Humidity is the new lotion.

All I can feel right now is hot. For the past week I have been sweating from every pore. Who needs lotion when you have humidity?
After Villa da Leyva I headed to the Carribean coast, to Santa Marta. Santa Marta had nothing to offer except cheap Internet and blinding heat, so I left the next day with a Korean American girl from my hostel to Parque Tayrona. I`ve incessantly complained here on Unhinged Jaw about what it is like to travel while Asian, but to finally share my sentiments with another yellow-skinned human here was comforting. I can`t go more than five minutes anywhere in South America without some type of verbal harassment. ´´Oi, Japonesa!`` or ``Ohhh, Chinita!`` or ´´Psssst! Pssst! Cheeeee-na!´´ are the constant remarks pointed at me. Men stop their conversations in mid-sentence and stare when I walk past. And there are other men who follow me, trying to guess where I`m from like we`re playing some game where the prize is a lay. Kids unshamedly point at me, wide-eyed and curious. Yes, it is all fucking annoying and there are days when I want to just hide or cover my face. Wearing sunglasses helps though. I`ve been asked in Santa Marta if I were Nicaraguan. Exactly. Huh? And here in Cartagena: ´´Tu es de Mexico?´´ So imagine the stares when Vicky, the Korean girl, and I got when we left the comforts of our hostel. People didn`t know what to do with themselves. They`d look from Vicky to me, and then back to Vicky. Asian overload. You could see the smoke spewing from the wires inside their heads. One group of men jeered at us when we walked past them. ``Oi, Chinita!`` they said to Vicky. ``Oi, Japonesa,`` they said to me. I mocked them and we all laughed. Sometimes you have to just throw it back at them.
But it`s also the same with African Americans. I met three black guys from the East Coast of America yesterday on a boat tour to the Islas del Rosario, a bunch of quaint coral islands off the Colombian Carribean coast where I went snorkeling in the open sea. Everyone keeps asking them if they play basketball or are rappers. And on top of that, they think they`re famous. They get treated like kings here. Which is odd because here, in South America, the darker your skin, the worse people treat you. It`s really racist here on this continent, and the locals aren`t even afraid to admit it. These guys brought up the hypocrisy issue concerning the treatment of South American blacks versus American blacks, but they couldn`t get a satisfactory explanation -- because there is none, I believe. One of them went to Jamaica and was asked if he was P. Diddy. Another was mistaken for Michael Jordan and even signed autographs, but in his own name. That same one went to a club in Russia and when he starting dancing, all the locals copied his every move. And you have to understand, these guys don`t resemble any of the aforementioned celebs at all. It seems like if you`re black and traveling, you must be famous and play basketball or can spit out chart-topping rhymes. Just like if you`re black and drive a nice car, you must be a thug, right? Here, though, if you`re Colombian and drive a nice car, you`re a drug trafficker. But that`s usually really accurate.
And moreover what is really shocking to me is that many people here don`t know what or where Vietnam is, and they truly believe all of us Asians speak Japanese. It hit me when we were at Parque Tayrona, waiting to pay our entrance fee and a guy came up to us, bowed and said ``Arigato.`` His friend apologized to us in English and said he just came back from China and was eager to practice speaking with Asians. We nodded back unencouragingly but didn`t bother to correct him. Can you imagine the poor guy, greeting Chinese people in China with ``Arigato``?
OK, so enough of the diatribe.
Vicky and I hiked a steaming 45 minutes through the rainforest to a campsite right on the beach, where I rented a tent and she a hammock. Over the weekend we stopped at divine beaches and took cool dips in the crystalline water. Laying on the sand under that burning sun felt like being on a grill, where we were dripping pieces of juicy steak, marinating in sweat and sunblock. That was my only rustic action since visiting Bolivia, and one night of sleeping on the hard ground was enough for me. Yea, I`m posh. I need my hair products and a real covered shelter.
So off to Cartagena I went after. If I thought I was on a grill before, I was a vat of spitting boiling water on a festering grill in Cartagena. With the humidity and all, you wonder how people live like this. Cartagena is a major port town but the old historical part of it is fortified with a strong wall, a relic from its former days as a strategic point of constant attack from overseas plunderers. It`s really pretty, with colonial architecture, but with the aesthetics and unusual predeposition, everything is double in price. In the evenings, there are groups of Afro Colombians who dance to puya and cumba in the plazas. The culture and feeling here in north Colombia is very much like north Brazil. You have all different mixes of people, which is refreshing to see. And the specialty here is coconut rice, which I can`t get enough of. I even had barracuda in Tayrona.
I`m here on a small respite from the heat before I take an overnight train to Medillin, former drug trafficking capital. I`m looking forward to the relief in weather. I haven`t slept more than a few hours since last Thursday because of this stifling heat!

Brandy and phalluses (phalli?)

I`m in Villa de Leiva right now, finally finished with a writing assignment. I`m getting used to constantly changing work environments I think. I`m still lacking my ritual bag of peanut M&Ms though. Can you guys send some over to me?
V da Leiva is a hamster-sized town of blinding white-washed houses and green trimming that delightfully always reveal more than meets the eye upon entering. I`m here with Chris, my new Seattle friend from Bogota, so I`m lucky to have a tour guide in addition to the good company.
And a trustworthy friend, in fact. I had spent my last night in Bogota at a new bar/pizza/crepe enterprise after getting depressing personal news. I had drank five brandys -- yea, I know, I dont ever drink brandy, but it was high time I began -- without too much trouble. I came home almost sober.
Fast forward to yesterday night. Chris and I were trying to find a place to while the night away, but everything shut up shop at 11. When we were at the end of our ropes, alas, there was a light coming from a window. An open place. I thought it was a good idea to get a small bottle of brandy after ordering one drink -- after all, it would have been cheaper this way as well. So there we were, on the bench outside of this place, drinking from midget cups that dispensed equally midget-sized portions of liquid. OK, i could deal with it. I refilled. And refilled. And Chris refilled for me. And I refilled. Then three Colombian guys came out of the bar, stumbling and laughing. One of them had been passed out on the table when we walked in, but there he was, upright (with the help of a conveniently placed wall) and observant. Another guy, well-dressed in a suit, swaggered and shuffled with an open bottle of whiskey in one hand, midget cup in the other. Then there was the uproariously funny and upbeat one, a working-class type. Time went on and we laughed with them and at them -- the guy in the suit is a manager at the local bank -- and exchanged brandy for whiskey and whiskey for brandy... and the next thing I knew, I was walking with two left feet on the cobblestone streets and praying to the rain gods that my head would stop doing washing-machine turns.
The spins got worse, as they were apt to do after I had proudly drank my fair share of half a bottle of this brandy on top of a few gulps of whiskey. I barfed and even after I thought everything was out, I forced more out. And passed out on the bed, all pathetic but nevertheless, gratefully numb from all emotional feeling but nausea.
I woke up with a horrendous hangover but the tour we took to the surrounding sites cheered me and my hangover up quite a bit. We visited an ostrich farm, fossil museum where I bought some to bring home and later, the highlight -- a field full of B.C.-era phalluses erected (sorry) by Indians as a way to honor and encourage the earth`s fertile womb. Most of them stood pencil-straight like middle fingers at the sky, but there were a few impotent ones laid out on the ground. A field of dicks invites all sorts of giggly jokes, as you can expect, and I will have to send a private email around later with some of the ridiculous photos we took.
I am finding all sorts of similarities between Bolivia and Colombia. A lot of the music sounds the same, and some of the terrain as well, but Colombia is by far more established financially. Tomorrow, Bucaramanga, and then the Carribean coast.

Bogota the new Manhattan?

Bogota continues to blow my mind. I am sitting here at the hostel, with free reign of Chris' computer, watching a basketball half-time moment with dancers shaking it to Rio funk. I am exhausted and excited, alive and trying to keep awake.
Chris has been kind enough to show me around town, but as I am finding out, there are so many places here that even within his 2 years here so far he hasn't been about to visit more than a few times. Bogota is definitely the new Buenos Aires.
We went the other night to a small neighborhood of bars and restaurants called Macarrena, full of gorgeous Colombians and good food. The next day we headed to the rich part of town, the north, where there's thousands of well-heeled young people spending easily $60 on a meal. There's the Usaquen district, upscale but really full of funky character, and then Zona Rosa, where the major nightlife happens. We bumped into Chris' Colombian artist friend Antonio and his new girlfriend Dianna at a brewery in Zona Rosa, and spent most of the evening at his apartment drinking and talking with three of their other friends. Forget all that you have heard about this place. We walked around the area, careful but not feeling threatened. I keep getting surprised at how modern Bogota is, and moreover, how clean the streets are. At the end of the night we stopped off at an expat's new posh digs in Macarrena -- $500 a month for a 3-bedroom penthouse apartment with sauna and jacuzzi.

So yes, Bogota is always on the cusp of a bombing from the FARC, but it really hasnt taken away how amazing this place is. They havent attacked the city in a few years, and similar to earthquakes in California, Bogota is probably due for something devastating soon. Chris met yesterday a gov't worker whose job is to help former FARC members integrate back into normal life. This guy works in the worst part of town, the south, and already is open to introducing Chris to a few of these guys. I have the same curiousity, so I might try to see if I can also meet a few of these former rebels one day. Also, Chris ran into a girl he knew who good-naturedly shared with him her story about being kidnapped by ELN members when she was 16 and in a entirely separate incident, raped. Colombians are to be admired for being the generous and amiable people they are despite stories like these happening to their own.

Today we went to the planetarium to watch a piece on southern constellations, and it reminded me of how little I know of Spanish. Moreover, because I spent so much time in Brazil, I keep speaking Portuguese instead of Spanish. I think I need about another week to acclimate to my new surroundings.
Colombian food still sucks, but I have been eating nonstop nevertheless. Sweets, mostly. I had a chocolate santafereno the other day -- it's a cup of hot chocolate served with bread and cheese. You dip both into the hot chocolate, like a fondue. I had the opportunity to try another Colombian specialty, fried ants, but I lost my nerve. I have at least another 15 days to work up my courage.

Walking back to the hostel after a long day, we bought homemade wheat bread from a lovely young couple and were kindly invited to their place for coffee. It's like that here -- you meet people at all times and they want to keep in touch, want you to call them and come over anytime. At their place I tried a Medellin regional specialty, coffee with a pinch of salt and lemon. Definitely odd.
I did find two things disturbing today: machine gun fire and all the old Midwestern tourists flanking the place like bacon around a filet mignon steak. The latter, obviously, made me more weary. Colombia is obviously not a dangerous place like it was a few years ago if you have khaki-short-wearing, sunburnt 50-year-old Midwesterners as pale as paper wandering the streets here.
Speaking of tourists, I have met so many backpackers here who are here just to screw Colombian girls. Similarly, there is a type of Colombian girl who only goes to bars where foreigners hang out. And I have met or heard of older men unashamedly coming here only to hook up with young chicas. I feel like I am in a Latin Bangkok sometimes when the discussions start up. It's sad, really.

Bogota.

Before I begin to gush about Bogota, Colombia, let me tell you about watching Brazil win against Croatia last week. I was in Manaus, one of the most sordid, depressing cities I have ever been to. Near the port there were homeless people everywhere and people eating beside them, and the trash level in the city was truly sickening. People with melted-off toes and other limp appendages fill the sidewalks. You can only get to and out of Manaus by boat or plane, unless you`re heading to Venezuela, because it`s located on the cusp of the Amazon. Maybe its somewhat remote location explains its conditions. And it`s hot as hell too, and the mosquitoes are fierce. But anyway, I digress. The Australians and I spent the first half of the game in front of the TV in our hotel because we were eating, but for the second half, we joined an outdoor setup with a group of 15 Brazilians. Every few blocks there were similar groups perched on the sidewalks, extension cords snaking from inside the buildings to TVs of all sizes. When Brazil scoooooorrrrrreeeeeed, the place erupted like a war zone. Pop, pop, bang -- firecrackers went off like the sound of hot ammunition around us. Then the defeaning plastic horns joined in like a demented circus orchestra. Final score, 1 to 0. Great, but not good. Close call, I`d say.
So now I am in Bogota and I can`t even think about leaving. It has gone beyond my expectations, this place. I`m staying in a famous hostel called Platypus. I`ve met a few longtimers (6 months or more), most of which are writers. Bogota is an inspiring place, the type of place that creates anything but apathy. That`s why Chris from Seattle has been here for 2 years (!), working on a book. I read a few of his postings from his blog and this guy is one step away from success if he does it right. He has an incredible, supposedly shocking true story based on his time here and a relationship with a Japanese-Colombian girl (christ, i have never seen someone look as beautiful as this girl), and I am putting all my hopes behind him that he will one day finish his book and get it out there. You definitely have to check out his blog: http://blog.myspace.com/goosekirk.
The area I am staying in is La Candelaria, full of colorful buildings and a distinctly bohemian feel. At night, bars pop up all over the place. These bars are small, smoky and intimate -- really reminds me of Prague or Budapest. There are hundreds of these places around here. Unfortunately, Bogota is still dangerous, and people get mugged pretty often. I have been advised strongly to not walk around by myself past 6, when the sun goes down. Add to that the tense political atmosphere -- the FARC guerilla group runs 40% of the country still, and Bogota has gone through so many attacks and what else that it still feels like the retaining wall of peace will break any second. And actually, it really could. There are military forces on every other corner, and in Plaza Bolivar, where the government buildings live, snipers and guards are visible on the rooftops. It`s a crazy image, but even more surreal to see it in person.

That said though, Bogota has more cultural centers and events than I have seen anywhere else in South America so far. I went to the Botero museum today and its collection confidently rivals the pieces in the Thiessen or Prado in Spain. Botero is one of my favorite artists, a Colombian who grew up in a rich family but had talent to boot. His work is marked by volume -- the women, men and objects he paints and sculpts are round and voluptuous. And in the same plaza as the Botero museum are a few other museums as well, brimming over the rooftop of work by talented Colombian artists whose names I need to write down and share with you later.
Colombians have blown me away as the best-looking people of South America so far. The men here -- my god. The food I could do without, but it`s cheap and I`m happy. I could see myself living here for a bit (there I go again) but it`s too cold here because of the altitude. Maybe if I ever want to write a book. Until then, however, i am happy to soak up any vibes about revolution and change. It`s an exciting place to be.

World Cup fever.

You can´t ask for a better setting to watch the World Cup than in a bar in Brazil. Unfortunately it´s not a good place though, to watch America lose to the Czech Republic. I´m not one to get laced into the back and forth of who will win the World Cup, but here, you can´t escape discussions about it, and you do end up getting caught up in the fever. I was asked twice today already about what I thought about the Australia vs. Japanese game because people think I´m Japanese. (Actually, on that note, I am absolutely SICK of being confused as Japanese. Surprisingly many Brazilians don´t know that Vietnam exists, so even when I correct them, they don´t quite get it. If I had a penny for every instance that someone has asked if I was from Japan, I´d be at least a grand richer. Yesterday a guy kept pulling on the corners of his eyes, so that they became slits, when he asked about my origins. I was so annoyed, I can´t even begin to explain. Most of you know already, but never, ever, ever make that obscene gesture to an Asian.)
Tomorrow is Brazil´s first kick at the World Cup, when they play Croatia. I am flying to the Amazon tomorrow, to Manaus, and will be sure to reserve a seat somewhere to watch the game. I imagine the early evening will be nothing short of insane. Apparently all of business activity in Brazil gets shelved from the beginning of the game at 4 p.m. so that everyone can gather in front of a TV. It´s plausible. There are signs on storefronts all over the city I´m in right now, Belem, that they´ll be shuttering their windows early. And if Brazil wins, expect partying into the wee hours, and I´m sure you´ll be able to hear us setting off firecrackers (more than the usual daily amount at least) and honking our car horns and yelling all the way from the Southern Hemisphere.
After I made my last post I went to Sao Luis, a former French stronghold eventually taken over by the Portuguese. The old part of town is where everyone stays, and it´s full of beautifully crumbling and decrepit neo-colonial buildings with colorful tiles on the fronts. It´s hot and humid as well, which speeds up the deterioration. I had met Eva from Spain and Micah from Los Angeles (how about that) on the bus and we´ve been traveling together for the past week. It was a good time to be in Sao Luis, because later this month will be a festival of colorful costumes and loud regional music from the indigineous groups in the region, and because we are in Brazil, they were throwing weekend-long pre-parties for the public. We spent one evening watching a bunch of shimmying dancers and getting bothered by an old drunk man, who I ended up hitting (on the wrist, and very hard, no less) with my umbrella when he wouldn´t stop pulling on our ponytails. Why do I always attract the crazies?
Belem is a boring city, and hot as hell too, but I have been in good company. We met two sweet Australians and have been exploring the place together. Yesterday we went to a reggae club with live reggae and rock bands, and it was the first reggae place I´ve been to in Brazil that wasn´t a meat market. I had a good time.
I had my first bit of fresh acai in Sao Luis, which was much different than what I´ve been having before. In the north they serve it with fish and seafood, and it tastes earthier because they dont add any sweeteners. In Belem I had fried fish with a bowl of fresh acai and at first I hated it, was really disappointed. But after awhile, the acquired taste caught up and I could understand why it´s served this way -- to balance the salt of the fish, I surmise.
Also, I´ve been hooked on guarana, a Brazilian nut that´s the main ingredient of an energy-boosting cold smoothie they make right on the street here. Think ice cream shake with a whoomp.
I will be out of Brazil in about two more days. I will miss Brazil, but I am ready to move on to a different culture. 5 weeks to do Colombia and Peru, it may be impossible...
And still no photos, sorry, they won´t upload into Blogger...

Sailing the sea of sand dunes.

(Pictures to come later. I cant get them to upload from the computer I´m on right now.)
It don´t stop. The last night in Pipa, I tagged along with Solita and Paco to an informal dinner party thrown by a few international hippie types, the ones who walk around barefoot and sell handmade jewelry stuck on velvet-backed cardboard pieces or make money by playing music. Not my crowd usually but they were all so friendly and we were all having a good time until one of them, an Italian guy named Pepe, flipped out on me and we got in a tiff in front of the whole party. It´s a story that I still dont understand -- I think the guy is bipolar/insane and everyone got pissed off at the freak for instigating trouble. But I did meet Roberto from Sao Paulo, who used to live in Florida and hopes to move to America one day. And later I found out his history, which explained why he was so adamant about moving out of what he sees as a rapidly deteriorating Brazil full of violence. He´s a recovering cocaine addict, a 15-year addiction brought about when he witnessed his politician father murdered in front of him at their house when he was just 13. The cops never caught the guy, of course.
Roberto had just bought a dune buggy and invited me on a ride the next day, my last full day in Pipa. The ride turned out to be one of the most adventurous I´ve ever taken. We headed south because he´d heard it was a gorgeous drive. We started early in the morning because the tide was low, enabling us to drive right along the crashing and deserted beach. This little dune buggy is built like a tractor! We were going over small boulders, hills and god knows what else in his noisy baby-blue machine. Then the sky broke and it started pissing rain. At one point we couldn´t get back up on the hill to get past a deep section of sea, so we had to back up and Roberto pushed the engine to max power to get us up a steep sand bank. We must have done that a dozen times because there were no markings for the improvised road. At best, we had tracks from other dune buggies to follow, but they were old and there was no one around for miles and miles. I was drenched from the rain but loving every nanosecond of it. We ended up driving for 30 minutes through a huge farm halfway through the ride, with swamps, cows and a tropical forest all around us. We must have hit a dozen deep mud puddles getting through the farm. Each time we´d roll through a puddle, the splash was so immense that warm mud and water covered us. I was having a laughing fit. And people pay good money to sit in mud baths!
The definite highlight was when we stopped at a small hut that functioned as a turtle reserve. We wouldnt have come across it if we hadnt been driving on the beach. Inside there was only one man who tended to the baby turtles, currently hatching and trying to make their way to the ocean by pure instinct. This was Discovery Channel fodder, and I finally had a chance to experience it in real life. In one nest there were supposedly 150 baby turtles about to head into the humid world, and if you waited long enough, you could see a few of their heads gradually emerging from the sand below. Fascinating! I watched a few try to climb out of the nest, only to clumsily roll back down the slope and onto his or her confused brother or sister. The keeper let me hold one, and my usually stone-hard heart turned into mashed potatoes.
We made it to Sagi for lunch, but the place was absolutely dead except, lucky for us, a restaurant. Then we rushed back to Pipa because I had to meet Solita and Paco for a small meal.
Roberto decided to head to Jericoacoara with me because he had heard so much about it as well. So after a 24 hour journey in which he thought for some reason it would be better to take the dune buggy to Natal and then hop on the bus to Jericoacoara (I was fine with it... 3 hours riding through small towns I wouldnt have normally seen otherwise is a great opportunity), we got to Jeri. The place is a seaside dream. Jericoacoara had been listed among the top 3 or 5 beaches by the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, from what I hear. The place is dominated by immense sand dunes. You feel like you´re in a surreal Africa or Egypt. But here, the ocean is no mirage!
The next day, Roberto rented a motorbike and we went north along the beach. That was the beginning of adventure No. 2. Obviously with my bum ankle I shouldnt have been riding on the back of a motorcycle, but what, was I gonna sit in the hotel all day? No way. We didnt have helmets, which made me real nervous, but because Roberto used to race cars and motorbikes as a kid, I trusted him. I just didnt trust the sand. Riding on wet sand was ok, but whenever we´d hit a dry patch, we´d almost fall over and Roberto had to work hard to keep us from tipping. I was convinced my ankle would be broken by the end of the day! We were trying to find a particular lake between sand dunes but ran into a dune buggy and followed it. The guy led us farther and farther away from the beach and through particularly treacherous terrain (deep water pools, bumpy roads with mini hills, soft, dry sand... I was hanging on for dear life and half the ride I wasnt even in the saddle of the bike) and we were getting really nervous. We had no idea where we were. I think the guy thought Roberto was accostomed to driving in dry sand but no, the truth really was more akin to something like assuming Roberto was a woman. Eventually the motorbike died because we went too deep into the water, but the guy was able to revive the thing in a second. We continued our way toward a looming sand dune.
That´s when we thought we had reached the end. The dune buggy had no problem zipping up the steep sand dune, but for us on the motorbike, we got stuck a third of the way up. We turned around and I opted to walk down the sand dune -- an awesome experience in itself, BTW -- while Roberto rode it down. While we were taking a break and considering our options (find a truck to carry us and the bike back to the beach), down the sand dune comes this local on a motorbike. We watched him with awe, the way amateurs admire professionals. Roberto cursed because his ego was hurt. I suggested we stop the guy and ask him to lead us back to the beach, ego broken or not. The guy had no problem doing it for 20 reais ($10). He suggested I hop on the back of his bike and to be honest, I was relieved because this guy knew better how to get through this terrain.
The local, Rico, suggested we stop for lunch at the restaurant he works at. Turns out it was just on the other side of the dune, lakeside. So we had to go back up this sand dune again. I was amazed at Rico´s prowress. He sped up to the necessary 80 km/h, with Roberto behind him, and we were carried up the brown hill. I was so nervous and excited that I almost bit my tongue off accidentally. The bike didn´t quake or quiver once.
After lunch, Rico led us to the beach. We might as well have been hawks. We were jumping small hills (I was still riding with Rico, much to all of our relief) and going FAST. Rico took great fun in hearing me scream or gasp every time we were suspended in air. I was screaming a third from pain in my ankle, a third from pure excitement and a third from fear of my tattered body ever becoming mistaken as grass for the meandering cows. But god, it was all so exhilirating! No tourists around whatsover. It pays to travel on the off season.
Roberto left a few days ago back to Sao Paulo and his restaurant business, but I have been here, disciplining myself to stay inside and rest my ankle. It is much better but still a little swollen and I dont know when I can put much pressure on it. I have been here for 6 nights! Tomorrow is another travel day, to Sao Luis, and then into the Amazon.
I am loving life!