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The Importance of Going Places for Yourself ~or~ Even The New York Times Occasionally Doesn’t Know What the Hell They’re Talking About

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Walled City, Cartagena

A few days ago, The New York Times published its list of the “31 Places to Go in 2010.” My former adopted country, Colombia, clocked in at number 26. Certainly, the country is worthy of inclusion on this list; the cultural and geographic diversity alone make it a stimulating visit, and it’s not any more dangerous than much of the US. But it was the last line of this almost-four-paragraph blurb that had the needle scratching the LP in my head: “It has even prompted some travel bloggers to call Cartagena the next Buenos Aires.”

Now, first of all, I’m always annoyed when people dub something “the next” anything, as if there’s a problem with the original something and it needs to be replaced. In fact, for me, that phrase serves as a warning: stay away from Panama because it’s becoming “the next Costa Rica” (read: overrun by drunken Spring Breakers and monolingual retirees).

Granted, travel writers and people in general tend to compare places with others, and that’s OK, especially if the comparison is couched in the writer’s own experience or relegated to certain aspects of a place, such as its nightlife or cultural impact. But as much as I’ve compared São Paulo and New York, I would never call São Paulo “the next New York.” New York, for one, ain’t goin nowhere and São Paulo’s too busy being the next São Paulo to be anything else. There’s also the danger of glaring generalizations and a glossing-over of history, which, as modern and supposedly culturally-sensitive writers, we’re supposed to be avoiding as much as possible. So comparing a tropical colonial port and resort town with a national capital in a temperate climate with a ludicrously different set of demographics and a population 13 times as large is comparing apples to airplanes: they both start with “A.”

I Googled the offending phrase to identify these mysterious “some travel bloggers” that the Times references. “Some travel bloggers” turned out to be one travel writer named Liz Ozaist, featured in Budget Travel magazine back in 2008 with an article titled “From Cartagena, With Love.” The subheading (or super-heading, really, since it appears above the title): “The Next Buenos Aires.” Now, in fairness to Ms. Ozaist, she probably had nothing to do with the addition of that, to my mind, inappropriate heading. She most likely submitted the article to her editor with the title, which alludes to her father’s love for the place ingrained a couple decades before her trip, and hit the road for her next story. I would think it’s the editors at Budget Travel (Lawd, they prolly never gon publish me now) who got it wrong. And though I was drawn in to the article because of Ms. Ozaist’s attention to detail and the interesting characters she meets, I got thrown every time someone compared Cartagena to a place that I feel bares absolutely no resemblence whatsoever. “‘Cartagena reminds me of Venice,’ [Todd] says, ‘it has that same intangible magic about it.’” That’s how Cartagena makes Todd feel, and it’s certainly valid, but I will say this: Cartagena’s surrounded by water, but ain’t nary a gondola floating around in what I would hesitate to consider canals.

"Buenos Aires By Air"

Now, I must admit that I’ve never been to Buenos Aires myself. However, as a student of Latin American history and culture and as a traveler who has spoken to many people about Buenos Aires, I have a pretty decent idea of the kind of city that it is: fairly affluent (for Latin America), boldly planned with broad boulevards and Parisian-inspired architectural flourishes, sidewalk café culture, and peopled largely by the descendents of many European immigrants.

On the other hand, for most of my time in Colombia, I lived less than a 2-hour drive away from Cartagena and spent many weekends rambling the streets of the “walled city.” I called up a good friend who had also lived there, married a Colombian girl, and honeymooned in Buenos Aires:

Ring, ring.

“Hello?”

“What’s up, T? It’s Fly Brother. Lemme ask you something. How would you compare Cartagena and Buenos Aires?”

“What do you mean?”

“The two cities, how would you compare Buenos Aires and Cartagena?”

“In what way?”

“Just, like, in general. Like comparing DC and New York, how would you compare Cartagena and Buenos Aires?”

“You can’t compare them. They’re not comparable.”

“Well, they’re both Spanish-speaking cities in South America.”

“That’s about it.”

“I thought so. Thanks, and Happy New Year.”

Click.

"Bazurto Market Buses, Cartagena" by Cade

Cartagena’s a small, provincial capital supported by tourism and secondary port facilities. The streets of the old quarter are narrow and, like most Spanish colonial cities, disorderly. Most of the people are descendents of the African slaves that passed through the city’s gates as the principal slave port on the Spanish Main. It’s a place for a slow, sunny Sunday afternoon in a hammock, listening to some Cuban son, knocking back the aguardiente; a beach town with fruit sellers and hair braiders and high-rise condos to prove it.

While Ms. Ozaist makes one reference to Cartagena reminding her of one particular neighborhood in the Argentine capital, she alludes to Havana, Cuba’s capital and Cartagena’s closest relative, at least three times in her article; that is the city most evoked while strolling along cobblestone streets under grand arches and pastel facades, something I can speak to personally, having been there thrice. The unmistakable African influence, from the cooking to the music to the lilt of costeño Spanish, that sets Cartagena in the gilded frame of other New World treasures such as New Orleans, Santo Domingo, and Salvador da Bahia, is the single most noticeable feature that separates it from Buenos Aires (also a former slave port, but most folk don’t even know that).

In 2007, the Times published this article, offering up a true serving of Cartagena’s richly tragic past and present. The author, Tim Parsa, seems to have researched the history and culture of the place before penning the piece, an effort that appears to be lacking in this week’s Times blurb by Denny Lee (Did you just Google Cartagena, dude?).

I’m not saying any of this to poo-poo The New York Times or Budget Travel or any particular travel writer or editor or whathaveyou. All I’m saying is that folks, travelers in particular, need to research multiple sources beforehand, then visit a place for themselves in order to get a real sense of their destination. Clearly, relying on media (including Fly Brother) can mean getting erroneous descriptions and untenable comparisons in a subjective attempt to make a place seem more or less appealing than it is.

Unless, that is, you combine both Times pieces and surmise that Cartagena becoming the “next Buenos Aires” means becoming the “new gringo mecca.” If that’s the case, I’ll be off trying to find the “next Cartagena,” someplace Spring Breakers fear to tread.

Colombia Mia: Adios, me voy.

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With the close of the school year two weeks ago came the close of four years in Colombia: an era of discovery and disappointment, growth and growing pains, experiences and memories. My relationship with the country has been like a romance that ended unexpectedly, but with mutual respect, increased maturity, and improved understanding. It was a necessary courtship, a necessary break-up, and a necessary chapter in my life.

Lessons Learned

I arrived in Barranquilla in 2005, thinking that I’d be embarking on a sensual Afro-Latino adventure in the Antilles, replete with easy friendships, easy sex, drum rhythms as constant as the Caribbean tides, and impromptu street salsa sets a la Washington Heights or Little Havana. I’d previously traveled through Latin America and had expected little order or organization, but I figured giving up these paragons of Anglo-American society was worth it in exchange for the daily hot-blooded passion of life in the tropics. I hate disagreeing with the Beloved and Most Royal Highness, Celia Cruz, Queen of Salsa, but life ain’t no carnival, and my own illusions vanished within a month of my arrival.  The first lesson was that there is an ocean of difference between visiting a place and living there, between paying a hotel bill and paying a light bill.  I learned patience.

Then, I had to face the hard realization that I was living in a society that never had an American-style Civil Rights Movement, and therefore witness systemic injustice against a group of people with whom I identified racially and culturally as a, literally, foreign and seemingly powerless observer.  But as a professor, I wasn’t powerless: there is always the space and necessity for cultural education in the language classroom.  I did, however, have to learn to tailor my message to my audience, because most places on Earth are not nearly as accustomed to political discourse framed by race and class as we are in the States (and even in the USA, those conversations are often limited to academic and intellectual circles or fraught with emotion and misinformation).   And, begrudgingly, I learned to appreciate the US for providing the tools for success, even if those tools are hidden in waist-deep scrub and not always clearly visible; they’re there.  I learned pragmatism.
I learned about the give-and-take of platonic and romantic relationships, the unexpected logistical challenges of trans-cultural and bi-lingual relationships, and the absurdity of perceived differences in interracial relationships.  I learned how to keep expectations realistically low and hopes realistically high.  And I started initiating the nascent beginning of the first primary part of the process of knowing when to hold ‘em, fold ‘em, walk away, and run.  That applies to people, places, jobs, habits, behaviors, tastes, attitudes, ad infinitum: life’s too short.  I learned prioritization.

Regret and Redemption

In spite of the oft-renewed resolution to take life by the horns and have no regrets, I inevitably have them.  I regret not focusing more on improving my Spanish.  I regret not taking more time to visit some of the more marginalized Afro-Colombian communities in rural areas of the Caribbean or on the Pacific coast.  I regret not doing more volunteer work while I was in the country, besides the occasional free English lesson.  I regret not maximizing my writing time, especially during my year-and-a-half in Bogota, the physical and cultural high point of my time in the country.  I regret hardly ever getting out of the upper-class social milieu I was employed around (prep schools and private unis are the only teaching gigs that pay) and opening my circle to folks with less empirical experience but more profound interests and insight than the vapid wannabe gringos I found myself around (admittedly a generalization, but nonetheless true).

But in the face of all these regrets, I realize that when I chose to do or not do something, it was the decision that felt the most circumstantially prudent at that particular moment.  And some of the mistakes or unfortunate choices I made in Colombia, I’ll try not to repeat in Brazil; others, I will, and hope the consequences won’t be too disastrous.  I can only do my best, which I believe is better for having lived in Colombia.  In the end, I’ve left the country a fuller person, with a hard-earned appreciation for a place that was my home for the last four years, for better or worse.  Was I ready to leave?  Yes.  Would I ever move back?  Not for a long while.  Do I encourage everyone to visit?  Abso-fkn-lutely.  I’ve met some incredible people, had once-in-a-lifetime experiences, and can say I’ve been to Colombia and brought back much more than a damn T-shirt.
I brought back gratefulness.
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The Faces of Tragedy

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On November 12, 2001, American Airlines Flight 587 from JFK to Santo Domingo crashed in a residential area of Queens, killing all aboard and five on the ground. On October 23, 2006, a fire ripped through a packed city bus in Panama City, Panama, killing eighteen people, mostly women and children. I was reminded of these two events by this post on writer Lara Dunston’s cool travel guide. In the post, Lara talks about her stay at Mumbai’s recently-attacked Taj Mahal Palace Hotel years ago, having lunched and shopped at some of the places that are now the scenes of incalculably inhumane carnage. Having seen people engage each other, going about the banalities of daily life in these places, tragedies like last week’s attacks or the 2001 plane crash or the 2006 bus explosion become much more visceral; you can relate to the people because you’ve seen their faces.

For me, September 11 was an abstract event, seen from Miami on the same TV screens where violent video games and action flicks and cop reality shows parade incessantly. I processed the events cerebrally and intellectually. After all, I was literally a thousand miles away, knew no one who worked in or lived around Lower Manhattan at the time, and had already confirmed the safety of the few friends I did know then living in New York. I was angry and scared and insecure like most people, and I had seen pictures and footage of the victims on the news. Still, I had no real connection to the event because I had no clue of how the towers looked from up-close, how the air smelled, how the doormen or cleaning ladies would smile or snarl at the secretaries as they entered the building just before or just after their bosses. I couldn’t relate.

But I had been on a flight to the Dominican Republic by the time Flight 587 crashed just after take-off three months later. I had been on several, enough to notice a large number of children on every flight heading to the island to visit grandparents, cousins, friends, sometimes involuntarily. The first thing I thought when I heard the news of the crash were cherubic, tanned faces framed by dark Dominican curls, grinning gap-toothed smiles and speaking Noo Yowak-accented Spanglish. A good portion of the people on that flight were kids, I knew instinctively. And that hit me hard.

When I visited Panama over the Christmas holidays back in 2006, the citizenry was still in an uproar about the bus explosion, which occured in the middle of the street right in front of my hotel. The legal mechanisms of the country weren’t moving fast enough to implicate the responsible parties, and old, faulty, “refurbished” American school buses were still being used for public transport in the city. And when the desk clerk at the hotel told me about the explosion, about how all but one of the eighteen people killed were women and children (this is unconfirmed, but I took her at her word), I immediately thought about the legions of plump grandmothers and aunts and church ladies in flowered dresses who would never have the energy and the strength required to scramble out of an inferno. At school and church back home in Florida, there were legions of grandmothers and aunts and church ladies who looked like the ones I saw walking the streets of Panama City, and I had to assume that these were the same types of ladies who burned to death on that bus. I couldn’t shake the image from my mind.

In an age of media desensitization and relative human safety (compared to previous centuries of war and disease and saber-toothed tiger maulings), it’s very easy to live most of your life looking at tragedies on the news and, as pointed out in Hotel Rwanda, say “what a shame” before turning back to your dinner. But you can’t do that as easily when you’ve seen their faces.

This New York Times opinion piece puts another face on Mumbai.