san jose, costa rica & bogota, colombia

passport stamps, airplanes, sleep deprivation and latin america through a window seat.

San Jose, Costa Rica & Bogota, Colombia

Leaving LA at 10:40pm, 48 hours ago seems like last year. I left on a red eye flight and my eyes have been red since. We're in a new country everyday and another flight every morning. My body is tricked into hidden energy reserves with the excitement of new countries and local fare (and cerveza).

Costa Rica has it's tourist appeal, it's jungle vibe with rolling hills covered in thick tree foliage with Monkey's. San Jose has it's urban grit. Through the glassless windows of the top story of the parking garage, you can see both. The airport, immigration, van rides, a music venue and a dinner at a nearby restaurant (arroz con pollo), sum up the culture we have time for.

a plane ride and a few hours later:
Right now i'm listening to Colombia cram cars down a street through an open patio door in Bogota. other than sitting on airplanes, this the only real silence i'll get today. street noise - buzzing cars and cafe overflow, that's not real quiet, but it's culture.

The same noise lulled me to sleep at 1:45 am, and awakened me to group Karaoke when the clubs let out at 3pm. When the alarm buzzed at 5:45am, to catch another flight, Bogota was finally silent. We were told not to go outside, in groups or alone. I think that's all us American's need, is more fear factor. We walked to dinner with an entourage to a casual eatery with Tres Carnes Platos: Flank Steak, Chicken and Pork with a side of half cooked french fries, rice and a fried banana. Everything was insanely flavor-filled. Especially this beer with four Aces on it called "Poker." Despite the advise of natives, we kept walking, because we didn't have time to wait hours for the vans to arrive. The redefinition of time in Latin America, is shocking for the American soul: 5 minutes mostly oddly insures 1 to 2 hours.

A lot of what we hear and understand from our media sources seems fairly accurate in Colombia. It's not a safe place to stroll around unaccompanied by locals - or body guards. And when we did, this became obvious. I guess in the same way, a lot of what the world understands about the aborigines that run America seems fabricated through hollywood and the O.C., yet, though it's painful to admit, it is loosely true. Colombia seems no different. Bogota is a city smashed into a steep hill, with streets laced with brothels and bars. it's not clean or up to date. On the hill above the city sits a cross that glows at nighttime. Adjacent to it are mansions, mostly likely empires built upon drug cropping. the distribution of wealth is marginalized between those on the hill and the working class, struggling for sanity and daily bread below. The dark framed habitants with rich brunette hair are good and kind, and all speak more english than i do spanish.

i'm struck by how exposed my soul is right now. all it's protective layers have been shed. human kind, in every nation is desperate for essentials. no one is clear on what those essentials are.