There are only two things I enjoy shopping for: shoes and books. Granted, I have a bit of an addiction to shoe and book shopping (I may have just ordered a pair of gorgeous cognac riding boots and a book on tiger attacks in the Russian wilderness), but other than that, I'm not much of a "stuff" person. I'd rather be dipped in a vat of boiling oil than spend my whole weekend at the mall (AKA, the evil windowless box that eats your money). And our apartment is too small to house a truckoad of random decorative objects. So it's probably unsurprising that I avoid shopping like the plague while travelling.
That doesn't mean I come back empty-handed. My camera memory card is almost always filled to capacity. I usually have at least one good story: "So, I was almost arrested in Amsterdam," or, "We went on a garden tour at 2 AM, and I got attacked by a lemon." (There's more to both of those stories, but I'll spare you.) And of course, there are the invisible souvenirs.
I've been in Panama for over three months now, and it won't be that long before I'm heading home to Washington. While I'm very excited to be going back to my city, I have to confess, I'm also going to be sad to leave. But like with any trip, long or short, there are pieces I'll be taking with me. Here is the top five list of the invisible souvenirs I'll be bringing home from Panama.
1. Watermelon Juice
Inevitably, everytime I go to a new country, I come back with a new food/drink obsession. In Hungary, it was cherry soup. In Germany, I discovered Riesling (still my favorite wine). A trip to the Philippines set off an all-consuming love of mangoes. And in Panama? Watermelon juice. I have consumed an obscene amount of watermelon juice. And I can pretty much guarantee that when I get home, our blender will be working overtime. (Recipe: Select watermelon. Split watermelon. Scoop watermelon meat into blender. Blend.)
NOTE: If you are currently thinking "Wait! Watermelons aren't invisible!", don't worry, I know that. But I think you probably get the point anyway.
2. Slight Trepidation about Men with Hairless Arms
As many of you know, I didn't actually see the face of the man who mugged me my third week in Panama, given the difficulties of turning around while in a headlock. While my friend was able to give a few more details to the police, the only description I could provide was that I was attacked by a burly hairless arm. Since then, I am constantly noticing burly hairless arms. And inevitably my first thought is, "Hmm, you have hairless arms. Are you, by any chance, a mugger?" Irrationality: 1; Lani: 0.
3. The Verb "Pegar"
I really didn't get this verb pre-Panama. Largely because it is used for so many things. But now I can use it! Here are some real-life examples of the verb "pegar" in action:
La pantalla está pegada.
The screen is frozen.
Mis zapatos estaban pegados al suelo.
My shoes were stuck to the floor.
Quiero pegarlo.
I want to slap him.
4. Several Animals Crossed off my To-See List
Three-toed sloth, crocodile, basilisk (also called the Jesus Christ Lizard) running across the water, marmoset, howler monkey, capuchin monkey, agouti, coati, iguana, toucan, and a ton of other birds.
5. An Improved Resume
I get to add a three-month internship with a major international organization, which adds some diversity to my work experience. And my first publication came out this month (through the organization I interned with last semester in Washington). Of course, implied in this list item is everything I learned while doing the work, not just getting to put the experience on a piece of paper.
Minus the hairless arms thing, I think those are a lot better than a mass-produced Panama hat. Especially since "Panama hats" are actually from Ecuador. And instead, I can buy books for my upcoming western Panama and Costa Rica vacation. (I did say it was an addiction.) Recommendations, anyone? :-)
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Zebras, Flamingos, and Other Things You Can't Put in a Blender
For many people, being a good traveler is virtually synonymous with being able to blend in. You should look like a local, eat like a local, think like a local, and aside from extremes like ritual scarification and honor killings, you should pretty much embrace every aspect of an unfamiliar culture without a second thought. This is the philosophy espoused in the most famous travel advice in history (a piece of advice so well known that you don't even need the whole sentence): "When in Rome . . ."
Changing your style of dress and drinking passion fruit juice for the first time is easy. The challenge comes, for me anyway, in trying to make my brain adapt. I spent my first two months in Panama absolutely determined not to react strongly to something just because I found it shocking or surprising. I would not let anything phase me. I would be comfortable in all situations. I failed miserably.
Race and skin color come up a lot in conversation in Panama. Being American, I'm used to discussions about race. As it relates to politics, American society as a whole, etc. I am not, however, accustomed to conversations like this:
"You look like my cousin. She's white."
"Oh, um, ok."
"She and I don't look alike. Look how much darker my skin is that yours."
"Yes . . . my skin is kind of white."
"Yes, but not as white as blond Americans. Sometimes they look like cream cheese."
"Yes . . . I am darker than cream cheese."
"Also the English. The English are whiter than you."
"Yes, probably."
"They burn in the sun. Do you burn in the sun?"
These conversations, despite my best efforts, turned me into an awkward, bumbling idiot. I quite simply had no idea what to say in response. My brain was not programmed to have a casual conversation about skin color. History? Discrimination? Sure, I can talk about that. But to non-chalantly say, "Hey, you're right. If we were crayons, I would totally be apricot, whereas you sir are more of a burnt sienna."? I cannot say that. I felt awkward just writing that, let alone saying it out loud to someone. So instead, I said next to nothing. I'm sure I left several people with the impression that not only am I pasty, but I also have either a mental deficiency or a speech impediment.
And I haven't just failed in conversation. Wild taxi rides have also gotten the better of me. Clearly, cabbies who drive like maniacs are not unique to Panama. I have met plenty in Washington, including an astonishingly drunk one who offered me a shot of whiskey from his flask one night. The difference is that in DC, I have no problem yelling for them to slow down, or if all else fails, telling them to pull over before we all get killed. Here? I've said nothing. I tell myself, "this is just what the driving is like here. (*Clunk* as I hit my head on the window.) So what if there are no seatbelts? (*Clunk*) It will be fiiiiine. (*Clunk*)" Somehow I don't think it really counts as adapting to your surroundings if you're paralyzed in fear.
And it's probably best that I just be as brief as possible about men yelling at me from car windows, construction sites, the seat next to me, etc. Sufficed to say, I have been told that is the norm here. Men like to voice their "appreciation." Ok, whatever, that's happens back home too. But once again, in the US I might say something if they cross the line. But in Panama, I have no idea where the line of acceptability is. With any of these things. Where is the line? And if I have no idea where that line is, how could I possibly try and blend in?
The answer is that I can't. Trying to blend in is futile. Yes, if you live in a place long enough, your perspective starts to change and you can blend in. But that's a result of time and experience, not incessant trying. And why all this emphasis on blending in to begin with? It's obviously important to make an effort to understand cultural differences, to not make snap judgments, and to expose yourself to new things. But do we really need to try and erase our cultural context to do that? If all cultures have value, doesn't that include our own?
It's a bit like zebras and flamingos. You can put a zebra in the middle of a bunch of flamingos, and try as it might, it will not blend in. Even if it stands on one leg like a flamingo, you will not mistake the zebra for a flamingo. If it hunkers down to the size of flamingo, it will just be a zebra squatting in a sea of flamingos. If you paint the zebra neon pink, it still will not blend with the flamingos. And honestly, why on earth would the zebra bother with all that? It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to hang out with them. It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to use the same watering hole. It can be a zebra, and still get a long just fine with the flamingos. (Do a google image search, it's true.)
The other day I shared a cab with a business man, and a Panamanian woman and her three children. And the ride was like being on space mountain. We weaved in and out of lanes; we were up on two wheels; we pulled a U-turn in the middle of oncoming traffic. After we nearly collided with a pedestrian, the woman said to the driver, "Please be careful, my three children are back here." For once, I knew where the line was. So when he launched into a vicious tirade after her comment, I spoke up. I released an angry torrent of rapid-fire Spanish, demanding that he desist in his efforts to break the land speed record. He slowed down, and we made it back in one piece. I smiled the whole way home. And I didn't care if my response was right or wrong, or judgmental or American or anything else. It felt great.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll yell at a lecherous construction worker. :-)
Changing your style of dress and drinking passion fruit juice for the first time is easy. The challenge comes, for me anyway, in trying to make my brain adapt. I spent my first two months in Panama absolutely determined not to react strongly to something just because I found it shocking or surprising. I would not let anything phase me. I would be comfortable in all situations. I failed miserably.
Race and skin color come up a lot in conversation in Panama. Being American, I'm used to discussions about race. As it relates to politics, American society as a whole, etc. I am not, however, accustomed to conversations like this:
"You look like my cousin. She's white."
"Oh, um, ok."
"She and I don't look alike. Look how much darker my skin is that yours."
"Yes . . . my skin is kind of white."
"Yes, but not as white as blond Americans. Sometimes they look like cream cheese."
"Yes . . . I am darker than cream cheese."
"Also the English. The English are whiter than you."
"Yes, probably."
"They burn in the sun. Do you burn in the sun?"
These conversations, despite my best efforts, turned me into an awkward, bumbling idiot. I quite simply had no idea what to say in response. My brain was not programmed to have a casual conversation about skin color. History? Discrimination? Sure, I can talk about that. But to non-chalantly say, "Hey, you're right. If we were crayons, I would totally be apricot, whereas you sir are more of a burnt sienna."? I cannot say that. I felt awkward just writing that, let alone saying it out loud to someone. So instead, I said next to nothing. I'm sure I left several people with the impression that not only am I pasty, but I also have either a mental deficiency or a speech impediment.
And I haven't just failed in conversation. Wild taxi rides have also gotten the better of me. Clearly, cabbies who drive like maniacs are not unique to Panama. I have met plenty in Washington, including an astonishingly drunk one who offered me a shot of whiskey from his flask one night. The difference is that in DC, I have no problem yelling for them to slow down, or if all else fails, telling them to pull over before we all get killed. Here? I've said nothing. I tell myself, "this is just what the driving is like here. (*Clunk* as I hit my head on the window.) So what if there are no seatbelts? (*Clunk*) It will be fiiiiine. (*Clunk*)" Somehow I don't think it really counts as adapting to your surroundings if you're paralyzed in fear.
And it's probably best that I just be as brief as possible about men yelling at me from car windows, construction sites, the seat next to me, etc. Sufficed to say, I have been told that is the norm here. Men like to voice their "appreciation." Ok, whatever, that's happens back home too. But once again, in the US I might say something if they cross the line. But in Panama, I have no idea where the line of acceptability is. With any of these things. Where is the line? And if I have no idea where that line is, how could I possibly try and blend in?
The answer is that I can't. Trying to blend in is futile. Yes, if you live in a place long enough, your perspective starts to change and you can blend in. But that's a result of time and experience, not incessant trying. And why all this emphasis on blending in to begin with? It's obviously important to make an effort to understand cultural differences, to not make snap judgments, and to expose yourself to new things. But do we really need to try and erase our cultural context to do that? If all cultures have value, doesn't that include our own?
It's a bit like zebras and flamingos. You can put a zebra in the middle of a bunch of flamingos, and try as it might, it will not blend in. Even if it stands on one leg like a flamingo, you will not mistake the zebra for a flamingo. If it hunkers down to the size of flamingo, it will just be a zebra squatting in a sea of flamingos. If you paint the zebra neon pink, it still will not blend with the flamingos. And honestly, why on earth would the zebra bother with all that? It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to hang out with them. It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to use the same watering hole. It can be a zebra, and still get a long just fine with the flamingos. (Do a google image search, it's true.)
The other day I shared a cab with a business man, and a Panamanian woman and her three children. And the ride was like being on space mountain. We weaved in and out of lanes; we were up on two wheels; we pulled a U-turn in the middle of oncoming traffic. After we nearly collided with a pedestrian, the woman said to the driver, "Please be careful, my three children are back here." For once, I knew where the line was. So when he launched into a vicious tirade after her comment, I spoke up. I released an angry torrent of rapid-fire Spanish, demanding that he desist in his efforts to break the land speed record. He slowed down, and we made it back in one piece. I smiled the whole way home. And I didn't care if my response was right or wrong, or judgmental or American or anything else. It felt great.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll yell at a lecherous construction worker. :-)
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Panama Effect, or, How I Learned to Love the Dirt
I have never been particularly outdoorsy. Actually, that's an understatement. I hate camping. I hate it more than almost anything else in the world. The last time I was talked into camping, a bear popped out of a tree fifteen feet in front of me. I lay awake the whole night waiting for death by mammal. The most athletic experience of my whole life was running out the woods the following day, scanning the trees for predators. Which brings me to the next point: I have never been particularly athletic. A friend of mine freshman year of college once said that seeing me in athletic gear was like seeing a fish in a tuxedo.
Sure, since then I've learned to love working out, preferably if I can make myself look like an uncoordinated idiot in the process (New York City Ballet Workout, anyone?). But I've never had any particular goal in mind. It's mostly just been a way to stay healthy and to justify my avid consumption of soft cheeses (they're a source of vegetarian protein!). And the outdoors were always a great place to see animals in the wild, which I love (as long as they're not ninja bears descending from above). But other than that, I'd just as soon skip the dirt, sweat, heat, cold, rain, and bugs. That is, until now.
Panama has triggered a mini-identity crisis. It started because I was completely obsessed with seeing a three-toed sloth in the wild. I swear I was more driven to see a wild sloth than Napoleon was to conquer Europe. So I took a rainforest boat tour (pictures in an earlier post). And naturally, there was a downpour. Of course, I got soaked. When I stood up, a small ocean poured out of my shoes and socks. Did I find this annoying or unpleasant? No. I thought it was hilarious. This was the first sign.
Next, I woke up one morning and thought, "Hey, it seems like a nice day for running along the bay." In 93 degree heat and 100% humidity. As a rule, I do not run outside. I prefer to know exactly how far I've gone (down to the hundreth of a mile), and honestly, I look like a cherry tomato with a ponytail while exercising, and the less people who see that the better. But on this particular day, it seemed like a great idea. And I enjoyed it. Despite having a face the color of baboon's ass.
But I think the moment I really realized how far my identity crisis had gone was when a coworker invited me to go on a 15k hike in the mountains. Now, obviously, outdoorsy or not, you have to appreciate the beauty of the rainforest in Panama, so this should hold at least some appeal for everyone. But still, at least half of that was going to be uphill. With a very good chance of pouring rain. And huge jungle insects. I'm sure that several months ago I'd still have gone, but I'd have been at least a little nervous. This time? Not at all. I was ecstatic. I couldn't get there fast enough. And sure enough, there was rain, and the whole trail was wet and slippery. If you could call it a trail. I fell down not once, but three times in what can only be described as a mud chute. I was caked head to toe in dirt, sweat, rain, and small bits of shrubbery. It was, in a word, awesome.
Yes, that's right, it was awesome. In fact, I liked it so much that I decided, why not do something like that again when I get home? (And by "something like that" I mean something in which I will get absolutely filthy.) It is that question which led to me waking up at 6:30 this morning, putting on my conspicuously American New York Giants cap, and going for a 5k run on the Cinta Costera. All in order to train for something called The Down and Dirty Mud Run, a 5k race with obstacles, where you fling yourself into a mud pit before crossing the finish line. I am starting to become concerned that I may, in fact, be a pod person.
But then again, isn't this why I travel in the first place? Ok, this is a bit more extreme than learning to make cherry soup in Budapest. But it's also not quite as big a deal as when I fell so madly in love with India that it gave me a much-needed idea for a career. For me the whole point of travel is to explore something new, learn something new, try something new. Sometimes this is serious business. The things you learn while traveling can change your whole perspective on the world. But sometimes, it's nice to stop taking things so seriously and just have fun. In Panama, I've learned to love the dirt.
Sure, since then I've learned to love working out, preferably if I can make myself look like an uncoordinated idiot in the process (New York City Ballet Workout, anyone?). But I've never had any particular goal in mind. It's mostly just been a way to stay healthy and to justify my avid consumption of soft cheeses (they're a source of vegetarian protein!). And the outdoors were always a great place to see animals in the wild, which I love (as long as they're not ninja bears descending from above). But other than that, I'd just as soon skip the dirt, sweat, heat, cold, rain, and bugs. That is, until now.
Panama has triggered a mini-identity crisis. It started because I was completely obsessed with seeing a three-toed sloth in the wild. I swear I was more driven to see a wild sloth than Napoleon was to conquer Europe. So I took a rainforest boat tour (pictures in an earlier post). And naturally, there was a downpour. Of course, I got soaked. When I stood up, a small ocean poured out of my shoes and socks. Did I find this annoying or unpleasant? No. I thought it was hilarious. This was the first sign.
Next, I woke up one morning and thought, "Hey, it seems like a nice day for running along the bay." In 93 degree heat and 100% humidity. As a rule, I do not run outside. I prefer to know exactly how far I've gone (down to the hundreth of a mile), and honestly, I look like a cherry tomato with a ponytail while exercising, and the less people who see that the better. But on this particular day, it seemed like a great idea. And I enjoyed it. Despite having a face the color of baboon's ass.
But I think the moment I really realized how far my identity crisis had gone was when a coworker invited me to go on a 15k hike in the mountains. Now, obviously, outdoorsy or not, you have to appreciate the beauty of the rainforest in Panama, so this should hold at least some appeal for everyone. But still, at least half of that was going to be uphill. With a very good chance of pouring rain. And huge jungle insects. I'm sure that several months ago I'd still have gone, but I'd have been at least a little nervous. This time? Not at all. I was ecstatic. I couldn't get there fast enough. And sure enough, there was rain, and the whole trail was wet and slippery. If you could call it a trail. I fell down not once, but three times in what can only be described as a mud chute. I was caked head to toe in dirt, sweat, rain, and small bits of shrubbery. It was, in a word, awesome.
Yes, that's right, it was awesome. In fact, I liked it so much that I decided, why not do something like that again when I get home? (And by "something like that" I mean something in which I will get absolutely filthy.) It is that question which led to me waking up at 6:30 this morning, putting on my conspicuously American New York Giants cap, and going for a 5k run on the Cinta Costera. All in order to train for something called The Down and Dirty Mud Run, a 5k race with obstacles, where you fling yourself into a mud pit before crossing the finish line. I am starting to become concerned that I may, in fact, be a pod person.
But then again, isn't this why I travel in the first place? Ok, this is a bit more extreme than learning to make cherry soup in Budapest. But it's also not quite as big a deal as when I fell so madly in love with India that it gave me a much-needed idea for a career. For me the whole point of travel is to explore something new, learn something new, try something new. Sometimes this is serious business. The things you learn while traveling can change your whole perspective on the world. But sometimes, it's nice to stop taking things so seriously and just have fun. In Panama, I've learned to love the dirt.
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