Carnaval in Colombia

I spent Carnaval in Barranquilla this weekend, the second biggest such celebration among the hundreds of cities around the world that celebrate the Catholic tradition. What started as a mild return to normal life after 40 days of fasting has turned into a week (or longer) of wild debauchery full of dancing, drinking, and just having fun for its own sake.

Before this weekend I had intended to write a post describing coastal Colombians (costeños) as champion "sitters." At any time of day, throughout the city, people of all ages sit out in front of their houses, chatting and joking and just basically hanging out. This goes on for hours and hours at a time and largely defines daily life.

Now you may be wondering how someone can be a champion at something as easy as sitting. Trust me, it's not as easy as it seems. The first 15-30 minutes are doable, after an hour you start getting really antsy, and after about 90 minutes I guarantee most of you would be having a nervous breakdown and scratching your eyes out.

I said I was going to write about their sitting abilities until this weekend, when I realized that all this sitting around all year long is simply them resting for Carnaval, when they all go absolutely balls-to-the-walls insane and party for three days straight.

I arrived in Barranquilla on Saturday morning after a 2 hour bus ride from Cartagena, where I live. My roommate Carlos, who had taken a bus the night before, met me at the bus station, and we went straight to his house and then to the main event.

The first (and biggest) event of the weekend was a big parade called the Battle of the Flowers, which involved hundreds of masked Hispanic ninjas running around the streets throwing flower-shaped ninja-stars at each other. No just kidding. It was actually a series of floats, mostly covered in beautiful women who threw flowers at the crowd. There were also musicians playing their hits, actors waving, and reality-show stars winking mockingly at the spectators with a look that said "Ha! I got here using absolutely zero talent!"

We got there late so we didn't get a seat in the stands, but instead had to stand behind an ambulance, several first-aid tents, some motorcycles, and a bunch of people that disregarded all this and proceeded to jump the barricades keeping people back.

Actually, just being part of this crowd was quite an experience, (almost) interesting enough for me to forget the searing heat, people crammed up against me, and inability to see anything in the parade that passed near us.

During Carnaval and the few weeks before, there's a tradition of throwing corn flour and foam at people in a joyous celebration of the suspension of society's most basic rules of propriety. The flour is sold in little boxes by street vendors, and the foam is sold in silly string-like dispensers. Basically during Carnaval you are not allowed to get mad at people for throwing these things at you, regardless of the quantity, velocity, or point of impact of the projectile. If you do get mad you're basically a loser.

So I walk into this crowd, followed by the marching band playing the Gringo Song that typically follows me everywhere I go, and suddenly I realize that everyone is looking at me like a bunch of half-starved wolves checking out a fat little piggie that just strolled into their den. Needless to say, over the next few hours I was assaulted by corn flour down the shirt, in the face, in the eye thus destroying my contact lens and rendering me blind for half an hour, foam in the face and eye, foam in the hair, and probably a number of other substances I really don't want to know about. I took all this with a gracious smile and a laugh, only my fear of the Hispanic ninjas keeping me from tearing through the crowd Chuck Norris-style.

There were a number of other things I found quite endearing. First of all, everyone in the crowd acted like they were old friends; talking, laughing, taking pictures with each other, holding each other's babies, exchanging chewing gum, etc. They also acted with amazing cooperation when it came to confounding the authorities at every available opportunity.

I was actually amazed at how crafty the Barranquilleros were at getting around/subverting the orders of crowd control personnel. When we first got to the street where the parade was taking place, there was a big police barricade blocking the side street that we had used to get to it. There were a couple dozen soldiers and some important looking military officers barking orders into their walkie-talkies. In the U.S. this would be enough to control vast crowds of law-abiding citizens.

Not in Colombia.

First the crowd (with us at the front) simply tried to push their way through by force. When we realized that the barricades were like welded together or something, the real mischeviousness began. We managed to get Carlos's mom through since she's small and looks really nonthreatening in her visor and fannypack. Little did they know that it was basically over for them at that point.

She got past the soldiers and proceeded to harangue the coronel in charge so ferociously that he eventually gave in and let me and Carlos through. Looking back at the crowd as we walked away, we saw that the other members of the crowd were using our entrance as a pretext for calling bloody murder, accusing the soldiers of playing favorites and all but calling for a people's revolution right there on the spot. Mission complete.

A bit later we were crammed up against the barricade in front of an empty area they had cordoned off, but that wasn't being used for anything. Then they tried to move an ambulance in, that was going to completely block our view. People protested loudly and refused to move, telling the health workers to turn around and take it back. No one wanted to lose their place close to the barricade so they pushed to the sides, crushing people who then had to be taken away in the ambulance. Mission complete.

Once the parade started, it became clear that the crowd had been merely humoring those who were supposedly "keeping order." A barricade blocking a section of grass right alongside the parade route was infiltrated in about two seconds before the police or military could react. In the area in front of our group that had been cordoned off for medical personnel, there was a Lord of the Flies-style invasion as all the parents simultaneously sent their kids under the barricades, creating a confusion that allowed they themselves to go under and over, as crowd control officials went berserk yelling and trying to actually reason with people. It was quite funny.

That night we went to a concert of some of the biggest names in Colombian music. It took place on a soccer field converted into a concert venue, and held probably about 5,000 people. Essentially the entire concert, which took place from about 8pm until 8am, consisted entirely of the following steps repeated in continuous loops:

1. Several shots of rum
2. Dancing
3. Talking
4. Sleeping
5. Repeat

As a result my memory of the night is like a badly edited dream sequence from an old Mexican novela. Seemingly endless dancing to frantic accordian riffs, taking pictures with people I had never met, drifting in and out of sleep on my uncomfortable plastic chair, my trusty sombrero propped over my face, my only protection from the elements.

The last act of the night, as the sun rose over the horizon, was Silvestre Dangond, basically a living legend in Colombian music whose biggest hits include "I Like, I Like, I Like" and "Drinking Rum." He got up on the stage and suddenly it was as if everyone hadn't been up all night. He danced and jumped all over the stage, singing his greatest hits and more or less making everyone go crazy. At one point between songs he mentioned that George Bush with all his money could never buy what we were experiencing that night (and morning). Although I'm sure it's not only GW that can't buy it, I have to say that I understood exactly what he was talking about.

The next day we saw another parade called the Grand Parade of Tradition, followed by another the next day called the Grand Parade of Fantasies.

At the traditional parade we saw a seemingly endless procession of floats and dancing troupes representing the countless forms of music and dance native to Colombia. Cumbia, invented by the coastal slave communities who could only perform short steps because they were dancing in the sand at the beach, Bambuco, Vallenato, Porro, Pasillo, Salsa, Merengue, Reggaeton, and the list goes on....

The parade of fantasies was basically a linear Halloween party, with people dancing every style of dance from around the world, impersonating every politican, celebrity, and singer, and generally being total goofballs and loving it.

A few of them stuck out especially.

Mr. T was there, and of course Uncle Sam, Hugo Chavez, Castro, and Barack Obama. They actually had an entire float dedicated to Obama, a mobile presidential podium complete with a fake microphone, an arch in back announcing the new president, and of course a fake Michelle, Sasha and Malia waiving happily from beside their fake father.

And of course there were the obligatory flamboyant transvestites in enormous dresses and headresses, the U.S.-style jazz dancers in suspenders, and Brazilian-style samba dancers, a tribute to their equally raucous neighbors. The neat thing about Carnaval is that even though you know everything that's going to happen, it's still the absolutely funnest thing in the world. It's like your favorite movie: knowing the end doesn't ruin the interim.

The most fun I had during the weekend, however, was not anything directly Carnaval-related. It was Carlos' grandmother's birthday on Sunday night.

We got to the house about 7:30pm, and the party had already been going on for awhile. After the usual interrogation by members of the family as to where I came from, what I was doing here, and whether or not I had a girlfriend/would like to meet their niece who's really pretty and single, we proceeded to the dancing.

We danced cumbia, we danced samba, we danced merengue, we danced salsa (oh god did we dance salsa). My dance partners ranged in age from about 12 to 80, and everything in between. I was once again singled out by the flour and foam artillery, except this time they politely asked me to cover my eyes before lunging a handful of the stuff into my face, having been warned by Carlos that I wore contacts. Of course everything was lubricated (and dance moves enhanced) by the neverending stream of rum shots.

All in all the weekend was everything I had expected it to be and more. I had heard so much about Carnaval my whole life, but had never been able to experience its full glory. Family, friends, music, dancing, food and rum: the ingredients for a good Carnaval are, coincidentally, the same ingredients for a good life.

Why You Should Never Date Online

I while ago I added a nifty little widget to the bottom-right sidebar of my blog called Feedjit. It tracks what pages on the site people are looking at, where they're from, and how they found the site. It also tracks something a little more interesting, which is what they were looking for when they found my site. Specifically, it tells me what they typed into Google.

So while you all have been watching me, I've been watching you too. Here's some of the highlights:

This guy from Costa Rica was apparently looking for a male-female hybrid named Tiago.

This Londoner, on the other hand, clearly had me in mind.

I'm not exactly sure what this search is referring to, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.

If he only knew he was being redundant...

Well what do we have here? A Saudi looking for "muitosexy.com"? I'm not sure the mullah would approve.

I think the better question is, why are you so obsessed with Brazilian women?

This Chilean has very specific tastes.

When die-hard pessimists surf the web.

Um, I think if Google could tell you that they wouldn't live there anymore. Just a thought.

It takes a real genius to search for "google.com" on the Google homepage (x2).

First Colombian Profile on Optinnow.org

The first entrepreneur profile from Colombia went live on the optinnow.org site today, translated by yours truly. Even though it's such a small and insignificant thing, it really moved me to see it there, for all the world to see, with $25 dollars already donated.

Her name is Celandia Manijo Santos, she has five children, and is asking for a loan of $425 to expand her meat-selling business. She is part of a Trust Group called Manos Amigos (Friendly Hands), whose members not only mutually insure each other's loans, but also provide a supportive community to help her through hard times, both professional and personal.

Through participating in this program, Celandia will receive the funds she has requested to expand her business, which is well established, and also be automatically enrolled in life insurance, automatic deposits into a savings account in her name, and a training program to help her manage her financial obligations.

Here is a link to her profile: Celandia Manijo Santos

The Global Pecking Order

I've come to the realization that every culture has its own version of an international ranking of countries, much like in elementary school when we made lists of everyone in our class in descending order of coolness.

The criteria for placement in this hierarchy vary wildly from country to country. In some it is historical achievements that determine greatness; in others it is size, military prowess, or toleration of large volumes of alcohol. Any measurable characteristic is fair game, and even unmeasurable ones like the "world's tastiest dog" (I'm looking at you, China).

Predictably, each country skews the rules a little bit (or a lot) to magnify its own achievements and strengths, even if, as in the case of Uzbekistan, your primary distinction is being one of only two doubly-landlocked countries in the world (meaning you have to cross at least two countries to get to the ocean). These terribly biased rules are then, of course, universalized and applied to all other nations, resulting in a convenient pyramid of national greatness with Uzbekistan vying with Lichtenstein for global supremacy at the top.

So what does this ranking look like? Let's look at a few examples.

In the U.S., among the educated portions of the population who know that other countries exist, the ranking looks like this:

1. United States of America
2. United States possessions and unincorporated territories
3. United States allies
4. Europe
5. Everyone else except....
6. Axis of Evil members in good standing

In Brazil the ranking looks like this:

1. U.S./Europe
2. Brazil
3. Everyone else except...
4. Spanish-speaking countries except...
5. Argentina

And finally, in Colombia it looks like this:

1. U.S./Europe
2. Brazil
3. Colombia
4. Everyone else except...
5. Other Spanish-speaking countries in Latin America except...
6. Peru

And on down the line. Can you see the pattern here? Every country has its idols (or, in the case of the U.S., itself), its own unique status in the middle, everyone else, and of course their evil, subhuman, pathetic archenemy, which rounds out the last spot.

Now I'm not sure exactly what this ranking determines. The best way I can describe it is as a rating of how all-around "good" a country is. Let me illustrate this using overseas job transfers from the aforementioned countries.

If you're in the U.S., practically any overseas assignment is seen as a punishment, or at best an assignment aimed at opening up the country for U.S. investment and expansion, thus of course transforming the target country in our image.

In Brazil, going overseas is generally a good thing, due to a deeply-rooted low self-esteem held over from the colonial period, except of course if it is to another Latin American country. In this case it is about equivalent to going into the depths of the most remote jungle, full of savage cannibals and devoid of any trace of civilization. And this is coming from a country that actually has a huge, bad ass jungle.

In Colombia, they have a healthy respect for Brazil above their other neighbors, due mostly to its soccer talent and beautiful women. Argentina and Mexico also get honorable mentions, but when it comes down to it it is taken as self-evident that Colombia is the greatest of all the former Spanish colonies. Peru is singled out for special belittlement due to its supposedly backward inhabitants and bland, lifeless culture.

Now the evidence I've been given for Colombia's inherent greatness is varied. I've been told that according to the International Spanish Association or whatever it's called the Colombian dialect is the most "proper," apparently containing the fewest number of pronunciation "quirks" among the many national dialects. I've been told that international polls have shown Colombians to be the happiest people in Latin America. I've been told that according to the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration they have the purest cocaine anywhere.

But if we really want to advance as a civilization, if we really want to see the walls that divide us from each other melt under the warmth of universal compassion, if we really want to see lasting world peace borne out of mutual love and understanding for the unique and incomparable qualities of each and every culture on Earth, there is only one solution: choose a completely random activity and all agree that national greatness will be based on it.

My suggestion? Chocolate chip cookie-making. I mean, seriously. Worst case scenario we have billions and billions of amazing cookies, am I right? Who knows how good of a cookie we could create if the collective effort of all the nations of the Earth were directed toward this noble goal. Now that is change you can believe in.

Hard Rock Cartagena

I went to the Hard Rock Cartagena tonight to have dinner (purely as a social experiment, of course). It is located in the middle of the tourist area of the historical center, with lovely balconies overlooking one of the main squares.

They've done an amazing job of recreating the "American dining experience," which I can best define by the enormous size of beverages, the option to have any item on the menu served with bacon, and waitresses who all seem to have the personality and demeanor of high school cheerleaders.

At one point they all gathered around a table and sang "Happy Birthday" in English, which horrified me until I realized it was the exact equivalent of us going to a Mexican restaurant and having the waiters sing "Cumpleaños a tí" and thinking we're being multicultural and sophisticated.

I couldn't help but enjoy the irony of the fact that, while this song spreads around the world as an example of authentic American "culture," the two sisters who own the rights to it are just sitting back and collecting millions while living in luxury in California. Actually, now that I think about it that is a perfect example of American culture.

After a year of drinking South America-sized beverages, I was impressed with the girth of the glass that was placed before me. I assumed that my Coke-drinking prowess had remained intact (years of practice you know), but now after finishing such a quantity I feel like I'm hopped up on cocaine. Actually that Coke did taste a bit funny...

I was lucky enough to be there for the live music that they have every friday night. The band looked like it was teleported straight from Southern California, complete with cleverly counter-cultural t-shirts, emo-influenced alternative mohawks, and Weezer cover songs. What struck me was how commercial and exportable the SoCal "underground" has become. As I suppose always happens, the style of those trying to buck the system has been appropriated, replicated, and is now being mass-produced for export.

Thinking about all this while listening to an extremely accurate cover of "So Lonely" by The Police, I realized how truly lame so-called "youth culture" is. I mean, seriously: 99% of it consists of trying to be cool, which consists of a daily competition to see who can spend the most money meticulously following the greatest number of trends in the greatest number of categories, all in the name of personal expression of all things.

Even the people who are on the cutting edge, the ones we call "early adopters" and "influencers," are basically saying "wow, I am so skilled at following a trend only from the time it is popular enough to not be weird until the time it is so widespread that middle-schoolers start doing it that everyone should envy me and I should be exempt from any type of personal or professional growth so I can spend all my time further perfecting this extraordinary skill." Which is why it's ok to be unemployed or broke or utterly clueless as long as you're "cool."

The band played a few more covers, all of them quite well imitated. The thing I most enjoyed, however, was how even though all the members of the band took their roles very seriously, head banging and guitar riffing at all the right places, there was just enough of a smirk on their faces to reveal that they didn't take themselves too seriously. Always a good quality in a cover band.

I Dare You

A Crash Course in Colombian Culture

I had a few incidents this week that together served as a kind of introduction to Colombian culture. I choose to interpret them as the country welcoming me into its loving arms. I choose to believe this because otherwise I would have to face the fact that I am a clueless tourist that should have known better.

Last weekend I was at the beach with my friends Kate (from England) and Michael (Australia). We had taken a taxi to this peninsula right outside the city that had miles of fairly nice beaches, with countless restaurants and makeshift tents dotting the coast as far as the eye could see. We had an amazing meal of a local fish served with fried plantains (the ubiquitous culinary accompaniment in these parts) and rice I think.

While we were eating, the usual assortment of trinket-sellers, massage-ladies, and general beggars made their way by our table, each one offering their service, product, or sad story with little enthusiasm and leaving with even less. By this point I'm trained to automatically say "gracias," look down, and shake my head any time someone approaches me, which is a little awkward at work sometimes but hey what can you do.

Well after a couple dozen of these along comes a group of three little boys, running and jumping and having a grand ol' time. After a few minutes one of them asks if they can have the rest of my plantains, which I steadfastly refuse, as they are my favorite.

That's about when the boys' plan for vengeance went into action.

At first they picked up my sarong (they're really masculine here, ok?), which is Buddha-themed (zip it), and started cleaning the sand off it. Kate pointed out that they were performing a valuable service and maybe I should give them a plantain. But I remained firm in my refusal.

Soon the kids are playing with the sarong, letting it flap in the wind and hiding under it, running and rolling in the sand. The wind is strong, filling it like a sail and sticking it to their faces as they laugh and yell. How cute.

Next thing I know they're walking by with a two thousand peso bill and a huge grin. The buggers had taken off with it and auctioned it down the beach for a couple thousands pesos (about a dollar) in the two seconds I wasn't looking.

When I realize this, I taddle-tale on them with the restaurant owner, who runs after them and grabs one by the arm, who instantly starts crying and protesting his innocence, and commands the other to go buy back the item, which he does promptly.

The next day, I left the hotel in the late afternoon to print and mail my graduation application for SDSU. I was directed to a local copy place, which when I entered turned out to be a super-modern and efficient business, with everyone busy and working, in contrast to most Colombian businesses which seem to be designed to keep out foreigners.

A respectable-looking middle-aged man called my attention and asked me what I needed, and I explained that I just needed to print and mail a pdf from my usb drive. He printed my document and was in the middle of explaining how to get to the local post office when his eyes went wide, he let out a small gasp, and staggered back, grabbing the shoulders of his two colleagues sitting at his sides.

There was no doubt in my mind the man was having a heart attack.

But as usual, I was mistaken. I turned around to see a moderately pretty woman at the counter behind me, a woman whose distinguishing feature lay in the southern hemisphere of her curvy body, a feature whose roundness and fullness was being fully appreciated by the three attendants before me.

What ensued was like something from an SNL skit.

One of the men put his hands up in front of him and moved them in a squeezing, circular motion, which I at first thought was an attempt to get a laugh until he ignored our chuckles and continued the movement with a straight face and a trance-like stare.

Another man crossed himself and made a painful grimace, muttering hallelujah's and prayers of thanksgiving under his breath like he was seeing the Virgin Mary before him. Apparently he was the religious one.

The third man, the one who was originally helping me, slowly brought his hands up (very) wide into a cupping shape, and then, realizing what his hands were involuntarily doing, started shaking his head with his mouth and jaw loose, like someone trying to shake off the effects of a powerful drug. Apparently he was the married one.

This went on for a good minute or two, during which I had absolutely no idea what to do. I chuckled nervously and stared intently at my form, pretending like I was double-checking it or something. Eventually the three of them finished their adulation and, as if nothing had happend, returned to giving me directions.

The third thing that happened in my culture clash hat-trick was today.

I packed up my stuff from the hotel and hailed a taxi to take me to the hostel that I was transferring to (cheaper). I made sure to show the driver the address and negotiate the price before getting in or putting my bags in (that was another lesson).

During the 10 minute ride, the driver asked me where I was from (I said Brazil) and tried out his miscellanous Portuguese phrases on me. He didn't know exactly where the address was and it took him a few extra minutes to find it. He jokingly said that the price should be 10,000 instead of the agreed-upon 5,000 because of all the unplanned driving he was having to do, to which I unhesitatingly replied that that was not my problem. The man laughed and said nothing.

We finally found the place I was looking for and my driver jumped out of the car and got my very large and heavy backpack out of the backseat, putting it on the doorstep of my new hostel, which I thought was a nice (and unusual) service. I hopped out the other side and gave him a 10,000 bill, saying as I handed it over, "do you have a 5,000?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem."

Can you see where this is going?

The guy got in the driver's seat and pulled out a wad of bills, shuffling through it to find my change. He handed me a 2,000 and, as I waited for the rest, there was an awkward pause, and the instant I met his eyes I understood that there would be no more change.

I started to protest what by this point I knew was inevitable, and he made a vague statement about extra driving while speeding away down the street. For the record, I kicked the side of his car as he accelerated as a point of honor.

Lessons learned: never underestimate: 1) the craftiness of young, hungry boys 2) the outspoken Hispanic appreciation for the female caboose and 3) taxi drivers' preoccupation with fuel consumption.

New Police Strategy in Rio's Favelas

I came across this news story from the BBC on the newest police invasions of Rio's favelas (where I used to live). It was the same old story: heavily-armed SWAT-style tactics, stray bullets striking innocent bystanders, police claiming that every single person that died was a drug trafficker.

The interesting part is that these actions are part of a new initiative by the government to maintain a permanent police presence in the favelas instead of withdrawing after a successful raid. 1 down, 899 to go. Good luck with that guys.

Story with video:

"Ten Killed in Brazilian Slum Raid" at BBC

An Experiment

So I'm going to try something. You'll notice that there are now ads in a few places around the site. Clicking on these ads will generate revenue, which Google will pay to me. Once this amount reaches $25, it will be used to fund a microloan for a poor entrepreneur somewhere in the developing world through optinnow.org, the project I am working for now.

I am fully aware that to make any reasonable amount of money with this system you have to have thousands or tens of thousands of hits every day. But I am also aware that it takes so little to change someone's life: in this case, a few clicks of a mouse.

Let's see what happens.

Opportunity International in Colombia

Here's a short-format documentary on Opportunity International's work in Colombia:


Opportunity: Colombia from Jeremy Zeiders on Vimeo.

The Girl Effect