Not For Tourists: Roadside Burgers

The people I meet probably know more about me than those of you reading this blog entry. I think it’s because everything is so new (aka Me) and there’s an ongoing question and answer conversation.

For example, did you know that I do not eat eggs or cheese (except for on pizza), I don’t drink milk, but I love ice cream? If you don’t, my trainer does.

This evening we were continuing a discussion about me not eating beef or pork and comparing the costs of hot dogs and hamburgers in our respective countries. In the middle of our conversation, my trainer told me that under no circumstances does he eat a hamburger from a street vendor. (Now when a local tells you they don’t do something, this is when you need to put on your thinking cap and get a pen to take notes.)
It seems that those roadside hamburgers are more than likely not beef. Let’s try donkey or horse meat. Sounds tasty, right?

The Snack Xchange: Taste Like Jiffy

My snack arsenal is pretty serious. I bring a couple of boxes fruit snacks, trail mix, a snickers or two. Some of the snacks are for me. The rest of the snacks are to give away to my trainer(s) and other athletes. Well, the snacks go both ways. The other day at training they were passing out cake slices (bollo) by Bimbo. Bimbo is probably the equivalent of Little Debbie as far as the snack game goes.

This was my first time trying it, and it was good. My chunk definitely gave me a dose of energy. Check it out!

What Could Have Been Had The King of Pop Went South….

Every time I travel outside of the U.S., it amazes me just how big our cultural footprint is on the rest of the world. Many of my conversations with natives include questions about American movies, politics (if something really good is going on) and music.

I cannot tell you how many crazy American songs that I hear in stores, on public transportation, and in people’s homes. (I don’t think I have ever gone to someone’s residence without them showcasing their knowledge of American music via playlist! For the record, many of the songs can be caught on one of those throwback VH-1 countdowns..)

So it only makes since that Michael Jackson show up somewhere, right? Well, I guess but in Colombia this dude is in such random places. On my very first bus ride to training, I see a wall tag that read, “Michael Jackson Lives.” I made a mental note and thought to myself, “It’s good to see the respect is here in Barranquilla.”

Last week, my trainer and I took my laundry on a tour of the city. (I will explain in another post.) As we were riding the bus, I hear some notes and told my trainer, “I think this is Michael Jackson.” My trainer was a little unsure; but as soon as the beat played, it was confirmed that someone did a Spanish cover of I Just Can’t Stop Loving You. Now, I had to start laughing because this is the second time the Pop King has appeared, and I am a believer in the 3 incident rule.

What could possibly be next? A t-shirt? An album? A painting?

Well, a week later I received my answer. At my trainer’s birthday party, my trainer was the DJ/Selecta/Turntable Master (via computer). About halfway into the evening, We Are the World begins blasting through the subwoofer on the patio. I wasn’t expecting it, but maybe MJ wasn’t either. What if he would’ve headed south to Colombia for a little R&R? I still might be watching him live on the concert channel in Barranquilla….

Wrong Taxi, Wrong Street: Qiana's Encounter with Colombian Police

This evening I attended a small birthday celebration for my trainer in Barranquilla, Professor Alzate. Everything was great, and I had a fabulous time.

However, there was a small, but jarring twist to my evening. Ronald, a fellow athlete, was charged with the task of making sure that I arrived to my temporary residence safely. He, along with my trainer, flagged a taxi and negotiated the fare.

We had to have gone maybe 3 side streets when two Colombian Policeman stop the car. It is around probably midnight or so at the time (I think). They are waving their flashlights in the car and asking the driver questions. Before I know it, we are asked to get out of the car. One policeman is asking me questions on one side of the car, while his partner is questioning my escort.

Now, the Spanish is coming fast from the policeman and slow from me. I was instructed to step away from the car, open my bag and answer whether or not I had drugs. I was processing everything as fast as I could, but it was obvious the Policeman wasn't understanding why I was giving short answers and not pleading my case.

Ronald was doing all he could to explain as fast as he could why in the world I was looking like a panic stricken, non-Spanish speaking American on a side street in the middle of a nontourist neightborhood in Barranquilla.

For the first 3 minutes, I started to get a really sick feeling to my stomach. You know you hear about those stories of shady police, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the stigma (unfortunately) of being an American.

Ronald could sense I wasn't looking too well, and he told me to stay calm. I, too inserted a mental note of looking at peace because those guilty of transporting drugs panic, right?

Taxis passed down the dark street and there were a few passersby, as Ronald and I watched the two cops talk on their radios, check under the hood of the car and continually ask questions of our driver.

Finally, the police agreed to Ronald's plea to let us go so that he could make sure that I arrived to my aparthotel. I was happy that whatever the ongoing situation with the taxi driver didn't automatically include the passengers.

We were told to get back in our original taxi. One of the policemen hopped in the front seat...and that's where the video picks up. Here's the remainder of my trip after my encounter with the Colombian Police. Getting a lift to a main street. Ronald negotiating with another driver, and then recounting our hold up. Of course, I follow up with my English synopsis.

Walking on Coals: The Sand of Puerto Colombia

My first day of training was pretty uneventful. I did wake up in the middle of the night to realize that I had a small puncture in my left foot. I guess my adrenaline from all of the day’s events finally reached a normal level at 3:00 a.m…

It wasn’t anything that a little antibiotic ointment couldn’t begin working on. Well, the second day of training I figured couldn’t be that much different. I had devised a way to provide slight relief to my feet when they couldn’t tolerate the temperature of the sand. It’s a little sand shuffle that I do that turns over the top sand to reveal a slightly cooler layer underneath! LOL

Well, at 8:30 a.m. on the training grounds of Puerto Colombia, there was no shade and just a straight outpouring of bright sunshine from the heavens. It was very picturesque until I took off my shoes and socks. My professor and his footvolley partner were moving around like it was a normal day. I tried to play it off, but about 40 minutes into training I thought I was walking on hot coals. My quick 5 minute rest request intensified as I walked over to get my shoes and socks because the sand had just been heating up the whole 40 minutes. Hotter Sand! Fear, Shock and Fast tipping. I couldn’t get my socks and shoes on fast enough. Even the warmth of my shoes paled in comparison. Needless to say, I trained the remainder of the session in socks. It made a world of difference, but the Colombian sand and I will have to make peace with one another—it’s an inevitable reality.

New Meat: Mosquitoes Go Hard Once Again

You would think that by now I would have the whole battle against mosquitoes under control. It appears that I am no better armed than I was the last time. Instead of waiting for the first bite, I was proactive and just sprayed at every opportunity. Before training, I spray. After my shower, I spray. Before I go to bed, I spray.

I know it may seem a bit strange to spray before I go to bed, but you know once mosquitoes are on to you—they wage a war at all hours, especially at night.

Well, nothing has worked. I have been attacked. They didn’t even spare my neck (and this is a first—a low blow I might add). I am up for suggestions from South American natives or those individuals who have successfully resided relatively bite free in this area of the world.

It’s not a cute sight when combined with some training blemishes. The legs are looking like a construction zone, but I know this is only temporary. I just need a little help on how to get over the hump.

Search & Seizure: 3 Staple Items In My Travel Bag

I boarded my flight in Miami with a slight concern. Every international flight I’ve been on requires you to fill out that immigration entry form. It asks the usual information-who, when, where and why are you showing up. Well, I did not know the answer to one of those questions. What is the address where you will be staying?
I had to be quite frank. I ran through the list of options. I could…1. Fake it and put a hotel that I had read about on the internet ( my memory is selectively impeccable in this regard). 2. Leave the space blank. Pray to Jesus for His white light to get those armed, Colombian guards to show me some favor. or 3. Write in a hybrid of 1 and 2—la casa de mi amigo (the home of my friend).

I tried to see if I could take a cue from my seat partner. The entire flight I thought this guy was Colombian and knew exactly what was going on. Come to find out, he asked me in plain English how to complete the form since he was Puerto Rico American, from New York, a new transplant to Phoenix and on his 1st trip to Colombia. He put his US address in the blank—not a good look…

Well, I left the address blank and concluded that God could only shine his face on me for not falsifying this document.

Outside of this blank space on my form, I have to confide my impending encounter with Colombian immigration brought feelings of slight trepidation. I am an upstanding traveler. Don’t get me wrong. However, immigration officials can make the process short or long. If they want to personally be in your business (which does happen), there is nothing stopping them.

Well, the Colombian official didn’t give me that much grief until he eyed the address box. There seemed to be a few trick questions. Why are you here? To visit a friend. Are you here for work? No. I am here to visit a friend. Where are you staying? In the home of my friend. What is the address? I don’t know, but I have a phone number.

The phone number was the lifesaver…and I was passed along to another guard who asked me the same question. Only 10 feet stood between me and freedom—and fortunately, he let me take that walk.

In previous instances, immigration officials have engaged in a search and seizure that would make onlookers think that I was really a suspicious character.

Do you want to know what they usually see? Here’s 3 things that you will always find in my travel back if you do a search and seizure.

1. Satin Pillowcase: Some people wear head wraps. I sleep on a gold satin pillowcase. Cotton pillow cases wreak havoc on your hair. You know I have to protect the curls!
2. Business Magazine: Depending on the length of the trip, I will have at least one. This time I have two-Fast Company and Inc. I am almost finished with both…
3. Fruit Snacks: I can’t transport fruit, but I need a snack that takes up minimal space, differs from my trail mix and crackers. Fruit snacks are a logical choice. Also, they are a great peace offering to pass along to new friends!

P.S. I forgot to pack my pillowcase on this trip...not a good look