle over the fate of my laptop, a conflict that has taken on Deep Blue vs. Kasparov proportions for me, I’m optimistic. After all, this is more like Bridge than Chess, and my trump card is the update. In the meantime, I’m watching the quarantine file build—while writing this post, I found 62 new friends.

A Ghost in the Machine, part 1

The battery light on my laptop is blinking. It makes me worried. Things weren’t always this way.

It started about a month ago. I began getting more notices of mysterious programs terminating, encountering fatal errors. “_CLS_PCCGuide”, “amvo.exe”, “ino6.com”. I didn’t give it much thought.

Then my USB drive, my connection from laptop to outside world, started acting funny. Every folder suddenly had a “.exe” after it. A couple folders I didn’t recognize popped up: “RECYCLER”, “FOUND . 000”. I would tried opening them, but there was nothing inside. I tried deleting them, but they reappeared.

I got worried enough to act. I ran a virus scan. Nothing. I ran a Scandisk. Nothing. I went to PC Doctor and ran every diagnostic they had. Still nothing. Confessing to myself that unfortunately it all depended on my virus program—which I had, in my infinite wisdom, neglected to renew some six months ago—I cursed my stupidity. I couldn’t download the update now, I had no internet. There was only one option left. I had to go straight to the source. I had to cut out the bad with my own hand.

I started searching for those mysterious terminated programs. Microsoft’s little search doggy told me there was no “_CLS_PCCGuide” or, for that matter, “CLS” or “PCCGuide.” He smiled and denied the existence of “amvo.exe” and “ino6.com.” I grew suspicious. I searched “Windows.” Nope, no files, no folders of that name, he told me. They had corrupted the doggy!

“Ok, who needs search?” I thought. I would track down these infiltrators on my own. Going off a path directory one of those failed program messages had displayed, I opened my C:\ and clicked on Windows. Instead of opening the folder, the explorer window refreshed and, lo and behold, there was no longer any Windows folder. It was like opening up a phonebook to find half the alphabet missing. It’s not there, but here I am. Hmm.

The People You Meet: Giovanni, part 1

When I signed up for classes and a homestay at La Casa en el Arból, my language school in San Cristobal de las Casas, I was excited to see there was a two-meal-a-day option. I had signed up for three meals a day in both my previous destinations and, faithfully attending those three like any student on a budget, I missed out on a lot of local food. The price difference was $10, which seemed like a good deal until I did the math. I had about $1.42 to spend per day. Even in Mexico, that doesn’t go far, but I seldom eat a big dinner here, so I figured something small off the street would do.

Two weeks after later—boy it’s been short, but so rich—and my only street experiences have been a single pork tamale and a cup of esquites, cooked corn with mayonnaise and chili powder. Instead, I ate with Giovanni.

I met Giovanni my first night in Chiapas. It had been a long day. Thanks to an overnight bus, I had arrived early enough to watch dawn break, then sat in the cold in front of my new school reading The Conquest of New Spain until the doors opened. Introductions at my homestay, a long sweaty search for a laundry mat, Spanish classes and a brief stroll into town followed. Thus, night settling in, I wasn’t eager to venture far for my meal. The pizza place I had already passed four or more times, just a curving three-quarter block from my new home seemed like a good choice. Besides, at $1 a slice, it would fit my budget.

Thus, at about 7 p.m., I came in and met Giovanni, the thirty-something owner who uses “chido” as liberally as a California surfer says 'cool'. (They mean the same thing, by the way.) He told me he hadn’t cooked any pizzas yet, but if I came back in about 30 min’s he’d have one ready. I came back about three hours later and, well, he invited me to a party. That's how it all started.

Back from the Sick

I've already broke my new schedule and partly it's because I've been sick. Fever came and went, a stuffy nose came and gave and gave and gave and went, then fever did a comeback tour, then a cough showed up on the scene. Then last night my neighbor's dog bit me. In case you're wondering, it really does hurt to be bit by a dog, even when it comes in the fleshy part of your thigh. If my coming blog posts take on a distinctly rabid flavor, then you'll know I've got rabies.

The Gringo as a Funnel

Salvadorians rarely wear raincoats. They’re smarter than that.

I spent three hours a couple Sundays ago catching up on my virtual life in a windowless internet cafe inside San Salvador’s too-good imitation of an American mall, Metro Centro. Virtues of that use of time aside, when I exited I found not only the sky had grown dark as expected, but the streets were wet. Halfway through my wait for the cross-town bus, the drops started. I put on my raincoat. Then came the rain. I zipped up my raincoat. Then came the downpour. I had an epiphany (a small one, ok?).

People seldom wear raincoats in El Salvador because they make no difference. Rain here, after tickling you with wispy drops then feinting at blowing over, comes down like paint. It coats you, it envelopes you and, in my case, it comes right through the front and down the sleeves of my expensive all-weather windbreaker. The little that is held at bay rolls down my sleeves into my pockets, down my back onto my pants, and down my front onto the tops of my shoes. In an El Salvador rainstorm, I’m not just a sponge, I’m a funnel.

Even Guatemala’s solution, the poncho, is hardly seen here. Umbrellas are popular, but many people rely on a method that they can’t forget at home: waiting. As I run from bus to home or from store to bus stop, I provoke a lot of quizzical looks from more relaxed and, let’s face it, more sensible Salvadorans standing at ease under the eaves. Besides, the rain usually lasts only twenty minutes (it’s like emptying a watering can through its top instead of its nozzle—quick and heavy) and those pupusas look so tempting. Why rush?

The People You Meet: Ruben Lettuce, part 1

I met Ruben Lettuce the other day. I was sitting in La Nevería, finished with my ice cream but lingering, reading an six-month old copy of The Nation, when he stumbled in. After trying the other two customers, he swayed his way to me and held out his hand. “¿Podría darme un moneda?” he asked. I fished in my pocket and came up with a nickel (I stake no claim to generosity, but in a city where bus fare is a quarter and a decent meal can be had for $1.25, five cents is not throw away money). He held it up for a look then turned his eyes back to me and cocked his head. In a voice as off-kilter as his balance, he asked: “You speak English?”

His real name was Ruben Pacheco Lechuga. I know it exactly not only because it stuck in my head—Lechuga means lettuce—but because he wrote it for me on a sheet of lined paper torn from my notebook. Below it is his mother’s email and two guesses at his wife’s—“I’m educated and all that, I just haven’t used it in a while,” he told me as he paused, pen in hand, drawing a blank on the address. I’m to email them to say he’s alright. That he’s been drinking, but he’s alright. Ruben, by the way, is an alcoholic.

His tale weaved more than he did. It shifted from his current lover to a past girlfriend to his present wife, one foot in the last decade, the other in the present. He drunkenly slurred, he soberly thundered, he—who painted his English with swear words—switched to Spanish to ask me how to say ‘water’. He repeated, he revealed, he trailed off. Talking with Ruben was like watching a man peel an onion, moist eyes and all.

First layer: He had lived in Canada, in BC. “Way up there,” he said, his finger shooting toward the ceiling as if Canada was there, above the white rectangles of the plastic ceiling. Second layer: His mother still lives there. “She’s a foster mother,” he kept telling me, as if the detail were a wayward flake clinging to the back of his finger. Third: His wife, “a native Canadian girl”—another flake of husk—lives there too. He hadn’t seen her for three years, when she came to visit him in El Salvador. He hadn’t been in Canada since 1994. Fourth: Oh yeah, also in Canada were his two daughters. The acid hit the nostrils.

When the Lights Go Out

It’s raining and the electricity is out. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, loose convertible pants over jeans, a singlet, shirt, polar fleece and raincoat with the hood up. I’m inside. June and July are the months of rain here. Streets flood, the electricity goes, school becomes optional, cooking is done by candlelight.

In the U.S., as I told my host mom, I believe blackouts are a good opportunity to consider how the presence of electricity shapes our lives. From TVs to computers, from electric stoves to microwaves (without which there is little we Americans can cook) and from light bulbs to cordless phones (who hasn’t dusted off an 1980s vintage corded phone during a power outage?). In fact, I continue, sometimes as kids we got excited when there was a power outage. It meant candles at dinner followed by squinting games of Monopoly. It meant spooky shadows and not leaving the refrigerator door open. Yet, I tell her, now concluding, power outs can be a pain too—nearly all of our house’s clocks are electric.

Her response: when Hurricane Stan stampeded through Guatemala in the 90s, it took with it the electricity—but it also knocked out the bridges. The bridges from Mexico to Xela, from Xela to the capital, from the capital to the beach, from the beach to Honduras, from Honduras back to the capital; in short, from everywhere to everywhere else. With one storm, the country broke into islands. And with time, the privations grew.

There was, of course, no power. But quickly there was also no gas—the trucks couldn’t ford the bridgeless rivers. Then there was no bread—same problem. Then there was no pork, no chicken, no eggs, no beans, no corn—no corn in a culture where you eat a tortilla or tamale made from the grain with every meal. There was too much water and there was no water. That which fell from the sky snuffed out any attempts at a fire, yet they had nothing to drink—the purified supplies were cut off. This went on for weeks. “We suffered a lot,” she said, matter-of-factly.

I think of my childish giddiness at the prospect of a dark house. Then I think of my current philosophical conception: the power out as philosophical moment. Then I think of how much time it really took to reprogram all those clocks, all three of them. Then I realize, I came to Mexico, to Guatemala, to Central America, to Latin America for moments like these. To get my lights turned off.

Friendly Showers

[Fittingly, my first post in more than two months is about a country I long since left. (For those who don't know, I'm now in El Salvador. On that note, and as you may have noticed, I've changed the title of the blog. I'm seeing what I can do about the URL.) I had planned to post something I wrote about another country I visited during my silence, Guatemala, but it's not showing up on my USB. Instead you get this odd thing. In any case, that post and others will be put up in coming days, either here or at a new site. No joke this time—I've already written them.]

It goes on all day. I go into a stationery store and bump my head on a sac of soccer balls hanging from the ceiling. I pass through a shopping zone and have to sift my way through embroidered smocks, soccer jerseys and jeans suspended over the sidewalk. I enter the market and all but gash my forehead on a low-mounted swath of sheet metal. Elsewhere in markets I nearly get garroted by the taut rope holding a vendor’s tarp. Walking the sidewalk, roof eaves threaten to raise goose eggs. Even at home I can’t catch a break; entering the kitchen requires bending over, same with the bathroom.

At just under six-feet-tall, I’m often too big for Mexico. It’s not that there are no men and women of that height, there are, but they are a towering minority. (And I suspect they all end up like my current host dad: with their shoulders perpetually turned in and down.) The rest of the population glides under the hazards of the tall. Heck, every morning they hang the clothes and tether those tarps that I now duck under. Yet, there is an exception. A curious exception.

In the three months into since I arrived in Mexico, I’ve covered some ground. I’ve visited eight Mexican states—Puebla, Guanajuato, Districto Federal, Oaxaca, Veracruz, Guerrero, Michoacán and, now, Chiapas—and spent the night in all but one of them. Naturally, I’ve used the bathrooms in each of those seven. In some cases, I’ve sampled a wide variety of facilities. And you know what? I can only remember one shower whose head was mounted below the top of mine. (These are the kinds of things I remember.)

I remember my first encounter: San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 7:30 a.m. on November 22^nd. I entered the shower a cynic, closed to the possibilities of the water closet, carrying a lifetime of subconscious resentment for chest-spraying shower heads. I left an optimist, a spring in my step. After all, if Mexico can do it, why can’t we?

I’m not sure how this state of affairs developed, but I have a good guess. If it’s right, then the difference is rather ironic. I assume that water pressure in Mexico is generally weaker therefore shower heads are mounted to take advantage of gravity. In the U.S., thanks to our high water pressure, we have shower heads that pound our breasts with water. We’re the country of Tall & Large. We’ve produced Wilt Chamberlain and Shaquille O’Neal. Why can’t I shower standing up straight?

Calling All Students!

I've been meaning to graduate from college for nearly a year now. Yes, I did go to commencement and walk and all that. But I don't have my diploma. And I am still officially enrolled in UC Berkeley--which means, though they aren't charging me anything, I still get pesky emails from the PoliSci department no matter how many times I attempt to unsubscribe, but that's another rant.
First I couldn't graduate due to circumstances out of my control: A teacher hadn't turned in grades). Then, when the grades finally registered, more than half a semester later, I was busy: I was in Mexico dealing with language courses, traveling, constant confusion, oh my! That brings us to today. I'm still abroad, but I admit that is no longer an excuse. A year later and not graduated, oh the shame!
Yet, about 20 minutes ago, I thought all that procrastination was going to pay off. I went to the World Nomads website to buy some travel insurance and noticed a link: "Travel Writing Scholarship 2008". What does it involve? You go to the "small coastal village of Kosgoda, 70kms south of Colombo". Where is Colombo? Sri Lanka. What do you do? A volunteer project and then write an article about it for the Morning Herald. Where is the Morning Herald? Sydney, Australia. What do you pay? Nothing. The trip includes not just airfare, lodging and vaccinations, but a free laptop.
It was for students, it said at the top, and I figured I qualified in at least two ways (UC Berkeley and ongoing language classes). Yet, then I hit this pesky line with an even peskier adverb: "To be eligible you have to be currently enrolled and actively studying at a recognised educational tertiary institution."
So, I probably dragged that out a bit. But isn't it great to hear from me after such a long silence? Anyways, YOU should apply. You actively studying college students out there. Here's the link: http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/15629.aspx
If you think you don't stand a chance, well, I just won 2nd prize in a (non-active) student study abroad essay competition. So, you too can win. Best of luck!

Life in Chiapas, Part 2

My first few days, though the conversation varied, two central topics emerged. One, because of its climate, San Cristóbal is a great place to study Spanish. Two, I don’t know how to eat tortillas. Both are true. However, the second is slowly changing. When I arrived in Mexico, I would frequently finish meals without once reaching to the ubiquitous stack of towel-wrapped tortillas. The covering didn’t help. Out of sight, out of mind—and mouth. (Ok, that’s awful, but I’m not going to change it). But the real problem was I didn’t know what to do with them. All I could think of was to pile some stuff in middle, tuck in the sides and stuff it in my mouth; the Burrito Instinct. Not only do most Mexicans not do this, it doesn’t work with all dishes. But through careful observation, I’ve discovered other methods. Primarily, roll it up and use it like a finger. Wick up those juices! Another, seen not tried, involves stacking a bunch of tortillas and then shredding them into long strips. What you do with those strips, I’m unsure, because I seemed to have turned away at the crucial moment. So in two months I’ve discovered one new way to eat loose tortillas. Progress is slow.

Life in Chiapas, Part 1

[Sorry for the two-day delay, but the blog is finally back. I beg a sore neck and the busyness of settling into a new place. Thanks for all the demands I resume (...Dad). Glad I can finally fulfill them. I've got a bit of a backlog of travel writing to do, so for now I'll post about twice a week. As I said before, look for more writing by searching my name at EverywhereMag.com. Best.]

I arrived in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas on Tuesday before the sun. It showed up 45 minutes later, turning the black sky to indigo, then deep sea, then Elvis Presley suede shoe, before settling into a washed jean. I saw it all from a bench in el parque, San Cristóbal’s main square, waiting among the trilling and gurgling birds for the city to awaken.

I am staying in a brown-gated house a few blocks down from my new school, La Casa en El Arbol, The House in The Tree, or better still, the Tree House (and yes, there is a tree house, though no, I haven’t ascended). The double metal doors of my spacious if bare room open onto the courtyard-cum-open-air-garage of my Mexican family’s main house. I suspect I’m living in what was once a storage room.

My first trip of the day is, no different than in the States, to the bathroom. I step into the hallway that opens just past my doorway, then duck, literally, into the bathroom. The toilet is crowded against the metal door—all the doors in the house are metal, which demands careful maneuvering in the later hours. Once I’ve clanged through the doorway, I turn around and go back out, since if I want a hot shower, I’ve got to turn on the water heater by hand. The shower area is enormous, taking up the rest of the long bathroom. But despite the space, the shower drops only a fine and narrow spray to one side. On the dirty blue wall above the shower tiles, someone has written in a red marker: Bañate rapido y te sentirás mejor. Wash yourself quickly and you’ll feel better. So far, the shower itself has proved enough encouragement.

From the bathroom, I dress in my room and then go on to breakfast, through another low doorway. I’m greeted by my latest Mexican mother, Señora Navarro, and a plate of freshly cut fruit—some mix of mango, apple, papaya and melon. I sit at the corner of the table facing a line of gloomy, opaque windows, apparently the spot designated for visiting students. I pour myself a lime tea—which actually tastes more like lemon—and she brings me two more plates, one of frijoles, beans, and another of huevos, eggs, and a giant basket of tortillas. Then she sits herself down at the head, without a single plate—she eats at 11 with her husband—and watches me work my way through the meal. She’s got short, raven black hair—seemingly dyed—less wrinkles than expected for a woman with eight grown children, and generally wears a crimson shawl and a friendly, if unsmiling, expression.

(April 11: A couple of edits)

To be continued...

Quick note

Hey all loyal fans and happenstance visitors. I write this from under a fan in a nonetheless sweaty internet cafe next to the bus station in Veracruz. I have not had my computer with me since last Saturday and won't again until the first Monday in April. Until then, no posts. Apologies. Once I get to Chiapas, expect volumes. Hasta pronto.

A quick apology

My apologies for not posting recently. I've spent the last week writing and pitching travel articles in the hope of making a few bucks to continue my trip. You can see a few of them at www.everywheremag.com if you go to the "Articles" section and select "Gear" from the drop-down menu. I also posted a photo of Monte Alban that you may recognize. If you have any troubles finding the articles or photo, you can also search my name. And, if you think you can do better--you probably can--you can register and submit your own photos and pictures. Not to mention that, once registered, you can vote for my articles. No self-interest here.

Heeeeey Macarena!

I went to see Cocarola last night, which, as far as I could tell, was about the presidential campaign of Evo Morales who, thanks to it's success, is now Bolivia's president. I base that assumption on what was pictured rather than what was said in the documentary for, though I understood many, even a majority of the words used, the significance of what was said more than escaped me. I did my best to join the audience in laughter, but I was always late. What I do know for sure is Evo got his hair cut twice during the film, played squash once, swam in a pond in the middle of a cocaine plantation and, more to the point, gave a number of speeches. Apparently, there was no electoral backlash for his upper-crust taste in sports. (Perhaps Kerry would fair better in Bolivia).

At any rate, I have no more to say, so here are some pictures of my little brother who, due to an all too frequent error was later discovered to be my little sister and then, by a decision far more arbitrary than a DNA test, was determined to be my daughter. So without further ado, I present my first child: Macarena, the cutest little Snauzer you've ever seen. (Or at least the cutest little dog of a breed that in Spanish sounds exactly like Snauzer).

Luckily, she was still on this pseudo marble floor when, three minutes after this photo, she had to relieve herself.

Macarena with her tía, Rosita.

Oh dear, she's found Michael's shoes ... and she likes the smell!

Yikes, she's found the source!

Attaaaaaack!

It's never been so much fun to have your chin eaten.

Juan Manuel's story

(Sometimes you don't like what you write, but you post it anyways)

As the boys had scarcely any homework Monday evening, they were already in the courtyard playing when their teacher entered with a dark-eyed boy by her side and called a halt to the games. I’d like to introduce you all to the newest member of our family, she said. Treat him with kindness, just like all your other brothers, she added. The boys gathered round and in rapid succession offered a hand to shake and names that the boy, whose windbreaker was zipped protectively to his chin on the warm night, likely forgot immediately. At least, that’s what I did when the boys of the Casa Hogar para Niños first told me their names.

I spend five evenings a week at the Casa Hogar struggling to explain fractions and graphing while they struggle to understand my awkward Spanish. I would be on solid ground if they were studying politics, I know that vocabulary. But explaining mathematics wasn’t a conversation topic in my college Spanish classes, so I’ve stumbled along, learning as I go. For instance, it took nearly a week of fractions before I learned that denominator was a near cognate: denominador.

I’m in my fifth week volunteering for the Casa Hogar and I know every boy’s name, but I’m still unsure what has brought them there. When I first arranged to volunteer, I thought was a home for maltreated kids, as my school coordinator told me. But the evening I arrived at the home, I was given an undated brochure which states it’s an orphanage. Yet more than one kid has told me of parents in the United States. So, I assume it’s a mix. At any rate, I haven’t had the opportunity to ask the teachers, nor does it seem particularly important. As a consequence, however, families are off the conversation list, as in at least two out of three cases it won’t be a happy topic. Nevertheless, sometimes the boys talk to me. Juan Manuel, who told us his name in a whisper after we’d finished bombarding him with ours, was the latest.

To be continued...

Don't read this, it's pregnant

It’s an old story. You’re spending some time in Mexico or some other Spanish-speaking country. Perhaps it’s a vacation, perhaps a service trip, or perhaps you’re studying Spanish, no matter. You took some Spanish classes in high school, maybe even in college, but now, with everyone sounding nothing like those language tapes—who taught them how to speak anyways?—your functional vocabulary has been reduced mainly to the tourist trio: hola, sí and gracias.

A limited vocabulary, however, has never prevented any tourist from making a fool of themselves. You are no exception. One way or another you do something that makes you red in the face, which, as science has proven, activates the language centers of the brain. Suddenly, you remember lo siento, I’m sorry, which you tell the nearest person though you fell on your face, not on them. But it doesn’t matter because, joy of joys, you’re speaking Spanish! Even better, your language reserves are now activated. In milliseconds, nay, milliseconds you’ve recalled not just the verb, but the first-person singular form for expressing your state of being: estoy.

In this instant, whole worlds of self-expression open to you; now you can be happy, sad, even tired. Yet, in this moment, you want something more. You want to let them know how shamed you feel that you tripped over your bag in the middle of the hotel lobby. You try, but you can’t think of the word. But you are not to be conquered. This is your hour, well, three seconds of fluent glory. So, as you glimpse your newfound conversation partner looking expectantly at your open mouth, you make a desperate mental lunge and hope for the best: “Estoy embarazada”. And thus countless men and women confide to complete strangers, in moments already marked by embarressment, that they are pregnant.

Thanks to more than one classroom warning state side, I have managed during my time in Mexico to avoid any errors that left me impregnated or otherwise unnaturally compromised. Actually, my mistakes tend to be more metaphysical. I have told my mother that I like sleeping under a little bit of the past (using pasado in place of pesado, or weight) and my father that I like to eat nightmares (pesadillas and not the far tastier pescadillas, or fish quesadillas). Another culinary preference is walls (muros rather than moras, or berries). Despite the hints, neither has shown up on my dinner plate. When tired, I have slurred my way into matrimony (casado in place of cansado), only to be told by my Mexican father, in a whisper and with a grin, that the two words mean the same thing. The problem, more than ignorance, is exhaustion. I make errors when I’m tired. But it isn’t always easy to sleep--and it’s not because I’m in bed with the past. The truth is, I keep getting bitten by boogers (mocos instead of the winged moscas).

A few thousand words from El Tule

Last week Oaxaca drained me. The heat, the language and missing you sorry lot left neither time nor energy for blog posts. I will begin again tomorrow, but for now here are some shots of the much-described El Tule.

I'm digging the leafy sombrero, but what is that huge thing to the right?

As my Mexican mother would say, using the only English expression she knows: "Oh my god."

It's not easy to fit El Tule into a camera frame.

This is the equivalent of El Tule turning sideways. Gosh, doesn't it all but dissapear. The sign says: "I'm a living thing, don't cut my branches. Take care of me!"

One last look. (What's that little thing next to El Tule? Oh, the church.)

A few thousand words from Monte Albán

Monte Albán in pictures, not words, for today's post. Enjoy!

The only source of shade remaining in the prehispanic city.

I think this was once the patio of the high spiritual leader.

Nice view, eh?

Another bella vista.

We have baseball at Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park. They had el juego de pelota and they played for keeps; the loser was sacrificed.

The public restroom.

What I did one Saturday, part four

Attentive readers will remember my opening description of this ever-extending tale was ‘my trip to the Mitla ruins’. Yet, in truth, I did not begin my journey with that destination in mind. I wanted to go to a small Sierra village known in my guidebook as Benito Juarez. But this name, I have since learned, provokes unending confusion and good intentioned but unhelpful corrections. Benito Juarez the man, for those who don’t know, is, at least in most corners, Oaxaca’s most beloved son and one of the country’s national heroes—not incidentally, as a Zapotec, he is the only indigenous president in Mexican history. As such, many a calle bears his name, the 20 peso note bears his face and many a Oaxacan village is named either something-Juarez or Benito-so-and-so.

Thus, back on the main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, I fell into conversation with a short, stout, grandmotherly lady who had recently been to Los Angeles to visit her sister. Hearing my intended destination, she directed me to the town of Tlacolula. There I asked around and was directed to a corner to wait for a bus up the hill. I chatted with a few different people at the stop and each agreed that buses for Benito Juarez would pass there. But after some time, none had not come, so I asked again. No, they don’t pass here, said a wild-haired woman who had just arrived at the bus stop. And thus I decided to go to Mitla.

A taxi colectivo dropped me off in a large triangle of asphalt, bordered on two sides by buildings, on the third by the two-lane highway, and buzzing with taxis, moto-taxis and, naturally, vendors. A single street lead into the town from the corner of the triangle, passing under, as it went, a high sign reading: Bienvenidos a Mitla. I was unsure whether the sign referred to the ruins or the town, but I decided to walk on.

At first, I passed nothing but shops selling mezcla or embroidered, traditional-style clothing. Then, after a brief stretch of homes, the street was once again lined with stores, which were once again offering mezcal and clothing. Then I crossed a bridge, and there was, perhaps for those who needed some time to contemplate their purchases, shops selling mezcal and clothing. Reaching what was likely the city center, I found a carnival encamped in the streets, concealing who knows how many shops offering mezcla and clothing. The English-titled rides did not entice me and I kept my pace and soon I was back among shops offering, well, you can guess. Fortunately, as I needed neither clothing nor alcohol, the first ruins were just ahead.

To be continued...