Colombian phones make NO SENSE. There are like 4 different cell phone carriers, and so it is really cheap to call your same carrier, but really expensive to call other carriers. Because of this, no one uses their phone to make calls, just to receive calls. If you want to make a call, you go to one of the many people selling minutos on the street, where you can pay by the minute to use a phone of any carrier. These are apparently kind of illegal, but I say kind of since there are about 10 per street corner, despite an equally high number of policia on every corner also. Additionally confusing is the fact that the area code you dial for a number changes depending on whether you are calling a cell phone or a land-line. What?! I thought area codes depended on area...
Two guys who work in my lab tried to explain all of this to me on Sunday. They offered to give me a tour of Cali since they both grew up here and seem to have taken on the responsibility of making sure I don't get myself killed. They drew me a little map of where I can walk in the city and where I should not walk (which is about 3/4 of the city, and not an over precaution). The worst district is called something like Rosa Blanca, where there's a lot of gang activity, and where they both used to live (Cristian now lives with his grandmother in another neighborhood). And made me a list of things not to do, including walk around with an Ipod, ever, hail a taxi alone, etc. I'm still really surprised by how generous everyone here is though. I think these guys are the poorest people I've ever actually known, but they insisted on buying beer and pan de bono (or something like that, it's these little donut shaped dough things with cheese) and empanadas for us on the tour. It's really hard not to feel guilty. The other day Cristian, upon seeing my tattoo, said he really wanted to get one of his mother on his back. She just died at the beginning of this month, but he doesn't have any money to pay for it. What's the story of my tattoo? Uhh, I was in London, and my friends wanted to buy me one, so they did, because they could...It's also really weird to realize that everything I ever talk about implies that I have money. Like just the fact that I'm in Colombia traveling, and neither of them have even traveled in Colombia, let alone any other country. They're great though, and it's giving me a different kind of appreciation for privilege.
A lot of the Colombians who work here at CIAT had to work harder to get here than anyone I've ever seen, too. It's really common for people to have day jobs and have done college and graduate school at night. (And I know many people in the U.S. do that too, but knowing about something is not at all the same as seeing it up close.) Compared to that, it really is like I have the world just handed to me.
More about my house. It's affectionately been named the Earthquake House or Casa de Terremoto by the CIAT extranjeros who live in some swankier apartments up the street because "if there was an earthquake, there would be no house." I love it though; there is the most beautiful view of the city from the balcony, and the hallway and part of the kitchen is open to the sky, so when it rains (which is almost every day for at least a little bit), it rains into our house and makes a beautiful noise. Of course, there are also a lot of leaks in the roof, which isn't actually a roof, but plastic with some tiles laid on top. And sweeping is a new experience, since the floor is not really a floor, but boards nailed to some framework with lots of holes into the downstairs. So half the time I think I just sweep dirt down into Theresa's room...