Bogota 2: From Tourist To...

Post date: Sep 6, 2010 7:15:23 PM

Why stay in one place? Why Bogota? Why now? What are you doing? I’ve been answering these questions myself in order to appease my rational mind. But what the answers really boil down to is best understood in the infinite wisdom of my niece Maddy, who at the age of 4 answered her mother’s “Why”s with “Because I want to.”

The pace has clearly slowed for me. 3 months on the road full of fantastic spectacles, heartbreaking goodbyes, death defying motorcycle accidents, and sheer loneliness takes its toll on one’s adrenal gland and cortisol levels. Bogota, for me, is a rest area. I sit at the top of this continent with a whole lotta jungle and mountains yet to cross. Here, I’ve made Colombian friends who are artistic, brave, philosophical, spiritual, life-loving, and generous. I’m holding on a little longer to them. They are teaching me. They have given me a sense of home. Surely I will master “Goodbye!” by this adventure’s end.

I was craving structure before I arrived here. I had been eagerly anticipating my work on the WWOOF farm in Brazil, but one thing led to another. First, Cartagena was 100% rockin’. Second, I had the most revelatory, beautiful ride of my voyage on the leg from Cartagena to Medellin. That was when I first experienced that spontaneous notion of working in Colombia. Then there’s the motorcycle. It has been in the shop for over 4 weeks now. That put me into “settled” mode in and of itself. Add to that the spice of fun all-night dancing and compelling characters, the rampant English-teaching opportunities, and the exhaustion of travel, and the question becomes, “Why NOT live here awhile?” I had brought some essential job-search materials (resume, etc.) in case I encountered a situation like this, so it wasn’t exactly a mind-shatterer. Had I not considered the option before the trip started, however, I probably would not be in Colombia past the completion date of my motorcycle repairs. I rarely change my plans, but that is part of the value of this trip. I’ve been forced into paths I had not expected. “Adapt and overcome”, right?

I am not travelling so much as living, at this time. I’m meshing with the world around me.

I identified only two things I wanted to sightsee in this town anyways. Both of them are still unchecked. First, the Modern Art Museum. I tried, but it was closed. It’s open now, but just as what happens to a local in their native land, I have less desire to see it since it’s “right there and going nowhere! I’ll see it someday!” Tourists sometime know more about the history and attractions of an area than the locals. I am becoming a local here, somewhat, even if I am clearly a “gringo,” “extranjero,” or “machilero,” or whatever you want to call me. The other thing I wanted to do was climb Monserrat, this mountain overlooking the city (actually, the entire southeastern side of Bogota is one long mountain range), the top of which has some kinda cathedral or historic house. There’s a trail leading up to it, but it’s a steep trail, and not many people I’ve asked to join me on the hike are willing to do it due to the physical demands. I guess there’s a steep, narrow ledge at one point. I’ll get there eventually. When I wanted to go, it was closed either due to mudslides or criminal activity, or both. I think it has since reopened, but I still joke about machete-blazing my own trail to the top, fighting bad guys along the way, and christening my trail, “Howard’s Hike.”

Parties! I succumbed to the wickedness of nicotine about two weeks into my trip. I quit 8 days ago. My system remains alcohol free. Eventually I’ll quit the caffeine, but Red Bulls make for a fun night of dancing. One night I went with some friends from the hostel and I picked up a troop of college students hanging outside a closed supermarket. All 15 of us hit the club, and we were the life of that place that night. People who never dance, danced. I sweat a gallon. I never thought I would see the day where I could dance in front of people. I remember Jessie Whan, one of the prettiest and most popular girls in 7^th grade, asking me to dance at the 7^th grade lock-in, and I literally ran away from her as soon as we touched. I have been socially half-paralyzed for most of my life life, but as a person ages, they just don’t give a darn about what others think. At this rate, I am going to be a terror when I’m 80. When I return to the states, I hope to lead a more social life. I’m talking weekday BBQs with lots of friends and dancing on Fridays. I’ll have to fit that into my hunt for the world record blue catfish schedule.

I was partying 3-4 times per week when I got here, but I haven’t been out to a club in over two weeks. Last night I went to the movie “Origen” with my friend Vicky, and the night before I visited my friends Rob and Karmen at a hostel BBQ in the Candelaria district. It’s funny. They came here one month ago to order parts for their motorcycle. That led them to the idea to get jobs. At this time, they have yet to order the springs, they work 15 hrs/wk for reduced rent at their hostel, and Karmen is getting paid $6/day working at a garage-café next door. They said, “This place is addictive.” I hadn’t heard from them in 6 weeks, since Cartagena, and they write me to say they are in Bogota!

Ok, some cultural observations:

5% of the people on the street wear masks to protect themselves from illness. They use handkerchiefs, scarves, over- the-counter dust masks, and snugged up shirts. It’s partly to protect themselves from illness (swine flu is a scare down here), and partly to prevent breathing the smog. I suspect asthma is a problem here, as in L.A. and other smoggy human abodes. I look forward to getting some clean air as soon as my motorcycle and time permit the opportunity. That, and some freakin’ warmth. This continual 60 degrees is tiresome. It’s 60 in the day, 50 at night, give or take 10 degrees, year round. I suspect the cold contributed to my two week cold/flu which just passed two days ago with the help of a secret herbal remedy Vicky’s family uses during times of illness. All I know is that it has alcohol, which makes it nasty (no, I don’t count it as a relapse). Whatever the case, it seems to have helped eradicate the illness. I was having mixed days of energy and fever, but I’ve been stable since I started the medicine. The flu influenced my anti-socialness, but I worked through it, job and apartment hunting, and starting up the Hapkido biz. That probably prolonged the illness; I didn’t give myself much rest. And before I forget, I want to say that I have been pulling out the most impressive boogers I can ever remember having.

Transportation is a hassle here. We are blessed to make most places in even a large city within 20 minutes. Bogota is not so efficient or luxurious.

Taxi drivers are occasionally very chatty and jocular, but once we were ripped off by a rigged odometer. It costs about $3 to travel a mile or mile and a half.

For under one dollar you can take “Transmilenio,” which is the most popular and efficient public transportation in Bogota. It is a bus system similar to Chicago’s L or any major city subway. It will take you to the north, south, west, northwest or southwest. From there you can walk or catch one of the many “busetas” (little buses) that swarm the streets. They cost $.60 to $1.25 for a ride up to 45 minutes. It’s cheaper than owning a car, but is it worth the headaches? To each his own. What I cannot stand is the lack of system with these busetas. There’s a million busetas in this city. None of them look the same. Each bus has a specified route at any point on which you can hop on or off. How do you know which bus takes you where? Good question! Apparently there is no centralized information center on the internet that shows you the routes of each bus. So, to know what bus takes you where depends on either a) word of mouth, or b) sitting on some street until a bus approaches, waving the bus down, and asking the driver where he’s going. On windshield of the bus is a sign that lists some of the destinations. The words are all different sizes and colors, and they are not listed in a linear fashion. Basically, they’re hard to read, and it’s not until the bus has almost passed you that you finish interpreting the sign. Some people opt to focus on finding the bus with the correct number so that you don’t have to read the sign, but usually more than one bus goes to the same destination, so by limiting yourself to a bus of a particular number, you may be missing opportunities for a swifter arrival. Another bad thing is that unless you know what your destination looks like, you’ll never know if you’ve made it unless you ask. This requires Spanish; 99% of the population speaks no English. Even if you did know what your destination looked like, you might miss it because it gets so crowded and the windows are so obstructed that you can’t see ahead of the bus. Yes, I believe I will chance it on my motorcycle when I can.

The bus gives you time to think. That can be good or bad. I find myself reminiscing about and missing Jaclyn when there is nothing I can do but sit and wait. Yes, I believe I will chance it on my motorcycle.

Transmilenio is nice. In fact during a search for the bus routes, I found this article: http://www.fastcompany.com/blog/cliff-kuang/design-innovation/home-worlds-most-advanced-bus-system-bogota

And this:

http://www.streetfilms.org/bus-rapid-transit-bogota/

It is pretty cheap and takes you where you need to go. Suited businessman and student alike ride the system. They get packed at certain hours. I rarely find a seat, so I must stand and hold the germ-smeared rails, and sometimes it is so packed that you cannot budge. You don’t have to hold a rail for balance because you are supported 360 degrees by warm bodies. A friend of mine witnessed a theft on the Transmilenio at 6pm two weeks ago. The guy was texting on his Blackberry, when up jumped the three guys sitting next to him, one of whom waving a knife. No one did a thing. It’s common that no one assists a person getting beat or robbed. One of my Hapkido students was attacked by a robber on the street, but she successfully fended him off. Most people have an experience of being pickpocketed or attacked.

I like to think my Hapkido will help someone. I have posted 150 flyers over the last two weeks around some of the universities near the park where I am conducting classes. National Park is less than 10 blocks away. Nearly every light pole in town is plastered with concert flyers, laundromat ads, and missing person alerts. I try to put tape mine in ways that don’t obstruct others’ ads, but not everyone is so kind. Walking around, I noticed several of my flyers had been torn down or taped over for some reason. Even when there’s room elsewhere! So far, all but one of my 5 students have come from Couchsurfer. Vicky says that I could probably get a job as a Hapkido instructor at a local gym. I’ll look into that this week. At this point, I’ve made $2.50 from my classes. That’s what I’m charging each student after their free first class. An average cost per class down here is $10, but a) I’m not technically certified to teach, b) we’re falling on grass, not mats, and c) I am going to be leaving in three months. Even if I don’t make much money, I’m thrilled to be doing Hapkido again.

I kept meeting people teaching English, so I decided to get more info. That led to me applying to a dozen companies. My first interview and the only place employing me at this time is a company a fellow couchsurfer referred me to. He works there and put in a good word. With this company I get paid 20000 pesos/hour, or about $10/hr. I have two students, and I teach one of them at his work office 1 hr busride away. He’s a Controller, or company budget manager, for Purina, the pet food maker. The other gentleman works in the tallest building in the capital of Colombia. At night, its ribs light up yello, blue, and red, the colors of Colombia. I have to scan my fingerprint to pass security when I enter the building. On the top floor, I hear, are telescopes to view the whole city and surrounding lands. I teach this guy in his office on the 8^th floor. He is a manager in a major banking/insurance firm, and from the view in his office, I’m certain he has some money. He explained to me an interesting incentive program for investing with their bank. The more money you put in your account, the more eligible you become to win prizes like college education, life insurance, and more. It’s an interesting spin. I’m curious about how the United States’ banks would judge it. It hasn’t been that hard to teach. You just talk, really, about their interests, helping them when they stumble. I also use a website with audio and written exercises. That does the work for me. I hope to pick up another 15 hours or so.

For record purposes: I stayed at a hostel about 10 days when I got to Bogota, couchsurfed during and after that period with two different people for a total of 5 days, then moved into an apartment for about 12 days, then was taken in by Vicky’s parents for 5 days. Yesterday was my first day in my new apartment, at which I plan to stay for the duration of my Bogota days. The hostel was fun; it was located in the historic downtown district. Something was always happening there. My couchsurfer friends and I are still in contact with one another. Andres, my first host, is a hypnotherapist with a way with women (scary, I know), and the other is a gal, Maria, who owns and operates her own media/marketing company. She walked around with me to find an apartment after I stayed with her and her roommate a couple nights. That place was conveniently located next to Transmilenio, National Park, and my hostel friends in downtown. But, it wasn’t exactly cozy. At night they’d bump this corny Mariachi-ish music (it was a college area). And, my bed was too short. I had to lay with my legs spread to keep them adequately and comfortably supported by the bed. Why must everything be so small down here? And coffee is served in cups the size of double espressos, but it’s not espresso. America is so ergonomic, it’s not funny. Many thanks to all our engineers back in the states for making our lives so comfortable.

After deciding to get a job awhile, I decided to hunt for a cheaper spot to feed and shower myself, with a high preference for rooms with adult-sized beds. I couldn’t find one before my time ran out at the apt., which I’d already extended a few days past my week contract, so Vicky invited me to stay with her and her parents about 15 blocks away.

Yikes. I have highly mixed feelings about being so cared for by another. Partly it burns my pride to let others help me, and partly I love it. On the one hand I feel guilty about intruding on their time and space, and on the other, who doesn’t like to be babied now and then? I had breakfast, lunch, and dinner brought to me every day for 5 days. And these meals included hot chocolate, good hot chocolate, every day. And some great soups. Margaret, Vicky’s mom, showed me how to make some easy and yummy soups from any vegetable out there. And her dad was way too kind as well. He drove me around while apartment hunting, assisted me with translation at the mechanic’s, drove me like a little kid on his first day of school to my bus stop on my third day of work, and has demanded that when I go to the mechanic tomorrow to (hopefully) pick up my motorcycle, that I call him so that he can join me. More on that in a minute. Basically, my stay with them was quite comfortable. I got Vicky’s full sized bed, which their golden retriever, Sivanu, wasn’t thrilled about. The toughest part of my stay there was the lack of water. They have had great difficulties due to the incompetencies of the building plumbers. That made shaving my head a small tribulation.

I shaved my head for the typical reasons: I got tired of hair and I wanted a hair style to remind me of my change in modality. I live in Colombia. For some reason that calls for a hairless head, even though it’s cold and I should be growing a beard.

I visited five or more places before settling with the one in which I’m writing this journal. My place is costing me 450000 pesos, or $225 per month, all utilities included. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to pay an extra 170000 pesos per month for three meals per day. That would be nice. I’ll probably do it, even though I will undoubtedly still buy groceries since I eat as much as two average people.

I like this place because A) The streets around it make me feel good. They have nice trees, and the sidewalks are nicely paved. B) It’s warm in my room; it has skylights that really soak up the sun during the day, and it’s on the top floor, so it collects all the rising heat. C) The house is clean, quiet, nicely painted, with a brand new kitchen and washing machine. I have a new bed that fits and a new closet that holds almost all my stuff. Plus my room is my biggest bedroom ever. D) I’m close to Transmilenio, National Park, friends, my Kawasaki mechanic, and downtown. E) It’s relatively cheap. There are rooms for rent for as little as 300000 pesos ($150), but I didn’t actually see one. This place is far cheaper than any hostel, and far nicer as well. I love that.

Ay vey. My motorcycle. I took it in to the shop August 4^th, confident that I had found the right company for the job. They quickly diagnosed the cause of my bike’s vibration and I was impressed by their well-stocked and professional-looking shop. What I didn’t know at the time was that they would never call me to update me about anything. What I didn’t know was that they would apparently not work on my motorcycle unless I visited their shop to monitor the progress. And when they found another bad part two weeks after I brought it in, and when they spent over two weeks having it delivered, and when they asked ME to pressure the company shipping the part… that riled me enough to compose and deliver a 2 page letter of complaints and suggested improvements to the shop owner. We have yet to see if it produces something favorable. One suspected cause is when I ran the motorcycle with little oil in it back in the states. My motorcycle has a 2.75 qt capacity, yet it consumes 6 qts. to make it to the 1500 miles oil change limit. I really learned this after 4000 miles of riding. In Brownsville, TX, I learned that the reason was probably due to 80mph speeds for 8 hrs straight. Since then, I’ve kept that tank full, but that may have produced enough friction in the engine to wear down the balancer chain guides and balancer gear, both of which I am presently replacing. The other suspected cause is that a mechanic over tightened my chain, thereby wearing out the guides, which loosed the chain enough to grind down the balancer gear. Who knows? The mechanic here says he’ll show me how and when to tighten my chain just the right amount. For you non-riders, the balancer chain is inside the engine; it’s not the one that turns the wheel like on a bicycle. When I visited the shop last Thursday with Vicky and her dad, the mechanic said the job may be complete on Saturday. If it was, they never called me. I am going there today with Vicky’s dad, per his request. He said he is going to argue that I should receive a discount.

Other points of fact about motorcycles here: Some of the policeman are riding 2009 KLR 650s, the same model as mine. Theirs are shinier. Also, local riders must wear vests and helmets that declare their license numbers in reflective tape. The purpose is two-fold: to identify them upon death or unconsciousness, and to ensure they are riding their motorcycle, not someone elses. Oh, and another transportation fact: you can only drive your vehicle on certain days of the week. Which days are determined by the last two digits (or something like that) of your license number. This reduces congestion.

Men here have some god-awful bad haircuts. What I like is the diversity of styles. U.S. men have about three hairstyles. Here there’s over a dozen, but these guys use a lot of gel, and they just love these mini flared mullets. I need to take some pictures of them. Many men have geeky, clean cut business looks. I hate it. I suppose you’ll find those types in any city though. They look like preppy frat boys. 80s fashion in general is popular here. That means tight ankled pants, long bangs, and 80s colors and patterns. Women dress fashionably here. I am more interested in things besides clothing, however, so don’t expect an extensive critique of fashion. What I notice is their silky, dark hair, honeyed complexion, and piercing eyes. A girl of average beauty by Colombian standards is above average by mine. Funny thing is, the men here vastly prefer thin blondes. They ask me to invite blond girls to Colombia.

The stereotype of Colombian men is that they are dogs; they regularly cheat on their women. For this reason, the women here prefer European/American men, although I’m sure money is another factor in this attraction. The women are no faster (sexually) in relationships, than American women, and they may actually prefer to take things slower. It is customary for a female to live with her parents until she is married. I wonder if this is designed to preserve the girl’s chastity. Many women my age are married, so I’ve acquired the habit of checking ring fingers. I would estimate the percentage of married women in Bogota to be significantly less than American women. Maybe that is a symptom of what I consider to be faster intellectual and emotional maturation among Colombians compared to Americans.

There is an energy and intelligence in Bogota that I have not found elsewhere in Latin America. These people are as well educated as in the U.S. They are motivated. The people believe they have the power to reform their economy and government (unlike poor Mexico). My prediction is Colombia is a G-7 superpower within 20 years. First, the Colombians say, the guerillas in the mountains must be vanquished. They are violently attacking and displacing rural Colombians from their homes. Many of Bogota’s poor and homeless were pushed from their homes. Vicky’s dad was once rich from all of his cattle farms, but the guerillas pushed him off his lands. For years afterwards, he and his family had to move from spot to spot because the guerillas were attempting to murder him. The guerillas are also the source of all the cocaine manufacturing, which is both a boon to the economy and a burden to Colombia’s reputation, which indirectly strains its economy. I see this as a resolvable issue. It just takes a strong, unified, forward thinking government, and with the improved education and awareness of these social issues, it appears to me that bottom-up social change is already taking place. The Colombians are impatient. They are well aware of the reputation they have on earth, and they despise it. It affects their ability to get into the United States, for example. It costs them more than the average earthling, and they are often not granted passage, they say. What will help to change this reputation is people like me- people who have visited Colombia and return to their lands to speak of Colombia’s kindness, passion, and strengthening infrastructure. I have never visited a place with so many universities. Education is a high priority here. And everyone wants to learn English. I love that.

But, Colombia is definitely a work in progress. First and foremost is the sheer lack of efficiency and sub-standard quality. Sidewalks are unevenly paved and crumbling. Toilet sometimes work. Sometimes you have to hold down the handle the entire time while it flushes. And you cannot flush teepee. The pipes are too small to handle the tissue. Water pressure comes and goes, and don’t count on your hot water shower to be hot or lukewarm. Deteriorated stuff is not replaced if it still kinda works. That I kinda like because reduced consumption is good for the earth. But it sure doesn’t look nice. Things are made for small people. My bed is often too short. I have to duck beneath awkwardly designed staircase ceilings. Everything takes longer here. There’s simply a lack of good standardization, so you have to think more to get around in this environment. I am now thinking specifically of my friend Chad, an expert in and avid enthusiast of comfortable designs.

This morning I discussed with my English student the problem of trash in the streets, lack of trashcans, and the problems they create. Dogs tear up the uncanned bags in the morning. Homeless people sift through it for edibles and recyclables. He said he has already approached the Secretary of Health about this issue, but that person said it is complex. Nothing resulted from it. I suggested creating garbage sorting plants, thereby creating jobs for the homeless, reducing landfills, helping the environment, and reducing crime due to fewer homeless. I also suggested the economic value to gain by creating, placing, and managing more dog-proof trashcans throughout the city.

We could benefit by modeling Colombia’s small scale entrepreneurism. There are few national chain stores, and many people survive as one-man businesses selling store-bought goods at a 20% markup. I love that motivation. Anyone can own their own business! It’s a step above lemonade stands, but the business approach is all the same. Old, young, man, and woman alike will sell cigarettes, lighters, suckers, snack cakes, gum, and soda like this.

These street vendors sell fruit cups of mango, papaya, and banana. They sell salpicon, this fantastic 100% fruit drink full of fruit chunks. I heard black people make it the best! Other vendors sell the classic Colombian food, arepas con queso. These are thick, butter-fried cornmeal patties with mozzarella cheese in the middle. You can get one of these belly soothers for 25 to 50 cents. MMHMM. I love “Superperros,” or “super hot dogs.” For one buck you get a big ‘ol street-side hot dog with four different sauces and sprinkled with potato chip bits. Yeah!

Another interesting business is phone calls. You don’t find public payphones. You find people with kiosks on wheels, advertising phone calls for 10 cents per minute. Sometimes these same kiosks will sell phone minutes. These kiosks are everywhere. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what is so hard about monthly phone plans here. Or are people so communicative that they consistently overrun their plans? Where is the value in this system?

Having a cold/flu for two weeks broadens one’s horizons in terms of what is reasonable medicine. I would have hung by my toes for an hour if I’d been told it would fix me right up. Down here I heard of a few Moms’ cold remedies: Ginger tea with Panela (like brown sugar) and lemon, onion tea with honey and lemon, raisin oatmeal with honey, Poleo tea, flower of Madre Cacao tea. Then I took the secret herbal medicine I mentioned earlier.

For some reason, there’s a million photocopy shops as well. These businesses also usually offer internet and phone calls.

Groceries. One pays staggering costs for American imports. Half a jar of peanut butter is $5. I might finally be overcoming that addiction. No PB for a month. Apples just aren’t the same anymore. That was my lunch 50% of the time. Other oddities: You don’t find milk in quantities greater than 1 liter. And most people buy milk in plastic bags in the same aisle as rice and spices, or whatever; they buy it warm. I have seen bulk items cost more than the small packs of the product. Eggs are never refrigerated here. You rarely see sales, and since the regular prices are comparable to American prices, I pay more for food here. In the states I spend about $6-7 per day on food. It’s more here. What is cheaper is the street vendor food, the “fast food.” But it’s no healthier than American food, unless you consider salpicon the substitute for an ice cream cone. Oh, and ice cream is $5-10 for a half gallon of ice cream. And it NEVER goes on sale! Ugh…. I miss ice cream. The items on shelves are poorly labeled, and this probably explains why twice I’ve gone through the checkout lane only to be charged incorrectly. It probably happened more often than that, but I didn’t start checking until a few weeks ago.

People here love hot chocolate. They eat it as semi-meals with shredded cheese in the mug. You dip bread into it as if it’s a soup. It’s fun, but not my favorite.

I quit smoking 10 days ago. For those of you who don’t know, I started 3.5 months ago.

My English is deteriorating. Having to continually simply and reduce the speed of my language has actually made my speaking more stuttered and stupid. I’ll be talking to another American and find that I’m continually questioning whether or not they understand me, even if it’s as simple a statement as, “I started working last week.” It’s nice to be understood. I met a guy who had been travelling for two years and was feeling weird about returning to his homeland in five days, where everyone speaks his language. I sometimes day dream about what it will be like knowing that everywhere I go, everyone will understand me. It’s a strange thought.

Gary’s Psychological Lesson of this journal: Attachments. I have been exploring the nature of my attachments and my intense need for freedom. Some may never comprehend another’s need to “get away.” Some may never understand the sensation of feeling burdened by love. Buddha said the root of suffering is desire. I remember in high school feeling so overwhelmed by my desires that I just wanted to go numb. I wanted things so badly, whether it was to create an eloquent report for school, a successful fishing trip, a relationship with a girl, or the health of my family. Perhaps that contributed to my drinking binges. As a perfectionist, one experiences blinding stress when things do not go as one planned or hoped. Perhaps this excessive attachment to my desires is the source of my 15 year old fantasy to lose every possession and be lost in the middle of some foreign land. If there is one thing I know better than most, it is the existential burden of life and the question, “You are here. Now what will you choose to do?” My path to health has been guided by this profound sense that if anything is going to be done, I must do it. I am responsible for my life and for those around me. I must ensure my family’s stability. I must succeed. Driven. Every employer has loved me. I’ve always excelled in academia. I have been rewarded for being driven, which has reinforced this mode of being. But every talent comes at a cost. For me, it is a feeling of discontented restlessness. It saps joy from oneself. To be so driven is to be equally driven like a nail into your own mind. One becomes obsessed with oneself. You neglect others at the same time you try to mold them to your vision of health.

Attachment. My mother has asked me, “Gary, are you afraid of attachments?” I think I can answer, “Yes.” Why? Look at what my attachment has done to me! I want too much! I feel too much! I do not believe that what one perceives is independent of one’s mind’s manipulative powers. This means, I do not believe in the possibility to know the truth of any of our experiences. That doesn’t mean we have no right to act on that which we feel is correct. That would be a moral judgment, which is always superficial and pure opinion, in my opinion! I crave release from the constant pressure I feel from time, from people, from myself (and it always is really caused by myself). Attachment? Why would I want more weight when already I am carrying the world on my shoulders? That I should feel such weight is absurd. Causes of neuroses are minorly relevant to one’s mental recovery. Some people might feel eased by knowing the reason for their perfectionism is due to the combined effects of inherited genes and being told at the age of 7, “You are the man of the house, now that Dad has died.” That does not matter. What matters is the fact that you feel pressured to perform to standards of your own making, that the standards are always slightly out of reach (in order to keep you improving the world around you), and that the pressure is both unwarranted and unsatisfying. How does one best overcome this pressure? My former therapist said I must “process the childhood phase I never fully experienced.” I guess that could mean, “Gary, do what you want. Do what you need to do.” Or as another instructed, “Follow your bliss!” It is my belief that until one learns to sacrifice everything for their dream, for what they feel most designed to do, they will always exist as shades of their true potential. For me, breaking the bonds of attachments has required just such sacrifice. Why did Isaac put his son on the altar? Why did Buddha abandon his life as a spoiled prince? Why must an alcoholic reach spiritual bankruptcy before he finds his peace? What would you sacrifice for your vision? Have I sacrificed enough? Pressure will be my guide.

I am weary of attachments, yes. There is a balance between myself and that which I enjoy that has not quite been reached. A friend here in Bogota, Maria, actually, said, “Attachments are ways for people to hide from their fears.” When one settles in the comfortable familiarity of what’s around them, they miss opportunities to become greater than they are and to fulfill the potential they were designed to become. Attachment can be construed as the spouse of cowardice. I do not believe one acquires healthy attachments until one has overcome attachment in general. Until one has been relieved of the need to control that which one loves, attachment is a drug- a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful drug. And drugs aren’t good for you because a) they create dependency and b) dependency makes you do things, good or bad, to maintain the energy coming from that object. Healthy attachments to people, places, and things are most possible after one’s desires are conquered. Before that time, the only healthy attachments are those that help set you free from attachment.

Now, here I am. In Colombia. Working. Living in an apartment. With Colombian friends. With a wide open future. The shock of it all…

I say goodbye. I open to the world of my future. A future I trust to be filled with clean air, hot showers, and bright sunshine. A future with loved ones, big catfish, and functioning motorcycles. And if those things don’t happen, well, I guess I’ll just stomp my feet, pout a minute, and get on with it.