Dan's Papers -January 9, 2009 -

I'm writing to you from Cali, Colombia where I'm on vacation with my girlfriend, visiting her friends and family. I'm the tall white American around these parts. Needless to say, there are some cultural differences.

Cali, in the Southwestern part of Colombia, is a very active city. Despite my fear about going to the country (drug dealers, the Cali Cartel and the Guerilla military), I'm very glad I hopped on the plane. While those issues are real, they are not the culture of the country, but represent a problem that is dealt with and combated.

Driving in Colombia is no joke. The rules are pretty simple: don't die. It is not an uncommon sight to see a father driving a motorcycle with his young son tucked between him and his wife, none of them wearing helmets. It's also not uncommon to see beat-up busses packed to the gills driving around the city, with some people standing on platforms, completely exposed on the outside of the bus. As an American, this makes you almost want to jump out of the car and start yelling about how dangerous it is.

Other interesting sights include the architecture - almost all of the structures are made of concrete. Farming is a major activity outside of the city and an important part of the economy. Many of the farming trucks parade through the town, bringing an earthy smell to the air. Malls are exactly the same as they are in America. Although few Americans visit Cali, a lot of American companies do business here.

Unlike most countries I've visited, it is very cool to be an American in Columbia. Anything American is sought after, even deodorant. Colombians have an appreciation and respect for American culture, and all other cultures for that matter. It most likely stems from the variety of immigrants that have settled here. It's not that Colombians don't take pride in being Colombian (because they very much, almost annoyingly, do) but there isn't a feeling of anti-Americanism.

Few people speak English and I'm hesitant to speak in English anyway because I'd rather keep a low profile. But my biggest problem with some Latin immigrants to the U.S. is a lack of effort to learn English, even living full time in the U.S. I don't want to be a hypocrite, so I've spoken Spanish almost exclusively since I arrived, even speaking it poorly rather than running to Erika to translate. I'm amazed at how clearly I can think now that I'm pretty proficient in Spanish.

My Colombian adventure thus far has taken me to a river known as Rio Pance. Imagine thousands of people gathered in a white water rapids-like river that runs with ice cold, clean glacier water. If you live in Cali and need to cool off, you go either here or into the mountains to visit a family farm for relaxation. I lay in the river with the water rushing over me and then drank some fresh raspberry juice. All this after a run through a protected nature reserve that surrounds the river and an attempt to outdo a Colombian teenager in pull-ups. (I lost, managing to do seven in a row. He did 30).

I also drove in a Jeep in a small town in the mountains where Erika's uncle has a farm. We picked mandarins (like oranges) from a tree, had a huge dinner at his house with an endless supply of fresh chicken and fruits, all from the farm. San Francisco-granola-type people would love it. After that, I had a fresh cup of Colombian coffee, of course from beans off the farm. On the way back to the city I bought goat milk by the side of the road. It was the real deal.

Probably the biggest dissappointment in the trip so far was going to the Plaza De Toros to watch a bullfight. And while I'm running out of room for this column, all I can say is that I was at first excited to go, but left early when I realized that bullfighting is pretty much a public torture of a bull. I get that there is tradition to it and all, and that it is a big deal in Spain and Latin countries and that it is exciting to be in a stadium. I also don't mean to criticize, but at the end of the day, it is a bunch of guys poking a bull with knives then making it run through a cape for about 30 minutes and then stabbing it in the heart with a thin sword. Then you get to watch it die slowly as it collapses in the ring with blood gushing out of its mouth as it is dragged off by a rope drawn by a horse, all to loud applause.

I was happy to see a group of four Colombian protesters run out in they middle of the ring and hold up signs that read, "Stop Torturing Bulls" in Spanish. They were, of course, dragged off by police, but it was nice to know that I wasn't the only one who had a distaste for the spectacle.