Mojarra Farmer

It has been brought to my attention several times now that in this life, this human life, the best thing you can ever do besides finding a woman or man to love with all of your heart, the type of person you'd move to Greenland for or take a job as a garbageman, is to find a way to make money (money) doing something that you love.  You can't just kind of like it, you have to love it.  If you accomplish this you have maxed out your potential as a human being.  Or rather, if you accomplish these two things you have reached the proverbial summit, though in some cases the summit is probably more like Mt. Townsend in the Olympics or even Toe Jam Hill on Bainbridge rather than the mighty beasts of K2 or Mount Everest.
How do you know when you love what you do, and, is it truly possible?
The answer to the first question has an unsettleingly amount to do with Grey's Anatomy, and the answer to the second question is "maybe".  The reason I mention Grey's Anatomy in relation to the answer to the first question is that when you're a teacher of English (English teacher) in Latin America you come across a startling amount of students who only know Seattle because of Grey's Anatomy.  Not because of Microsoft or the Space Needle or the rain, but because of a semi wretched show about fake doctors which doesn't really even have anything to do with Seattle.  But even more overwhelming are the number of students who don't know where Seattle is, who pronounce it "Suraddle", and not quite as overwhelming but also just as devastating are the students who not only don't know where the Emerald City is, but don't know where New York is, or Miami, or Washington DC, or Belle Fourche, South Dakota, or Paris, Texas.  When you come across these students you no longer want to be an English teacher.  You want to jump out the window.  Or you want to be a geography teacher.  But it makes you wonder.  And it also makes you realize: "I don't love my job".
Which is why, when I have the means, I will go to Buenaventura, take the first lancha to a deserted island, and live off the land.  I will be a coconut farmer, in that I will be near the coconut trees and cultivating them by fertilizing around the bases of the trees, and I will also of course supplement my diet with a steady amount of mojarra, or "snapper", to the layperson.  So that is why the title of this blog post is coconut farmer, because that is the current plan, and an occupation I think I could truly love. 

The Role of the Book In Bogota

I am very tempted to start this blog post with "...Is nonexistent", but I feel that might be overly cynical, and after my last post the last thing I need is more cynicism.  That said, the role of the book here in Bogota is minimal.  People don't read very much.  People don't read on the bus and they generally don't read in cafes.  When you ask people what they like to do they often say "watch TV" but they almost never say read.  There was a girl in one of my English classes who loved the Hunger Games.  It simultaneously broke my heart and lifted it to the heavens.  All she wanted to do when she got out of class was read about Katniss Everdeen and tributes and districts and tracker jackers.  It doesn't matter that she was reading the Hunger Games.  She was reading.  It is such a rarity in this city.  She will go far.

I dreamed this morning about opening a bookstore here in Bogota.  A bookstore where you can come in and sit for hours and buy nothing but still just read, leaf through books, take a massive stack of books to a table and lazily look through them.  Get lost in a book by Roberto Bolaño or Pablo Neruda or spend several minutes criticizing Isabela Allende.  But I will never do it.  There is only one bookstore in all of Bogota, a city with 9 million people -- 9 million! -- that is even remotely like that.  And it's only sort of like that.  Most of the books have plastic on them.  You can sit and read, but you kind of get the feeling it's not entirely OK.

The kid who I most see reading sells gum on the corner.  I have no idea what his name is.  There are plenty of people who sell gum and other snacks or cell phone minutes, but he's the only one I've ever seen reading.  And he's always reading.  Every time I pass by he has a tattered book in his hands and he looks thoroughly engrossed.  He should be awarded some kind of prize.  He should be given a free education.  The boy is a scholar, and a fine example.

The role of the book in Bogota is almost nonexistent, but there's no reason that shouldn't change.  Put more words on paper, and transplant those words into our brains.  That's all that needs to be done.  I'd like to end ith a Bolaño quote (well, from a Bolaño book) that has absolutely nothing to do with reading or books or even Bogota, but could probably be interpreted in dozens of ways.

"An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom".  --Beaudelaire

Good day, faithful readers.  Good day.

The "B" in Bogota

It's been a long time since I've written for Finnish Summer.  I wish I was in Finland right now.  I wish I was anywhere but in Bogota.  I need a vacation.  I'm sick of the lack of eficiency here.  If you're going to be on the beach drinking coconut water and surfing, inefficiency is the name of the game (though actually not with surfing, as that would probably involved trying to paddle your board with floaties on your arms or dragging a parachute behind you or something ridiculous like that).  But when you're in a city of 9 million people, you expect there to be some form of efficiency, somewhere.  And yet there's not.  Everything is ridiculous in this country.  Today I officially quit my job.  Normally when you end a contract I imagine it might be customary to get a form signed by your boss or some kind of person in charge saying that the contract is over.  And I had to do that.  I also had to get another formed signed by about 10 other people saying that they were "at peace" with me and that I didn't owe them anything and that as far as they were concerned I could leave.  How ridiculous is this?  Is this not the very reason hierarchy exists, to avoid situations like this, so that a person in charge can make important decisions without having to consult with every person who works at the company?  There was a spot on the form for the cafeteria staff to sign.  The cafeteria staff!  In other words, there was a spot on the form for the lovely lady who gave us tea and coffee and poundcake at 430pm everyday to sign saying that I didn't owe her any napkins or that I didn't accidentally take seconds of the coffee.  Riculous.  Insane.  Welcome to Colombia.

This country seems to pride itself on paperwork and appearances.  For anything official there must be myriad documents to sign.  It must be a process.  It must be difficult.  Because "that's how things are supposed to be".  Or at least people think that's how things are supposed to be.  When you go to the park you see people working out with personal trainers doing ridiculously easy and ineffectual exercises with all kinds of equipment like medicine balls and surgical tubing that maybe target one to two muscles to 4% of their capacity, and yet that's how it's supposed to be.  You're not supposed to work out.  You're supposed to look like you're working out.  You're not supposed to be a businessman.  You're supposed to wear a suit and a tie and shiny black shoes and look like a businessman.  The work is completely independent.  Appearances are everything here.

Should I come here just to bash the culture?  Probably not.  However, I think it's natural to compare your culture to that of the culture you're living in.  Obviously you're not going to be OK with everything.  And you might even be a little unreasonably judgmental at times.  I do not dislike Colombia.  I really like Colombia.  And for the most part, I really like Colombians.  This is a beautiful country with beautiful people, it just has a ton of problems.  What country doesn't?  There are some things I will get used to,but there are some things to which I probably won't.  I don't need to go to Finland, but I do need to go on vacation, which is why my friend Steve and I are going to Villavicencio next weekend, a place where (apparently) the air is warm and the rumba and steak flows like wine.  I don't want to become jaded, because no one likes a jaded person.  And no one likes a person who criticizes things only to be guilty of the same things themselves.  And I realize that many times when we hate something we are really hating something that exists inside of us.  I realize this.  I am fully aware.

But the cafeteria lady?  Give me a break....