monserrate

On Sunday afternoon, Seth and I—okay, just Seth—decided to climb the Monserrate, a mountain that dominates the city center of Bogotá. (I tried but failed to climb it last week. Seth was disappointed in my less-than-stellar hiking skills, so I let him climb alone this time. Meanwhile, I rode the Funicular.) At 3152 meters above sea level—and 527 meters above Bogotá—the mountain top is home to a seventeenth century church and shrine. Pilgrims often choose to scale the mountain with pebbles or uncooked frijoles in their shoes, while tourists ride the train or cable car to the summit. Besides the church, the mountaintop offers generous views of the city on one side and of the forest on the other. There are also two upscale restaurants, where couples can spend a romantic afternoon gazing at their city, and a small marketplace, where climbers can grab a bite and refuel.

After snapping a few photos and catching up with Seth, we stopped at a market stall to sample their salchicha, papas, y plátano (pork sausage, potatoes, and plantains). Our waiter, who was possibly the most efficient fourteen year-old hustler I have ever seen, even supplied us with a sample of chunchullo (fried pig intestines) and, to wash it all down, a Colombiana (the national apple-flavored soda). I wish I could say we stopped there, but we actually ended up stopping by another stall for a small dessert: a chunk of fresh, curd-like cheese with arequipe (also known as dulce de leche, a sauce very similar to caramel) and mora (a blackberry-esque berry) sauce. Rico!

I hope to one day return to the mountain so I can prove to myself that I can successfully climb it. (I am still thoroughly embarrassed at my previous attempt. Seth completed the climb in a mere forty-five minutes!) I would also love to eat at one of the restaurants, which, according to my coworkers, are both very delicious and very expensive. Maybe Seth and I will go for our anniversary, or for one of our birthdays, or for no reason at all…

transmilenio: portal del tunal

Other than last week’s excitement of having a certain British “starchitect” visit the office, work has been a little on the boring and unfulfilling side. To remedy my creative itch, I have made an effort to plan fun things on the weekends and take pictures wherever possible.

On Saturday, Seth and I began a new adventure series. Do not worry; we will continue to buy, dissect, and prepare new fruits as we see them, but now that the first rainy season of the year is officially over, we prefer to spend more of our time outdoors. We have decided to shift our focus to the fringes of Bogotá. Each weekend, we will take one of the Transmilenio (Bogotá’s bus rapid transit) lines to its terminus, far from tourists and luxury. (If you recall, we spent one of our days in Prague riding the subway to the eastern edge of the city, where the effects of midcentury communist occupation were painfully evident.) Who knows, maybe we will even spend one—or both!—of our June puentes visiting neighboring towns?

For our first installment in this series, we rode the H-line from our home (Calle 63) south to Portal del Tunal. Seth advised me not to take my camera this time since we did not know what to expect of the area. On the way, we passed neighborhoods not unlike ours. We spotted outdoor staircases weaving between unstable houses before eventually disappearing into the mountainside. At the terminus, we found a large park (Parque El Tunal) and a public library (Biblioteca El Tunal). The park was programmed with soccer fields, basketball courts, skate parks, and several other activity spaces. Seth and I sat on a hill and watched a young couple play fetch with their two Cocker Spaniels before walking to the skate park and watching a ten year-old gringo school a crew of Colombian teenagers with his bike tricks.

After spending a couple of hours at the park enjoying the sun, we returned home.

This weekend, we plan to take the other branch of the Transmilenio H-line to Portal de Usme.

puentes

Here in Colombia, the national government grants us eighteen—eighteen!—public holidays (or puentes) each year:

• Año Nuevo (New Year’s Day): January 1
• Día de los Reyes Magos (Epiphany): January 6
• Día de San José (Saint Joseph’s Day): March 19
• Jueves Santo (Maundy Thursday) and Viernes Santo (Good Friday): This year, April 5 & 6
• Primero de Mayo (Labor Day) (May 1)
• Ascensión (Ascension of Jesus): This year, May 21 (TODAY!)
• Corpus Christi: This year, June 11
• Sagrado Corazón (Sacred Heart): This year, June 18
• San Pedro y San Pablo (Saint Peter and Saint Paul): June 29
• Declaration of Independence: July 20
• Battle of Boyacá: August 7
• La Asunción (Assumption of Mary): August 15
• Día de la Raza (Columbus Day): October 12
• All Saints’ Day: November 1
• Independence of Cartagena: November 11
• La Inmaculada Concepción (Immaculate Conception): December 8
• Navidad (Christmas Day): December 25

Twelve of said holidays are Catholic observances, while six are tributes to battle, discovery, the labor force, and independence. Today, Seth and I decided to celebrate the Feast of the Ascension with homemade truffle-butter popcorn* (Thanks for the truffle salt, Eliot!) and a bottle of Bogotá Beer Company’s Cajicá Honey Ale. Blasphemous? Maybe. Delicious? Definitely.

* Fun fact: In Colombia, there are five different ways to say the word “popcorn”: crispetas, palomitas de maíz, cotufa, maíz tote, and maíz pira. Across Latin America, there are twenty-two different ways. (Also, a bag of kernels is crazy cheap!)

la manzana cultural + la puerta falsa

On Saturday afternoon, Seth and I visited La Manzana Cultural (The Cultural Block) of Bogotá. Located between Carerras 5 & 6 and Calles 10 & 11, the square is home to El Museo Botero (the Art Museum) and La Casa de Moneda (the Mint). We enjoyed perusing hundreds of works of art and admiring the serenity of the architecture and the views of the surrounding mountains.

After immersing ourselves in Colombian culture for a few hours, we walked to La Puerta Falsa, an historic, traditional restaurant in the heart of the city. Known for their chocolate completo and their tamales, the nearly two-hundred year-old restaurant offers a few cozy tables and friendly service. Their chocolate completo consists not only of chocolate caliente but also of buttered bread, an almojábana, and a generous slice of queso fresco. Meanwhile, their tamales, unlike their Mexican counterparts, are wrapped in a banana leaf and filled with chicken. (Oh, and they are about half the size of a football.) The atmosphere was just what we were looking for after a day of exploring—calm and comforting.

[photo of el tamal courtesy of Arts Donald]

la calera + sopó

On Thursday afternoon, my boss invited me to Sopó (a small town northeast of Bogotá) for a presentation hosted by a potential client. Since I had not yet escaped the confines of the city, I jumped at the opportunity to see some Colombian countryside.

During the nearly hour-long drive, I saw lush, green mountains; stone cliffs; clusters of houses in the neighboring town, La Calera; fields of curuba plants; and many cows and horses. I suffered a rough bout of motion sickness due to all of the twists and turns of the roads, but other than that I thoroughly enjoyed the trip. Luckily, I was able to snap a few photos from the car. Please pardon the blurriness!

dos tintos, por favor

When I first told my friends I was moving to Colombia, one of the first things they said was, “You’ll have to tell me how the coffee tastes!” Well, in the past three months, I have sipped many a tinto and an occasional capuchino, and I am here to tell you, disappointedly, that the coffee culture of Bogotá is not what I thought it would be. Just as I did in my analysis of Paris’s coffee culture, I will explain as much as I can about my new city’s customs—everything from the drinks to the vendors to the traditions.

First, the drink names:

• tinto = very strong brewed coffee (8 ounces. This is basically your typical American coffee, only mucho más fuerte. It is served with two packets of sugar and, occasionally, a complimentary cookie on the side.)
• capuchino = a shot of espresso with steamed whole milk and foam (8-12 ounces. Sometimes it is served like a true cappuccino with a mountain of airy foam, but, more often than not, it is served like a latte or café con leche.)
• mocachino = a shot of espresso or tinto mixed with chocolate caliente (8-12 ounces. Unlike an American mocha, which is made with chocolate syrup, a Colombian mocachino combines espresso with their trademark hot chocolate drink. Strong coffee + whole milk + pure chocolate + panela + foam = bliss.)

Unlike French cafés, noisettes, or café crèmes—which remain fairly consistent in price and quality across Paris’s twenty arrondissements—Colombian tintos vary drastically depending on the neighborhood and grade of shop. On the street or in local convenient stores, for example, you can buy a tinto for as cheap as COP$400 (about US$0.20). Of course, said tinto was probably brewed hours ago, and you are basically paying to have it microwaved. In medium-grade bakeries, you can get a tinto for a reasonable COP$1000 (about US$0.50), or, if you are feeling fancy (as I often am on the weekends), you can find a capuchino for COP$2500 (about US$1.25). Only the nicest or the most corporate of coffee shops will prepare a mocachino, which you can buy for 5000 pesos (about US$2.50).

Now, don’t get me wrong; the coffee is good. The coffee is not the disappointing part.

Much like America’s dependency on Starbucks, Colombia’s coffee culture relies on the “express” business model. Whether you plan to sit inside a shop or take your caffeine on the road, you coffee is served in a paper or plastic cup. This is true for most street carts, convenience stores, bakeries, and Juan Valdez locations. (Starbucks : America :: Juan Valdez : Colombia) At the poshest of coffee shops, you might—might!—be able to secure a hurricane glass or, if you are especially lucky, a much-coveted white mug.

Colombia’s “religious” aspect of coffee drinking lies in the ritual. Every morning at ten, Nelsie (one of our two office assistants) brings a tiny tinto-filled mug to everyone’s desk. After lunch, if she is not particularly busy, she does the same. (If she is busy, the afternoon coffee is self-serve.) Additionally, any time a client or a representative visits, she brews a fresh pot. The smell of fresh coffee grounds fills the office, and all is right in this oft overcast city.

[photo courtesy of ???]

a tale of two guayabas

While grocery shopping for mysterious tropical fruits, Seth and I unintentionally purchased two types of guayabas: six guayabas peras and four guayabas feijoas. We returned home and scanned our receipt, setting aside the familiar pear-shaped guayaba while desperately trying to identify the green, chicken-egg-sized, ellipsoid-shaped fruit. A-ha!

The guayaba feijoa (bottom), also known as the pineapple guava, grows in southern Brazil, parts of Colombia, Uruguay, Paraguay, and northern Argentina. The fruit drops from its evergreen shrubs when ripe, but it can be picked from the tree beforehand to prevent bruising. The guayaba feijoa has juicy, sweet seed pulp and slightly gritty flesh. Its scent is sweet, while its flavor is somewhat sour.

The guayaba pera (top), also known as the strawberry guava, is native to Mexico, Central America, and northern South America. The fruit has yellowish skin and deep-pink pulp. Its smell is similar to lemon rind, but its taste is lightly sweet, somewhere between a pear and a strawberry.

Both guayabas are perfectly edible on their own. When juiced and mixed together, however, the combined taste is both a little bit sweet and a little bit tart—the perfect pairing!

museo del oro + colombian snacks

After hearing rave reviews from my coworkers, Seth and I finally decided to spend a Saturday visiting Bogotá’s Museo del Oro (the Gold Museum). Located in the city’s historic center at the intersection of Carrera 5 and Calle 16, the museum displays the world’s largest collection of pre-Hispanic gold work. It contains close to 34,000 gold pieces, plus 20,000 bone, stone, ceramic, and textile articles belonging to 13 Pre-Hispanic societies: Tumaco, Nariño, Cauca, Calima, San Agustín, Tierradentro, Tolima, Quimbaya, Muisca, Urabá and Chocó, Malagana, Zenú, and Tairona. It was a unique experience to visit a museum that houses a permanent indigenous exhibition. It certainly embodies the sense of pride Colombians have in their country’s history.

Unlike some cities in the United States, Bogotá seems to think of museums more as educational institutions than as tourist destinations. Most are free on Saturdays, Sundays, or both, which makes it possible for families to spend at least an entire day together enjoying their city. (Meanwhile, Seattle’s Art Museum offers free admission one day a month—on a Thursday, when most people are working—and I think Philadelphia’s Art Museum is free to the public only one day a year—on International Museum Day.) I appreciate the investment, as I believe it contributes to a more knowledgeable and civic-minded population. It also promotes a collective ownership of culture and memory, one that its citizens feel obligated to protect and preserve.

After our tour of the museum, we walked along Avenida Jimenez and grabbed a quick bite to eat: chicharrón and jugo de mandarina (fried pork rinds and mandarine juice). Served in a paper bag with chunks of ground corn dough and fried plantains, the greasy, salty snack paired perfectly with the fresh, sweet juice.

the gringo problem

Bogotá isn’t exactly a diverse city. Its racial composition includes people of Mestizo origin (those of mixed Amerindian and European descent), in addition to Spaniards and other European ethnic groups. It also has a large Middle Eastern population, made up mostly of Lebanese and Syrian immigrants. The Afro-Colombian population in Bogotá is smaller than in cities along the coast such as Cartagena, where Colombians of African descent have historically resided. Pale-skinned, light-eyed people, however, are nowhere to be found.

The few of us who do roam the city are prime targets for beggars and con artists. Whether we are sitting at a coffee shop, eating at a restaurant, or walking on the sidewalk, Seth and I are consistently singled out. When we refuse to give change, or when we do not give enough, we are accused of being greedy. “You’re gringos; you must have money!” they shout angrily. Whether we have spare change or not, our skin color signifies wealth. Meanwhile, our upper-class Colombian friends—Juancho and our coworkers, for example, who live with their parents rent-free—are never asked.

While these incidents are only slight annoyances for us, they tend to cause bigger problems for establishment owners, who must pause their work to shoo the beggars away, or for other patrons, who prefer their conversations to go uninterrupted. We try to locate tables in concealed corners of restaurants, where we expect to be of little disturbance, but our efforts are often fruitless. One Sunday afternoon, for instance, Seth and I were sipping cappuccinos at our usual panadería when an unusually large and demanding homeless woman approached our table. She asked us for money, and we gave her our leftover change. “That’s it?!” she asked incredulously. “I know you have more!” We told her we simply did not have any excess change to give. She proceeded to lecture us for the next minute or two, until the shop owner could break away from her duties and order the woman to leave.

I have since seen that woman a few times, and every time I do, she demands that I give her money. On Thursday, as I was walking home from work, I stopped by our neighborhood Éxito to buy a couple of beers for Seth and me. (Don’t judge; it was a long day!) She was standing outside, asking customers for donations as they left. As I waited in line to make my purchase, I saw her staring through the window, watching me. Once I received my bag and my change, I quickly packed everything away and hurried out the door. Not only did she ask me for money, but she also proceeded to FOLLOW ME down the street, yelling that she was starving because of greedy gringas like me.

That’s not to say that all people who ask for donations are homeless or even needy. Two weekends ago, as Seth and I walked the busy, pub-filled streets of La Zona T, a guy about our age ran up to us, holding out his hand. He was clean-shaven and wearing what looked like a brand new North Face jacket. We stared at him blankly and continued on our way.

I never imagined that I could be on the receiving end of racism, albeit the superficial, somewhat distorted end, but I am… I think?

when life gives you lulos…

… make lulo-ade! Or do as we did, and juice them with a mango or two.

Also known as the naranjilla (little orange), the lulo is a subtropical fruit native to northwest South America. The exterior is orange in color and a cross between a tomato and a sand dollar in texture. Meanwhile, the interior is green and seedy. The fruit has a citrus flavor which can be described as a combination of rhubarb and lime.

On our first day in Colombia, Juancho’s maid served us each a foamy glass of fresh-pressed lulo juice. It was good, if a little boring, so this time Seth and I decided to up the brightness and the sweetness with some mango. During the month of May, the sunset-colored fruits seem to be at their ripest, overflowing the markets and street carts of Bogotá. At a one-to-one volumetric ratio (approximately two lulos to one medium-sized mango), all this tropical mixture needs is just a spoonful of sugar. (It helps the medicine go down.)