Lake Guata Vita is one of the places most strongly associated with the El Dorado legend. Treasure hunters went so far as to try to drain the lagoon in search of gold (see link http://www.kaiku.com/eldorado.html). Their efforts have permanently damaged the landscape, leaving a gaping notch in an area that in the traditions of the indigenous Muisca people was held as sacred.

Another great view of the countryside surrounding the lagoon.

We reach the lagoon, which is spectacular. Hopefully my sister will be overjoyed at my new less-nappy hairstyle.

On Sunday morning (10/8/06), Maya and I took the TransMilenio as far as it would take us and then boarded a smaller bus out of Bogotá. After riding an hour or so through some suburbs and out into the countryside we got off at a road leading to our destination, La Laguna Sagrada del Cacique Guatavita. A sign at the head of the road informs us we have 7 KM to hike. The first twenty minutes or so of our trek tell us that the 7 KM will be all uphill. Fortunately, the landscape is spectacular: green hills and mountainous farmland. Dark gray clouds intermingle with diffuse white skies overhead—raining then sunning—forcing us to constantly readjust our clothing. Occasionally cars pass us, including a surprising number of sport-utility and luxury vehicles.

At Ambar’s apartment out on the fantastic balcony on Saturday (10/7/06). Her cat Simón is enjoying the view and flowers.

The question of why I am working on a bottle of koscher wine (Manischewitz)—we polished off the bottle of bargain red from South Africa—with Ray on Thursday at midnight might best be answered without the restraint of serious inquiry. We got to talking about religion, politics, meditation, yoga, economics, family, imports/exports, travel plans, business, running, goals, working out and philosophy. A smoke is broken out and the discussion (carried on in half-Spanish, half-English) follows its hazily transparent trajectory: up into the ceiling, out through the window, inhaled deeply into our brains.

I went on my first run in Bogotá last night (10/4/06) last night at 8 PM. Come to think of it, it’s probably the first real run I’ve been on since my car crash in Portland, the insurance settlement which financed my move down south. My body felt surprisingly fine (feet, knees, back) despite my incredibly substandard equipment (7-year old indoor soccer shoes). Nonetheless, I’ll need to invest in some real shoes immediately. My lung capacity is definitely less than impressive. My running partner and apartment mate Ray, a dedicated casual smoker, was setting a pace that I was hard-pressed to maintain. For any runners out there, running through Bogotá at night is not something I’d necessarily add to your dream run routes. We went to the Parque Nacional, a little more than a mile away from our apartment, via a very rough, very hilly, not very well-lit route, then stretched, toured the park a bit, and returned. The hill on the way back forced me into 45 seconds of walking that my pride barely registered. I am surprisingly not particularly sore today, probably because of all the walking Maya and I do on a daily basis, but I’m definitely many months off from my marathon days. Of course I plan to take things slow, and revel every early week knowing 3 medium-paced, medium-length runs are the best training schedule to get back into the swing.

A touch of flu-like unpleasantness has availed itself of my respiratory system over the past few days. On 9/21/06 my sinuses feel stuffed upon waking, their unstuffing leaving behind a viscous green and red expectorant that reminds me, oddly enough, of Christmas. The idea enters into my head of a canvass covered with ‘Christmas blobs’, some flat oil paint, some laquered, textured protrusions. After a quick shower I leave the apartment, in Chapinero, for work at the school, in Suba, at 6:15 AM. I’ve got a 7:30 AM class to observe and I don’t want to be late. I walk the 5 blocks to the nearest TransMilenio (see TransMilenio Post) stop where I grab the next bus going my direction.

I arrive at St. George’s slightly light-headed. Class room 1-A, under the guidance of Ms. Luz de Ferreira, has just gotten underway. I place myself in a tiny wooden chair in the corner and, prompted by the bright morning sun, begin to remove my Goodwill corduroy jacket and roll up my shirt-sleeves. Ms. Luz, in a well-planned ambush, encourages her students to ask me whatever questions they might have. These range from endless repetitions of ‘What is your favorite food/animal/pet/?’ to statements of ‘You are tall.’ which, even at 5’ 9”, I am, comparatively. The culmination—cut across by oblique yellow rays—both baking my head and blinding me—is reached when that sly Ms. Luz begins to encourage a wider class participation, at which point I am bum-rushed by a hoard of anxious 6-7 year-olds’ proffering the relatively tame ‘Mr. GreenHead Project’ (a transparent plastic cup of budding reeds), to ‘Mr. Largartija Muerta’ ((Mr. Dead Lizard), the well-shrivelled, black/grey/brown remains of a little anole in a cheap transparent container with a light green lid.) ‘He is an example of what used to be a living thing,’ says Ms. Luz, reminding them of the previous week’s lesson. It is all quite educational.

The day tends to improve. Maya shows up at 8:15 or so, outside the Pre-Kinder lounge, where we huddle, figure out who’s supposed to go where, and inhabit desultory poses, awaiting our students. Our students are the professoras, whose students our schedules revolve around. When our schedules collide, it’s difficult for a gringo such as myself to be all that strict about things. It all depends on the student. Some want to get straight down to business, rushing through the exercises as though through sheer quantity they hope to achieve results more rapidly; and others much more intent on building a human relationship as the foundation of knowledge; the rest a blend: all talented, all discoursing on talents’ variety. There is a true dedication to the students at St. Jorge, of that there is no doubt.

At nine comes recess time, or what Maya and I (or least I) have dubbed the arepa and empanada ~half-hour, where rushing-around teachers are greeted between sips of café con leche, or aromatica. Maya might relate to me the latest gossip of the child in grade transicion, who had reported evil ants in his head, demanding from him his demented behavior; or she might report the latest rumor of an outbreak of highly contagious hepatitis. At times I serve the roll of rumorer, divulging who’s ‘English was really top notch despite their accent,’ or ‘who had a natural grasp of the grammar, but too much attitude and self-importance to participate properly.’ The rest of the day unfolds according to the previous: chatting, drilling, questioning, relating, as far is convenient.We hardly ever spend a day without looking out over the children at recess time, delighted and mystified by their energy and exuberance. ‘They are privileged children, living in a privileged place,’ Ms. Luz once explained to me calmly in the hemeroteca (periodical room) as we engaged in an informal yet immensely informative class. At recess the schoolyard is filled with screams and running, endless screaming and running, the sound of a boundless human energy. The default movement is a short sprint, followed by a guiless staring-around, and another sprint off in another direction.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TransMilenio

TransMilenio, like all mass-transit systems, behaves according to its passengers. And though by all accounts it is more orderly than the previous systems, it seems not to have shed itself entirely of the former’s taint of fear, nor, more palpably, of well-bred indifference. Maya and I take it to and from work every day. My impression so far is that it is one of the most efficient and well-executed government programs in Bogotá.