You Know You're In Palenque When...

I promise this is my last post about Colombia.  After almost a week at home, some of the differences between here and there have become even more pronounced -- pronounced enough for me to compile a list. When you're living in a Philadelphia suburb, none of these things happen.

BUT, you know you're in Palenque when...

...chickens, pigs, cats, dogs, turtles, frogs, and toads casually stroll in and out of houses' open doors. (There are also plenty of horses, donkeys, goats, roosters, turkeys, strutting around town.)
...men commonly have more than one wife. (And the most important/prolific men have more than two.) These wives rarely live in the same house.
...you can spot an entire family rolling around town on one motorbike -- and the bike is being driven by a 15 year old girl.
...little old ladies and young men blast champeta from their homemade sound systems for ten hours a day.

...locals are genuinely concerned when you tell them you've been drinking the water (but it's totally safe).
...all three "restaurants" in town don't have a menu, but simply ask "pollo, carne, o pescado" (or "cerdo" if you're lucky).

...you never tip for anything (actually, this is true everywhere in Colombia) and you can pay whenever -- even days later. Finances aren't often discussed.
...indoor toilets are rare and indoor plumbing is pretty much non-existent. (The seldom seen western cammode is flushed by dumping a bucket of well-water into the bowl.)
...it's seen as totally normal and acceptable for women to have babies as young as 13 years old. Grandparents and other family members will watch after the kids until their moms are done with school. (This is not quite the same environment as "16 and Pregnant.")
...you can buy moonshine tequila called ñeke for 2,000 pesos (about $1) a bottle.
...every guy's favorite American musician is 50 Cent (and many gals love the Bieber).
...it's really hard to guess someone's age because of how youthful and healthy most everyone looks. (I thought a 38 year old man with 4 kids was 24. His mother is 88.)

...the people around you rarely get worked up over anything and never seem to be in a rush. It's always, "here, sit. Sit!" Even if you're just passing through.
...everyone says "bueeenaaaas" (good morning, good afternoon, or goodnight).
...on the hill, just behind your house are these trees:

and then this view, overlooking Palenque:

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for more photos from Palenque, click here.
and here are some more from Cartagena. 

Palenque (parte tres)

Midday runs hot here. In fact, I’ve found the best thing to do to avoid the sun at high noon is nothing at all: sit in the shade with a good book or a good friend and good fan, if you can. Also, on occasion — three or four occasions during the past week since I last wrote — a torrent of rain, lighting, and thunder will break the humidity and bring the temperature down. Then, of course, you have to contend with the muddy roads and the inevitability of getting a flip-flop stuck. With the help of my guide and research assistant, Alberto, I learned to navigate the mud patches like a local. 

But, of course, I’ve learned much more than how best to remain cool and mud-free. Not too long after lamenting about how tough it was to communicate, I began to fall into the rhythm of this place. With Alberto, I started the process of conducting official, investigative interviews which included both qualitative and quantitative questions. Despite my self-consciousness with real-world Spanish, my guia (Spanish for guide) and I communicated (and still communicate) just fine. Beyond matters of research, we bond over language: Alberto teaches me snippets of Lengua and I help him with his English. The interview process has been over since Tuesday (when I ran out of cash to pay participants), but Alberto and I covered a lot of ground and gained some good insight about Palenque’s neighbors. In five days — not including Saturday and Sunday, skipped in part because of the annual Mango Festival in Malagana — Alberto and I spoke with residents in the surrounding communities of Palenquito, Malagana, San Cayutano, and La Pista (just outside of San Pablo). I’ll wait to analyze the data until I get to the Netherlands because it’s hot here (did I mention that?) and also…

"This is not a lab; this is a town.” Alberto was not just a guide; he’s my friend. Our small group of American researchers have made other friends too. Jorge, Jeiner, Lawin, Ronan: ma kumbilesa suto — our friends, in Lengua. The linguistic situation on the ground here is fascinating, but so is the ground itself. Palenque is an absolutely unique place with remarkable people. I’ve never been in a town where every house has an open door policy that applies not only to animals but to people. Everyone is treated as a neighbor even when you come from halfway across the hemisphere. Palenqueros are quick to smile and greet passersby, saying ¡buenas! any time of day. I quickly got swept up in this neighborly, friendly way of life. There’s gonna be some culture shock back in Elkins Park when every car doesn’t slow down to waive hello and pigs don’t scuttle across the street. More culture shock when I stop eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner homemade from scratch with the freshest imaginable ingredients, oftentimes plucked straight out of the backyard. We have Anna — the mom of the house we’re living in — to thank for most of those delicacies (actually just typical fair for Palenqueros), and her husband, Bernardino — our host for the duration and one of Palenque’s most prominent teachers — to thank for making every other arrangement run smoothly. We’ll miss them come next week. And me? I won’t miss the splotchy red color my feet turn covered in mosquito bites, but I’ll sure miss Palenque.

On Saturday, Mary Beth, Mindy, and I will hop on motorbikes, and then on a bus, and then on another bus to return for one more night at the Mama Waldy Hostel in Cartagena. Just as I’m starting to pick up some Lengua, tune my ears to the rural Spanish dialect, and earn some street-cred playing soccer with Palenqueros, it’s time to head out.  Sure, at home I’ll get a proper shower and the bug bites will fade, but when’s the next time I’ll get to call out buenas?

Palenque (parte dos)

As it turns out, Palenque has more in common with camp than a remote location and inspiring excitement. It’s day three here and I’m still excited. Much like Pinemere, everyone in Palenque knows each other, but instead of 300, there are 3,000 people (at least). People in Palenque are incredibly welcoming and generous (not unlike Pinemere). And, the little kids will love you if you throw them up in the air and play their game of human tug-of-war (yep, another similarity). It’s rustic too — though probably less so than camp. And there are animals everywhere — horses, donkeys, goats, pigs, dogs, cats, hens, roosters, turkeys, lizards — and Pinemere DID used to have a goat, a few dogs, and the occasional bear. However, at Pinemere, the food wasn’t nearly as delicious as it here. The freshly squeezed and chilled fruit juices weren’t as satisfying and difficult to pronounce as in Palenque. The temperature never hovered around 90 degrees (with 100% humidity) in Stroudsburg. And I never attempted linguistics research at Pinemere. That’s where the comparison ends. 

I will admit here, publicly, that this is challenging. I don’t mind showering with a bowl and well water, waking up at the crack of dawn to roosters crowing, or sweating sitting still. This place is absolutely beautiful and so are its people. So what, there’s no air conditioning? Palenqueros’ generosity, insightfulness, and friendship more than make up for a lack of certain creature comforts. The challenge is the constant reminder of what I’m missing. It turns out that a high school and college Spanish education will only take me so far when dealing in Coastal Colombian Castellano mixed unpredictably with Lengua Palenquera. As I talk to more and more people and begin some interviews, I get hit over and over with this dose of reality: if I thought I was close to fluent, the truth is I am far from it. Sure, I can communicate essentials. I can learn. I can ask thoughtful questions. I can navigate complicated topics. But, it has to be on my terms. When a Palenquero or a group of locals diverges from our conversation — or simply starts up with vocabulary I’ve never been exposed to — in some mix of Spanish and Lengua, I am lost. 

During nearly every interaction, I know I’m missing out on something fascinating and it’s painful. Here I am, this student coming all the way from the States to research language, and half the time I’m stuck. At best I’m a lame duck, at worst, a burden. Nonetheless, I have to embrace the process. This is new to me — not Spanish, but this clash of languages and dialects and cultures. Of course I’m not throwing in the towel after 72 hours. It’s just time for a new one — one that I’ve cleaned out back, after shooing the pigs away from the hose. 

Palenque

Out of town and into country, five of us split into two cars. They are simple, older, but well kept sedans with highly capable drivers. It feels like star treatment after some of our other recent forms of transportation. We depart Cartagena and head south. The landscape changes from urban to industrial to — passed out in the back seat, I’m not sure — to bucolic countryside. Trees and farms and rolling hills dominate both sides of the road. 

Eventually, we take a right and the pavement gives way to dirt: “6km: San Basilio de Palenque,” a sign reads. I’m fully awake now. We’re flanked by square, cylinder block homes and more of the same countryside, but more densely dotted with foliage. At this point, I’m getting that feeling I used to get in the back seat of my parents car, driving up through Stroudsburg, PA on the way to Pinemere — camp jitters. This is nervous excitement. I’ve been hearing about and studying this place for over a year. All those stories John told us. The dirt turns to pavement. All the YouTube clips we’ve watched. The elevation is steadily rising. Months and months of preparation. My stomach is in knots — it’s not the arepa I had for breakfast. 

There’s no new sign, no change in surroundings, but it’s clear now that the driver has slowed down; we’ve arrived in San Basilio de Palenque.  A town established by escaped slaves.  The home of Lengua Palenquera. A beacon for linguists. Our home for the next two weeks. The place where we’ll do our experiments to try to understand better the bilingual mind. But this is not a lab; this is a town. These are not volunteers in the basement of some building in State College; these are people going about their daily lives. We’re not only here for science; we’re here to learn about Palenqueros — to learn about ourselves. Language doesn’t matter if there aren’t people to share it with.

Why Am I Here?

At this point, if you’re still reading you might be wondering why I chose to ship off to Colombia, picked Cartagena to hang out in, and left during Penn State’s finals week, all seemingly at random. The truth is, this trip has been in the works since August when I first sat down in with Dr. John Lipski, a prominent professor in the Spanish, Italian and Portuguese Department in University Park. John, sometimes affectionately referred to as the Indiana Jones of Linguistics, has been traveling to remote locations, dealing in exotic languages, and narrowly avoiding ancient booby traps for the past few decades. In his lab, along with two other undergrads, Mindy and Mary Beth, and one grad student, Lauren, we explored the languages and culture of a small rural, town in coastal Colombia, San Basilio de Palenque. 

Palenqueros have a fascinating history, including the distinction of the being the longest standing pueblo in the New World originally established by escaped Spanish slaves. So, since the 1500s, Palenque has juggled its cultural heritage alongside linguistic pressures. What has resulted is a bilingual town speaking an easily recognizable brand of Spanish common to Coastal Colombia and a creole tongue called Lengua Palenquera (or simply, Lengua) which mixes elements of Spanish with characteristics from the Bantu family of African languages. However, a stigma developed around Lengua, discouraging Palenqueros from using it outside of the town and drove it close to extinction. And yet, in the past half-century, with an influx of interest from outside scholars and researchers, many Palenqueros have redoubled their efforts at preserving and proliferating their language. A Lengua Palenquera renaissance. 

So, why am I here? The more I learned about Palenque, the more I wanted to know. I developed my own research questions, as did Mary Beth, Mindy, and Lauren. The three undergrads turned that question into an application for the PIRE grant, which will allow us to continue our investigations through June and July at Radboud University in the Netherlands (but that is a story for another day). Meanwhile, our lab group of five planned a two-week trip for early May so we could truly get our hands dirty, doing linguistics field-research in literal fields. For the week prior to our work in Palenque, Mary Beth, Mindy and I took the opportunity to get a taste for Colombian culture and language at spent it in Cartagena. 

If you’re still interested, here is a poster that outlines what sort of language-y goodness I’ll be getting into for the next 12 days:

Last Day in Cartagena

Tomorrow morning we leave for the small town of Palenque, where the real work begins. For now, I have time for one last post as I get ready to get nostalgic for Cartagena. There's plenty more to write about: this unique hostel we're staying in, the city's incredible, varied architecture, probably something about the history, some of the amazing people we've met, the night we spent on the beach at La Playa Blanca, and even the transportation there and back. But, none of that has the visual or visceral appeal of one of my favorite subjects. The time has come for a bunch of photos of food...

These all came from a plaza just 30 seconds from our hostel.

5,000 peso burger; would be considered gourmet by American standards

Various meats on a stick; grilled on-demand

Colombia's answer to Chipotle

Another angle

A typical Colombian meal (prepared, with love, by a Spanish ex-pat):

Sopa con pollo

Arroz, carne con queso, y ensalada

These delicacies are from La Playa Blanca.

Local fried fish and some typical Colombian sides; on the right are fried plantains

Salchipapas = french fries + sausage + cheese

Surprisingly delicious pasta with tomato sauce; it helps when the chef studied cooking in Italy for 10 years  

We've dined on some other Cartagena essentials like arepas, mysterious, tropical fruits, agua de panela, and paletas, but there's always more to try. Colombian food -- particularly the street food -- is easy to like and easy to pay for. Meanwhile, there's been no shortage of beverages to enjoy, some unique to the region. Don't worry, parents, we drink responsibly.

My favorite domestic cerveza

Another national beer

Yet another local beer

The national rum; in Spanish, ron

Coco Loco

Fresh fruit smoothies: mango, mona, lulo

Gotta stay hydrated in this heat: water sold in bags

Cartagena, Day 3

If you’re reading this, that means you weren’t too turned off by all of that sweat imagery and maybe you’re even a little intrigued. That’s good, because after about two full days in Cartagena, I do have a lot more to say about this city. 

Along with my two research partners, I'm staying in the Mama Waldy Hostel inside the narrow, winding streets of the colonial Walled City. Spanish invaders began construction on this section in 1533 and today it plays host to a healthy mix of locals and tourists. Walking around, I’ve seen the influence of Spanish architecture — lots of red roofs, courtyards, and plazas. There’s such a feel of Andalusian cities like Cordoba and Grenada, in fact, that you might assume the culture would take on a European vibe as well. In some ways, maybe it does, but the people here are distinctly Colombian. 

My watch still works, but somehow time seems to be aware of the heat here too; it slows down, trying to avoid exhaustion. (I’ve been here since Tuesday night, but that might as well have been last month.) Men and women, old and young can be found lounging on park benches, grassy knolls, and tree trunks during what we might consider the work day. A fellow traveler informed me that a Cartagenero he talked to spoke self-depricatingly about his countrymen: “We’re lazy.” I disagree. For every sedentary citizen, I’ve noticed ten hard at work in restaurants, bars, shops, cleaning trash (this really is an incredibly tidy city), or hawking all manner of wares on street corners and beach fronts. (Of course there is industry and white collar employment here, too; those were just some examples.) 

Nearly all of those industrious Cartageneros I have interacted with do two remarkable things:

1) They address us — three obvious gringos — in Spanish by default. Never have I been to another place where the locals lead with the local language. As a result, my Spanish ability gets tested instead of their English. Ordering agua de panela feels much more authentic this way. 

2) They take the time to build a rapport. From hostel managers to restaurant owners, many people seem to be interested in more than just money. And, those who realize you aren’t going to purchase a freshly caught oyster — after you’ve politely told them no — gracefully take the hint, walk away, and don’t bother you again. 

Of course, it’s not a fairytale. Equally gregarious salesmen will slickly offer you drugs and there are entire sections of the city we dare not go because of their dangerous reputation. Nonetheless, Cartagena is warm in more than one sense of the word. 

Work and play on the beach in Bocagrande, Cartagena.

Still fishing as the sun sets. 

Cartagena, Day 1

I am a refinery. Water goes in. Sweat comes out. It’s amazing, because in 21 years of life, I never really notice how efficient I can be at this — not until I go somewhere hot. Really hot. And humid. Cartagena is both. Off the plane and into the sauna. Immediately a thin coating of processed H2O forms on my skin. I’m trying to stay hydrated, but it’s hard. There’s so much to distract. In just a few hours in this old, Colombian city, I’ve seen all manner of sight, smelled all manner of smell, dined on just one delicious meal (so far), heard all manner of sound — including the green, parrot-like bird behind me who has learned only one, horrible word — and felt heat, oh so much heat. I’ve also felt welcomed. Cartageneros seem to be hardworking and helpful. I will have a week to feel out the rhythms of this place — to add these sights, sounds, etc. to a mental mix that churns out valuable memories, lifelong relationships, broadened perspective, and — sweat.