10 Things I Learned about Bogota

 1. It is over 8000 feet above sea level.

 2. Hence, walking uphill is difficult.

 3. Arepas are the quesadilla of Bogota.

 4. It truly is a tale of two cities…the north is super rich and the south is super poor.

 5. Traffic sucks.

 6. Trucks, buses, cars and motorcycles don’t have any particular lane to drive in.

 7. The TransMilenio buses rock.  They have their own lanes and don’t get stuck in traffic.

 8. When it rains, it rains a lot.

 9. It gets dark between 6:15-6:30 every night, all year round.

10. The temperature is between 50-70 degrees all year round even though it is at the equator.  (Remember #1.)

San Nicolas and Comedor Pan y Vida

Today I traveled south, just past the outskirts of Bogota to San Nicolas, yes, Saint Nicholas, as in Christmas.  There I visited the Comedor pan y vida, Iglesia Cristiana Menonita, Comunidad de Amor. This loosely translates into “a bread and life lunchtime food program sponsored by the Menonite Church, a community of love.

When we got there the volunteer crew was setting up for a lunch program that feeds approximately 140 students, Monday through Friday.  The town is considered economically poor by Bogota standards, with no police or medical and one public school that runs in two shifts.  The older students attend in the morning and the grade school after lunch. 

The small children attend a sort of preschool in the morning with a variety of activities, something different each day.  They have their lunch and then go to school.  The older students are fewer in number and come by for lunch after morning classes let out.  Of the many that eat there, this might be there only meal of the day.

The food itself is very simple, a type of stew with vegetables and some meat and probably lentils served with rice.  I have had this meal a few times now with varying amounts of broth, depending I suppose, on how many one needs to feed. On Sunday, the second floor becomes a Menonite church.

 The children, of course are adorable, but it is the stories of the women who volunteer in the kitchen that feeds me.  Rosalba, Judy, Patricia and the caretaker, Ruth are examples of the strength and grit, faith and love that never gives up.  The hope that their lives and the lives of those that they love will get better.

Rosalba is in her sixties.  She volunteers at the comedor.  Just yesterday, she graduated from high school.  Her dream is to go to the university and study psychology.  In the past, she has raised and donated money for others to attend school.  Now it is her time.

Her daughter, Yolanda, lives with her, as well as Yolanda's three daughters. Yolanda’s two oldest daughters have three children between them and both are pregnant at this time.  Yolanda’s youngest daughter is still in high school.  Money was given to them to add a second floor to the house since everyone was living on one floor. 

Rosalba now lives downstairs and her daughter, granddaughters and great grandchildren live on the second floor.  The second floor also houses two professional sewing machines, their own maquila where Yolanda and Rosalba do piecework for a very small amount of money. This is how they survive.  There are no men in the household.

 

Judy lives in a dangerous area of town.  Her home used to be made of bricks and wood. The wood in the front of the house was falling apart. Rodents, mice and even people could easily access her home.  She did not feel safe. Money was given to help build a proper brick wall on two sides of her home, enclosing the front part of her house. 

  

She lives there with her husband and grown son.  Life has been difficult for her and her family.  For the past six years, she has found the support and love that she needs through the Menonite church.  She volunteers during the week in the lunch program and on the weekends, she makes pizza from a street cart to provide for her family.  She dreams of converting the newly bricked in front room into a permanent pizza restaurant and a nail salon.

Patricia, her husband, seven children and grandchildren live in a house that is located in the Invasion. The thirteen of them and the others in their neighborhood are squatters.  Patricia and her daughter volunteer at the comedor.  All of the children eat there as well.

They want to renovate the enclosed back portion of their house to create a living room.  They will need some cement and a roof. They already have some bricks.  Patricia’s husband can do the work if the supplies were made available. 
This too will soon become a reality.

These are the "two" Ruths.  The Ruth on the left is a volunteer from Java.

Ruth is the caretaker of the building.  She has three daughters.  Two of her daughters are grown and live in the towns nearby.  Her third daughter is in grade school and she lives with one of Ruth’s other daughters.  She comes to stay with Ruth on the weekends and during school holidays. 

Ruth manages everything that needs to be managed since Leticia lives in Bogota.  Leticia comes to the comedor everyday Monday through Friday to be with the children and discuss details with Ruth.   

Together with all of the other volunteers they are feeding the body and the spirit. This feeds my soul.

Platos

It is o’dark hundred and I hear the rain and the birds.  Sometime later, Paul, my host, is in the kitchen making orange juice. I am looking forward to sleeping in.  Later Paul will return and we will go visit a group of people.  This is why I am here, to visit people and see programs that have benefited from the financial offerings of Noah’s Ark.

Just yesterday I left Florida, flying into Columbia where I met Paul, the man with the black beret.  This is how I identified him and we hopped into a taxi.  I have learned since that he and his wife, Carol, both come from a long line of Mennonite missionaries that settled in South America.  So they both grew up in Latin American countries, having a deep connection for the people and places here.

Noah’s Ark grew out of a single financial gift from a friend that was distributed by Paul and Carol to groups and individuals who were struggling to make ends meet.  Today Carol practices medicine at a local clinic and Paul works with local organizations. They have been in Columbia, mostly Bogota, since 1992. 

Upon arrival, Paul and I set out to have lunch at a café near his home.  We ordered platos, a typical dish with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Many Latin countries have something similar.  In Costa Rica it is called casado, meaning marriage.  Our platos began with a simple rice soup.  The plate itself, was certainly heavy on the carbos with beans, lentils, rice, French fries and a salad.  We wanted to substitute the salad for fruit, but they had no fruit so we had platnos, another carbo instead.

It was a lovely meal for $3.75, which included aqua con gas that the waitress purchased from a corner market because the restaurant did not have any.

Paul and I planned my trip for the next few days plotting out the people and locations that I would visit with room for some sight seeing too.  It would be my cultural platos, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.

Loving Myself...Loving Tom

I cross the Sunshine Skyway and land at the base of the bridge. I turn west, over the causeway bridges, one, two, three.  The smell of salt and sea air, my shoulders drop, releasing tension. I drive onward to Pass-a-grille beach, my Shangri-La of sorts.  This was our beach…mine, Tom and the kids…our go to spot for respite and relaxation, a mere 20 minutes from my former Florida home.

This time, I travel alone in a rented car, the ashes of Tom in the back seat.  It will be the spot that I release his ashes, once again.  It has been almost 10 years since his death.  Remembering the time that Bruce, Carol and the kids and I left the first ashes behind and then returning for many weeks to this special place to console our grief.

This time it is my solo ceremony. Mine alone to remember the love.  I sit in the sand on the gulf side mixing ashes into the sand. They blend together, unrecognizable from one another. I cry.  I remember.  I chant AKAL, releasing myself more than his soul. Ten years gone by. It is time.

I walk to the east, to the intercoastal waterway. Sailboats, motor boats, folks fishing…. He loved this time of the year, springtime in Florida. I walk out to a small fishing pier and sit down, legs dangling over the side and begin to toss the remaining ashes into the water.  They swirl along the top of the water creating a pattern as the current pulls them out. 

I look up and see a beautiful blue-hulled sailboat as it anchors.  Tom would have loved that boat.  He had the sea legs, not me.  I see a fin.  A dolphin spotted 20 feet out. Now two more appear. Appearing and disappeating, their fins in unison. I am comforted by their sight.  The ashes sit along the surface of the water, swirling, until they become integrated into the water itself.  I toss a rose quartz out into the water. Pluck, it sinks to the bottom.

It is complete, for now.  Another step in the journey of grief…loving myself, loving Tom.

Travel+Writing

This blog has certainly been dedicated to that particular genre, but it is not without its technological challenges. As a matter of fact, my last trip to Europe only had two posts due to a card reader gone bad. I guess that $6.00 bootleg card reader from China wasn't quite the deal I thought it was. I ran around Venice during lunch the second day we were in Italy with no luck in finding the proper gadget. I chose not to blog because let's face it, what's a blog without pictures and it ceases to have the immediacy of a blog if you write it 2 weeks after the trip on the laptop that was left at home in lieu of the less weighty iPad.

Last week's trip, I tried out the iPad with a newly purchased card reader from The Apple Store.  Well the reader works great getting the camera pics into the iPad.  But what about the iPhone pics? I can upload to Dropbox or email them to myself.  However, now the challenge comes as to how to get those great pictures uploaded to blogger.com from the iPad because the Firefox app or blooger site or whatever is not the full version and does not have the link to upload from the files on the iPad itself. I would have to upload and download from some other site that I can't really get access to on the iPad. Maybe someone else with more tech savvy experience could figure it out.

So...guess what?  I am completing this blog on my bulkier MacBook Pro, a week later in a McDonald's in Sun City Center, FL (where I am staying with my mother) because she does not have wifi!

My decision after all of this is that I need to travel with a laptop for its full capability and at some point have access to wifi. And of course, I knew all of this, remember, it was an experiment.

So here I go with laptop in backpack, off to Columbia tomorrow as I continue the adventure...traveling and writing.

Mindful Meditation and Metaphor

Walking the labyrinth has always been a special treasure for me.  Usually I am finding myself doing so at a retreat or workshop or special event.  One time I walked the labyrinth at a friend’s farm.  She had gathered the rocks around her property and carefully laid out the spiral path as another form of mindful meditation. 

At silent retreat I walked the path a couple of times, once with a few others, once alone.  I have walked the path with as many as 50 others. Each time the experience unfolds as metaphor for life itself.

Entering the labyrinth, I walk, one foot in front of the other along the narrow path, watching the steps I take. Touching fingers with mudra, touching thumb to each finger-index, middle, ring and pinky, sniffing the breath in through my nose, silently chanting mantra, Sa-Ta-Na-Ma with each sniff.  Inhale, exhale. Walking meditation.

I lift my eyes to see what is in front on me, path twisting back upon itself, sometimes in a straight away, other times quick hairpin turns. Just when I think I have figured it out, change. Moving inward toward the center, my eyes lower, taking the next step. Inhale-sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff. Exhale-sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff.  Silent mantra….

Sometimes waiting in the turn, making space, another passes by in the opposite direction.  Now walking next to another on a separate path. I make a quick turn. They continue forward. We meet again walking side by side. Gone.

I reach the center, pausing in each direction, considering….  Others join, together, yet separate. Each deciding when to continue the journey outward along that same path. I begin again, retracing my footsteps. On the straightaway, turning back upon itself, familiar. Familiar.

Have I been here before?  

Eyes downward, that last step. Eyes up, head lifted. I am somehow amazed and slightly saddened to be out.  A smile crosses my lips, my heart full.  Journey finished…for now.