Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
“To see life as a poem and yourself participating in a poem is what myth does for you.” Joseph Campbell One of the first things I noticed when eating out in Colombia was the small plastic packet that always accompanied fried chicken. At first, I assumed it was a wet wipe, to clean up afterwards.
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,
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.
The Septima is one of my favourite places in Bogota. Every Sunday, the street down to the centre comes alive with performers, vendors, llamas and even guinea pigs. The excitement is quadrupled when seen through the eyes of Costeños, however. A group of youth leaders from the Alta Moñtana came to the city for the
The Llama Diaries 