Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
My first year in Colombia, living in Mampujan, I facetiously gave up almost everything for Lent: running water, carpets, spicy food, chocolate chips, winter coats, long sleeves, bathtubs, washing machines with spin cycles. Every time I bathed with a single cup full of water and ate a plate of plain rice, I felt holier than
I used to love motorcycles. When I first got to Sincelejo, every trip to the store felt like an adventure. I would stand on the street, wave down the first moto that came around the corner, and hop on board. As we raced down the street, I relished the feel of wind in my hair,
My parents never let me drink coffee as a child, even though I begged. Finally, in a ploy to cure me of my curiosity, when I was eleven years old they let me try coffee for the first time. It was disgusting. I vowed to never again allow that bitter brew to cross my lips.
I went back to Mampujan in the beginning of January. After rushing to get leave Sincelejo early, I waited for an hour for the bus to fill, my stomach already full of butterflies. During the trip, a suitcase fell on my head from the overhead compartment.
When on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, I spend the my time in the places I know best: the small communities that pepper the highway in Bolívar. In order to truly enter into a costeño rhythm, it is imperative to leave the city and experience life in a pueblo. Still want the beach? A great route to
As you prepare your breakfast, think of others (do not forget the pigeon’s food). As you wage your wars, think of others (do not forget those who seek peace). As you pay your water bill, think of others (those who are nursed by clouds). As you return home, to your home, think of others (do
I arrived at the National Museum first on Wednesday night and was afraid that I wouldn’t spot them, but there was really no need to worry. The moment they walked through the doors of the auditorium, I knew it was them. In fact, I would know the Mampujaneros anywhere: their energy, their charisma, their style,
Last night was my fourth Noche de las Velitas (Night of the Little Candles). Lighting candles to welcome Mary on her journey to Bethlehem, and thus officially starting the Christmas season, is one of my favourite Colombian traditions. My first Noche de las Velitas, after living in Mampujan for two months, was completely new to
On street corners and under shade trees, functionaries from Bogota held court almost everyday in Mampujan. Dressed in vests proclaiming their identity as members of the Unidad de Victimas, or the Organization of the American States, or the Sena or universities or whatever, they passed out attendance sheets and lectured the community on how to
I always resort to cliques when I am asked the question of what I like most about Colombia. I can’t help it because it is true. Whether a taxi driver, a coworker or someone from Canada asks, the answer is always the same: people. I do not mean this in any sort of romantic, nostalgic,
Anna L. Vogt 