Some Día de la Mujer gifts I received from my students. Candy just for existing? Sure, I'll take it.

Thursday, March 8^th, was International Women’s Day, a holiday celebrated both officially and unofficially in countries across the globe – although, oddly enough, I’ve noticed that it doesn’t seem to be particularly popular in the United States. Here in Colombia, it’s celebrated as a sort of combination of Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, with women receiving presents, flowers, candy, cards and constant wishes for a “Feliz día” (happy day).

I wrote about my personal feelings and impressions of Día de la Mujer on my own blog, so here I’m going to focus instead on some of the reflections it inspired on the state of women and women’s rights here in Colombia. Latin America, like basically every other region of the world, doesn’t necessarily have the best record on women’s rights. The combination of strict Catholicism in many places, machista culture and a strong adherence to traditional gender roles, particularly in rural areas, has created an environment that, until very recently, allowed limited options for women.

I’m not saying that all women in Colombia are housewives or cooks – and many of the ones that are do so by choice, rather than a lack thereof. There’s definitely a lot of space in Colombian culture for successful women, and despite the historic basis of machista culture (which is still alive and well, don’t worry), there does seem to be a healthy amount of respect for and appreciation of strong, accomplished women here. For example: When the former mayor of Bogotá was suspended in 2011, the president of Colombia chose a Harvard-educated female economist to serve as acting mayor until the end of the term. There are women serving in high levels of the government, powerful female lawyers and many female leaders of NGOs. As of last year, 13% of people in governing bodies were female – not anywhere close to 50%, of course, but sadly a much higher percentage than in many other nations.

However, this doesn’t mean everything is just peachy. The 2011 Global Gender Gap Report, which measures gender inequality in areas like salaries, work opportunities, education, health and other factors, ranked Colombia 80^th out of 135 countries – a significant change from its 2010 position in 55^th place, and the single biggest drop in Latin America. According to the report, this was based mostly on a huge decrease in women’s earned income, especially compared to men. A recent report by an investigative unit of the National Police found that, on average, a woman is assaulted every 38 minutes in Bogotá – and that barely 42% of women report cases of abuse to the authorities.

Whenever you hear anyone extolling the myriad virtues of Colombia, the beauty of Colombian women is always extremely high on the list (especially if the speaker is a straight dude). Far be it from me to dispute the accuracy of this description – Colombian women overall are seriously gorgeous, enough to make even a nail-biting gringa consider getting a manicure – but I think until the country focuses on promoting the accomplishments of its women, rather than their allure, there’s still a lot of progress to be made.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Women and men across the country held marches and demonstrations on Día de la Mujer to advocate for women’s rights and to raise awareness of the need for change. Hundreds of women marching in Medellín chanted “Take your rosaries out of our ovaries,” and a Bogotá-based lawyer told news organization Colombia Reports, “It is not the day of the woman, it is the day of women’s human rights.” The president of Colombia recently signed an agreement pledging to create publicity and awareness campaigns across the country to advance women’s rights – as with most political actions, it remains to be seen how successful this program will be.

It’s inspiring to see how people and organizations in Colombia are using March 8^th as a platform to advance women’s rights campaigns, but it’s important to remember that one day is not enough. As a female traveler, I want to live in a world where I can feel just as safe as a man, no matter where I go – my physical and mental safety should not be affected by my gender. Even more so, I would love to someday feel that, no matter where I traveled, I could meet women who have had the same educational and professional opportunities that I’ve had the privilege to pursue. We’re far from perfect in terms of women’s rights in the States (hey, Rush Limbaugh!), but at least I’m legally allowed to drive myself to the grocery store.

So: one day down, 364 to go!

Natalie Southwick volunteers as an English teacher for WorldTeach in Bogotá, Colombia. For more on Natalie’s adventures in Colombia, check out her blog.

Caracas is a vibrant city, packed with thing to see and do

I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’m done.  I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow morning and heading back home to Raleigh, NC, by way of Miami.  The week has been a blur of despedidas – goodbyes – to the many people who made my time in Venezuela memorable.  I’ve had a lot of variations on the same conversation, which prominently features one question: How was your time in Venezuela?

Wow, what a simple question that has such a complex answer.  Thing is, I’m exhausted.  This country is exhausting to live in.  When I tell my Venezuelan friends how this country has worn me out, they’re rarely surprised or offended.  Instead I usually get a ‘no joda!’ (no shit!) from them, as if I’ve stated the obvious.  It’s the lines for everything (The New York Times actually just featured an article about these Venezuelan ‘colas’), the inefficiencies, the insecurities, the continually delayed public transport.  The banks.  The over-emphasis on physical beauty.  The culture of Blackberrys.  The silicon.  A country which is so… without words at times that there’s a popular website called ‘Solo en Venezuela’ (Only in Venezuela) that features examples of the quirky craziness that happens around here.

But from my tenure here, I also have about ten years’ worth of memories gathered in a fraction of the time.  Some stem from this country’s intangible ‘crazy’, but many others are from day-to-day life.  This country is beautiful.  Beyond words, jaw-droppingly beautiful.  The food is amazing.  The people are passionate, loud, and gregarious.  I’m a die-hard fan of Caracas.  The city has been good to me.  In nine months, with some precautions and a little luck, I haven’t been the victim of any crime.  With the help of friends from across the city and an adventurous spirit, I’ve had the opportunity to explore all different facets of this incredibly diverse city.  I’ve been to barrios, and some of Caracas’ hottest nightclubs.  I’ve hiked the Ávila – the mountain marking the north border of Caracas – and explored the city’s beautiful and internationally famous museums.  There is so much to do here.

I feel a little sad every time I run across a gringo or European tourist who scurries through Caracas, staying in the city only because their airline routed them there.  The city has its dangerous side, absolutely, but I remain as in awe of it as I was the day I arrived.  I arrived a ‘gringa’ but leave Venezuela a ‘caraqueña’.

Lianne Gonsalves just finished her work as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at the Centro Venezolano Americano in Caracas, Venezuela. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog. This is not is not an official Fulbright Program blog. The views and information presented are Lianne’s own and do not represent the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

My previous experiences in Latin America were confined to rural communities in the more conservative, Catholic countries of Central America.  There were few catcalls, replaced mostly by these looooooong looks (equally creepy).  I discovered that I could come to town in sweatpants, an old T-shirt and glasses, and I’d still get these looks; this was my first introduction to machismo.

Catcalls...one of the less-flattering aspects of Venezuelan culture

Caracas is something altogether different.  For one, people are a lot less conservative and a lot more direct.  Blacks are called ‘negros’, Asians ‘chinos’, fat people ‘ gordos’, etc.  Combine this with a generally chatty culture and an emphasis on physical beauty (Venezuela is not known for its beauty queens for nothing), and the ‘piropos’ – catcalls – here are a class by themselves.  Everyone has their own piropos they hear especially often.  Mine is ‘flaca!’ or ‘flaca bella!’ – essentially, someone is  attempting to holler at me by saying ‘hey skinny girl!’ or ‘Pretty skinny girl!’  Nice.  Another one: ‘flaca, pero bella!’ – ‘skinny, but pretty!’

Depending on the day, my inner response ranges from amused to irate.  I couldn’t help but laugh once when I was caught walking behind a particularly voluptuous Venezuelan woman sauntering around in too-tight jeans and stilettos.  Many a man who passed her did the slow turn-around and stared dumbstruck at her retreating rear.  Of course, when a passing man waits until he’s inches from my face to lean in and blow a kiss, I’m generally less-than-tickled.  Still, my outward response is one of Zen calm – I pretend I don’t notice.  When I got comfortable walking around Caracas with my iTouch, I found that a little bit of music helps drown out the hisses.

Only once have I snapped back; at a 12-year-old who came up to my waist and decided he wanted to make some comments.  My response was mostly impulsive: ‘Seriously?! You’re about 12…you must be joking.’  Now, do I feel guilty for yelling at a 12-year-old?  Only marginally.  I’ve never tried to say anything back to my older admirers.  Mostly because nothing I can say will invoke the ideal response I want (a contrite apology, or else a reflection on the destructive role machismo attitudes play on gender relations), and partly for my own safety.

Some male friends once tried to provide me with some ‘rationale.’  Women expected it, they told me; if a woman is all dressed-up and made-up and strutting down the street and doesn’t hear anyone hissing or making comments, she’ll be insulted.  The catcalls are an affirmation that she looks good – like staring in a mirror except this time the mirror can shout its approval.  I stared at them incredulously.

For more on dealing with “machismo” in South America, check out “Does Machismo Exist in Argentina? Or is this a cultural misunderstanding?” by Megan Kaseburg, “Coping with the Burn,” by Nereida Heller, “Warning to Women: Thicken Your Skin, Machismo Awaits in Costa Rica” by Sebastian Kindsvater, or “Watch out for  What, Exactly?” by Lizzie LaCroix. Lianne Gonsalves is currently a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at the Centro Venezolano Americano. To hear more about her experiences, check out her blog. This is not is not an official Fulbright Program blog. The views and information presented are Lianne’s own and do not represent the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

School children practising dances in the Plaza de Armas, Cusco

This weekend I went to Ollantaytambo to see their festival dedicated to the Señor de Choquekillka – this is a four day celebration in which dance troupes from the town take it in turns to perform one of 15 dances.  I thought this was pretty big- but then I found out that down the road in Urubamba they also had a festival that included 30 different dances and lasted for almost a week!

Refreshingly the vast majority of the audience were Ollantinos rather than tourists, as is often the case in Cuzco which makes it feel as though events have been put on specifically for tourists rather than being local traditions; this time it was clear that this festival was genuinely a big deal to them.

While I was there some local friends explained some of the origins of the dances and the meaning behind them – I particularly liked the ‘naughty cats’ which represented the Spanish nicknames for the Incas as cats (as they were able to climb up the mountains easily) and then little devils (as they were getting in the way of their takeover).  They were really cheeky and delighted in scaring members of the crowd; the next morning as the groups processed from the church to the main plaza were up on the roofs dancing like members of the cast of the musical Cats!  See this video to see them in action – Procession and dancing at Choquekillka festival, Ollantaytambo, Peru.

This was all very spectacular but I was shocked to find out that each year putting on the festival is one of the family’s cargo (responsibility) to cover all the costs of the festival amounting to around $10,000.  They have to cover costumes, hiring bands, providing food and drink for all the performers throughout the festival and the family that took this on this year had even had to build a second floor to their house to accommodate everyone.  It is clear that traditions like this are very important to the local people but I can’t help wondering how much of a burden this is for families from small communities where up until relatively recently aymi (the exchange of goods and services) was used over money and in a country where saving is hardly the norm – in fact in Peru you have to pay for the privilege of having a bank account rather than earning interest as is the case in the UK.  How is it that families who often can’t afford basic things can afford to prioritise for events such as Choquekillka and what are the sacrifices they make to do so?

Opening ceremony of dances for Senor de Choquekillka, Ollantaytambo, Peru

Fran Talavera is currently the International Projects Manager with Latin American Foundation for the Future. For more on her experiences, check out her blog.

Certainly in terms of convenience, Panama, my new country, has been a lot easier than Patagonia. Most essential items are available in Santiago, my new home, and Panama City — the Miami of Central America — is only a nine dollar, three hour bus ride away. Plus, the level of English is higher, the roads are paved, the internet is faster, and the presence of foreigners is a commonplace. But there are plenty of directions in which Panama has not developed — and consequently,  a whole collection of new challenges.

For instance, bugs. Disease-ridden mosquitos were not something I ever had to worry about in Patagonia, because any mosquito that found its way to Coyhaique would be unpleasantly surprised by the inhospitably low temperatures. And Patagónes don’t have to worry about microbes living on fruits and vegetables, like most of Latin America, where it may be necessary to peel, boil, or bleach-rinse everything consumed.

The Escuela Normal in Santiago de Veraguas, Panama.

Having blithely ignored such things as water purifiers, mosquito nets, yellow fever shots, and even sunblock for so long, it has been quite an adventure adjusting to this new set of inequalities. I am flummoxed by the contrast between morbid warnings on the CDC website and modern amenities everywhere. Santiago de Panama has a movie theater, but can I sip a glass of tap water while I’m watching? There are Chinese restaurants, but can I eat there without worrying about food poisoning? Should I make a salad with the lettuce from the supermarket? Can I go to bed without taking precautions against malaria-bearing mosquitoes?

Of course, Panamenians do, and so do most expats. But I find myself inspecting my fruit suspiciously. Empty bottles of store-bought water line up by my garbage can; I refuse to leave the apartment at night without DEET on my ankles. I don’t know: am I a scrupulous traveler, or a spoiled-squeamish first-worlder?

Nereida Heller just started a new gig in Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, with WorldTeach. For more about her experiences, check out her blog.

Arthur Rimbaud was a French Symbolist poet who wrote furiously at a young age. He lived a life of indulgences, and was driven to the edge of insanity before he gave up writing all together at the age of 21. His work can be characterized as dark and “absolutely modern.” His writing led to the Surrealist movement in France and later served as the driving inspirational force in the Beat movement in the United States, heavily influencing 20th century writers and musicians such as Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and Dylan Thomas.

I met my modern Rimbaud in a hostel in Ollantaytambo. Like Rimbaud in his youth, this backpacker was full of literary energy. As soon as he found out that I was a teacher, his face lit up. “Oh, wow, great man, so what do you read? What do you like? Poetry? Dante? Poe?- oh, you’re American, Frost? Dickinson?” He carried with him at least eight heavy classics of literature including Volume One and Volume Two of Edgar Allen Poe’s Short Stories, Dante’s Inferno – in Italian, some Shakespeare, and others. But more impressive than his portable library was his ability to recite verse and quote obscure authors from memory.

His passion was contagious. I was humbled by his knowledge and memorized verse, but also inspired. We continued to swap names and authors throughout the night. Later, at the bar, his list went on: “Sure, sure, yeah, yeah great, how about Keats? Wow, the urn! Right, great, and Beckett, Sarte? Si, son lo maximo.” When we got to the Latin writers, I couldn’t keep up. “Neruda, Garcia Marquez, right, incredible!” He was on fire. At about midnight, I was sufficiently saturated with poetry and drink, so I decided to leave the bar and take some night photos of the Inca-era cobblestone streets.

The next morning, I found my friend with his band of revelers playing music and singing in the square. Like modern Muses, these carefree travelers were motivating me. They reminded me how I felt when I first discovered literature in high school, and why I am in the teaching profession, and why I should be happy that I recently landed a job as a literature teacher in Quito. As a teacher, I am constantly looking for ways to engage my students and keep them interested. And although I know that it is a tall order to imbue them with the same passion as my modern Rimbaud did in me, I am looking for ways to do it. So, attention fellow teachers reading and writing for La Vida Idealist: please feel free to share some of your success stories in the classroom and I will continue to document my humble attempts. Thanks!

Philip Dixon is an English literature teacher in Ecuador and a devoted mountain biker. For more information on his experiences, check out his blog.

Just as our guests were leaving an informal welcome dinner hosted for some of the new teachers at our school, the power went out. On our street, about 15 meters from the front door of our apartment, a car apparently took the corner a bit too fast and collided with one of the cement poles holding up the power lines. The tension caused by the first pole’s fall caused a second pole to fall as well. After the initial shock, we realized that the power lines were blocking some of our guests’ transportation.

My attention was rapt for about two hours when police, news crews, and utility workers showed up on the scene. So what? It’s a car wreck, I thought. But then the crash made me ponder the perennial questions my brain repeats like a broken record: Why Ecuador? Why Guayaquil? Why am I still here after almost three years when my initial plan was to stay for one year, gain experience, and then move on to another international teaching post?

First off, I am intrigued by the diverse landscape, people, and cuisine in such a small Andean nation. Secondly, I would like to share a few anecdotes that exemplify my raisones d’etre as a teacher and resident of Ecuador.

1. Entertaining political theater. Ecuador has a tumultuous political history, and in the two short years that I have been here, I have witnessed at least two major acts of political expression. First, in October 2008, President Correa finally got his vote for the new constitution, after the country was sharply divided on the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ vote. Correa, Ecuador’s eighth president in 10 years, promised a new constitution during his election campaign — and he delivered. Guayaquil became the center of the vote against him because of the business community here. As a foreigner, political involvement is not encouraged. But it was difficult not to get caught up in the fervor when the two sides paraded down the main avenues each night for a week, each group complete with scantly-clothed women, big signs, and lots of music. Who could resist a little chanting and flag-waving?
2. Interesting reasons for missing school. Recently, another episode of politically charged machismo caused an afternoon of chaos at Colegio Americano. Last September, Correa was defending a new policy the police thought limited their benefits, when the situation heated up. The group of police eventually threw smoke bombs, causing Correa to flee the scene. Before Correa entered his car, he taunted the crowd and ripped open his shirt while screaming with typical Latino passion and conviction, “If you want me, here I am, here I am!” When Correa decided to leave the hospital, a gun battle ensued between members of the national police and the military (which stayed loyal to the president). As a result, Ecuador declared a state of emergency for a week. As teachers, we had one crazy afternoon and an extra long weekend. Turned into a nice trip to Cuenca for me. Last year, in May of 2009, we missed a week of school because our school was infected with the first case of swine flu in Ecuador. The student election campaign was in full swing. Students had paraded around the school banging their drums and waving their banners all morning and candidates were giving speeches full of empty promises. We were all gathered in the auditorium when suddenly, the rectora took to the podium to address the crowd and call on a special guest. A representative from the Ecuadorian ministry of Health announced that one of our students was infected with H1N1 virus (Swine Flu) and that school would be closed for one week. The crowd erupted with a cheer. Then reality set in when the speaker continued to explain that the best thing to do is to remain inside and not venture out of the house. Panic spread amongst the students and staff, and after an afternoon of complete confusion, we were released to our homes and enjoyed a week-long break.
3. Ceniza. I was briefly reminded of how I miss Colorado when the volcano ash came down in June. It looked like snow to me, and for a moment, I was transported back to an early morning powder run in the Rockies. Yelling children quickly brought me out of my dream and explained that the phenomenon of falling ash is not uncommon, even in Guayaquil, a city at least 170 km from the closest volcano. Tungurahua, one of South America’s most active volcanoes, violently erupted and expelled ash plumes that eventually reached Guayaquil. I was used to torrential downpours of rain during the wet season, but I had never seen ceniza falling from the sky before. “Hey, I though it never snowed here in Ecuador!?” I asked my students.

Living in Guayaquil has forced me to always be prepared for change and take nothing for granted. I see stability and consistency through a different lens. I am excited by constant change; I am motivated by personal and professional change and growth. However, if there is one thing I am certain will not change anytime soon, it’s that darned habit I’ve picked up when visiting friends and family in the states of referring to Ecuador as my current home.

Philip Dixon is an English literature teacher in Ecuador and a devoted mountain biker. For more information on his experiences, check out his blog.

A friend's birthday party in Santiago, 2008.

Having lived in Chile for over two years, I’ve become inured to most of the obvious cultural differences found in guidebooks. But there are certain subtler Chilean cultural norms that still inspire me to fascination and wonderment. Below, I describe three (alliterative!) examples:

1. Celebrate.

Much like Medieval Europe, the working year in Chile is speckled by an almost decadent number of feast days, both religious and secular. Predictably, Catholic and national holidays are observed. In public schools, work also grinds to a halt for Labor Day, professional days (Día Nacional del Profesor, for example), school’s anniversaries, city’s anniversaries, harvest festivals etc., etc.  This means certainly an assembly, possibly a parade, and almost always missing at least a few classes.

Personal celebrations can also be rather extravagant. Birthdays, for instance: you might have a drink the night before, when 11:59 becomes 00:00 (It’s officially your birthday! Cheers!). Then you celebrate with a family lunch or onces, including cake and more drinks. Come the weekend, most likely you’ll go out with your friends, and madrugar – that is, party until the sun comes up.

2. Comment.

Tact is scaled differently down here. In his preface to In Memoriam Sherlock Holmes, Christopher Morley cites the following incident as proof that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is the perfect English gentleman: while approaching his home with George Meredith, Doyle noticed that said companion had misplaced his walking-stick and fallen. Preferring to spare his friend’s pride before offering assistance, Doyle kept walking and entered the house without looking back.

If Doyle had been Chilean, he probably would have turned around and said something like “Qué te pasa, weón, your game leg making you trip again?” and carried him into the house for beers.

The way I see it, this is good and bad. On the one hand, avoidable discomfort almost never goes unnoticed or uncorrected in this country. On the other, dignity will almost always be sacrificed for a good laugh.  Where a United States-ian might politely feign inattention, your average Chilean will go ahead and say “Hey, wow! You eat a lot!” or “Boy, your legs sure are hairy, aren’t they?” or “Who farted?!?” My advice: do not expect to pasar piola (be discreet), people will point that stuff OUT.

2. Commune.

Polonius, beware! In Chile, lending and borrowing are not only acceptable, but also expected. You must share. Co-workers use each other’s office equipment, printer paper, books, etc. Friends lend everything, including rather large sums of money, without batting an eyelash. Food is to be shared with all present, even complete strangers – hoarding food is a deadly social faux-pas.

And, like most of Latin American, the line between personal and communal space tends to blur. Minor acquaintances open their homes to you; at parties people have no problem sitting practically in your lap;strangers offer to hold the children of uncomfortable or hassled-looking mothers on busses. Two weeks into my last job, I found myself taking nap with my boss and her daughter in their bed one Sunday after lunch. The sense of community is incredible.

Nereida Heller just started a new gig in Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, with WorldTeach. For more about her experiences, check out her blog.

I traveled into the Sacred Valley to visit Will “KB” Janecek, a Minnesotan that has been running a hostel and giving mountain bike tours in Peru for seven years.  So, as exploring new ruins and culture with a mountain bike was my stated goal for the trip, KB seemed like the man to see.  I arrived in the evening and found him hunched over his laptop in the lobby of his hostel, “I’m on a skype call, I’ll be right with you.”  On the walls, photos of various pro riders that have visited the area are prominently displayed as well as the 2006 NYT travel section piece on Ollantaytambo that mentions KB and his hostel. “Damn it, five years too late!” I thought.  Sitting down in his comfortable sofa, after the obligatory introductions, we planned a ride for the following day.

As we wound back and forth on rough switchbacks up the Camino Willoq, bottoming out the dated Toyota wagon, KB was chattering non-stop; “Peru is raw… I mean sure it’s developing, changing faster than ever before, but at the same time, new ruins are being discovered every day, so you can still have the same experience, or better, as your grandfather had here 80 years ago because ruins have been exposed that previous generations have never seen. For example, these ruins here, they are being excavated and cleaned slowly by the local population, and the government tried to charge for entry to them, for two years they charged a fee to enter here, but now they are free — that is good news for us as mountain bikers.”

As I watched the last rays of sun illuminate crumbling grain storage structures while riding on top of the Inca agricultural terraces of Pumamarca, I pondered this contradiction.  Here, the constant discovery of ruins contrasts with the simultaneous abandonment of certain sites and Inca roads.  Inca roads and ruins reveal themselves, but are then often forgotten, drifting into cultural memory.  We stopped along our decent into the lush Urubamba valley and KB pointed to an overgrown trail and told me he needs to change his story. “At first I had to say that this was a newly discovered Inca trail that only we were riding, now look at it, it’s abandoned, we haven’t ridden it recently and neither has anyone else.” My imagination ran wild in the endless riding.

Philip Dixon is an English literature teacher in Ecuador and a devoted mountain biker. For more information on him, check out his blog.