nude in bogota

I have a touring rule.

If I am visiting a new city and I have limited time, I will choose only one thing to see each day. It gives me the opportunity to learn details -- without flapping around to every sight in town like a culture vulture.

In Bogota, I was lucky. Within three blocks of our apartment was the Botero Museum. If you know of any South American artist, it most likely will be Fernando Botero, Colombia's most famous artist.

And, if you do not know his name, you certainly have seen his work. It is reproduced in restaurants (two are in Rooster's in Melaque) and on refrigerator magnets, coffee mugs, and t-shirts. As most people would say, he paints "fat people."

The Botero Museum is filled with millions of dollars of his paintings. He donated them to the nation -- along with his collection of impressionist and modernist paintings. It has been called the finest art collection in Latin America.

When Botero paints a figure, he flattens its plane, giving the figure a robust, opulent Rubenesque feel. But the result is distinctly abstract, as are his use of colors and backgrounds. His "joke" painting of the Mona Lisa is a perfect example.

He takes an artistic icon, much as Picasso did with Las Meninas, and re-works it through his own prism. The figure remains central to the work, but it is distinctly Botero. He even reworked Da Vinci's split horizon Tuscan background into a distinctly Colombian scene. Thus, the volcano.

Even though his style is abstract, his paintings are popular. The popularity is undoubtedly attributable to the humor that shows up in his non-political paintings (he has painted some rather grim message pieces) that make them accessible to viewers without an artistic education. Think of him as the Gilbert and Sullivan of painting.

His style is consistent -- even when painting an animal or a still life.

Some of his works, such as his Mona Lisa, are purposely derivative. He admires the Spanish painter Velasquez, once regarded as the greatest painter in the world. Two of his works in the museum are drawn from Velasquez paintings.

Take this bourgeois family.

Velasquez painted royalty. Not Botero. He paints the common people. But that does not keep him from making sly fun of the family in their bourgeois smugness. The only individual that seems at ease is the dog -- with a typical Botero face.

Botero admires families. Even with his ribbing, the piece has a sense of familial sentimentality -- put on edge by the Eden references. The apple tree. The serpent. All portending a fall from grace -- or recognizing that the fall has already occurred.

The other piece derived from Velasquez comes directly from Las Meninas --Maribola, the dwarf on the right side of Velasquez's painting. And an direct homage to Picasso.

One of Botero's favorite subjects is street dancers. This version is actually set in a dance hall, but it has the same flavor of his street pieces.

Some people do not classify Botero as an abstract painter -- probably because it is very easy to relate to his figures as representational. But there is no mistaking the surrealistic quality of this cardinal strolling beside the water.

A truly representational artist would not have painted such a jarring reflection in the water. Magritte would. Botero did.

Speaking of surreal -- one of the finest pieces in the museum is this sculpture by Salvador Dali. A similar piece is owned by New York's Museum of Modern Art.

Over the years, I have read several attempts at ferreting out the meaning of the piece. Dali usually laughed when asked what it meant. For him, it was a way of simultaneously describing the absurdity of life within a world where objective truth exist. Dali's art was usually as contradictory as his life.

The best we can do is to describe the elements. A beautiful woman is wearing an elaborate inkwell Dali saw in a painting. Under that is a loaf of bread. She has a collar of the film from a cinematic toy surrounded by two ears of corn. Ants swarm from her forehead.

It is a stunning piece in its setting.

That setting is in the wing that houses Botero's impressionist and modernist art collection.

I have been to several museums with larger collections. But Botero collected some of the most interesting pieces painted by these artists.

Almost all of the impressionists are here, including Toulouse-Lautrec:

And Pissarro:

But the majority of the pieces are modernist. Chagall, Ernst, Soutine. And Braque:

Miró:

Several Picassos:

Grosz, with a fascinating picture story:

And a charming Matisse:

Visiting the museum with my cousin was the high point of the trip. We shared the experience of deconstructing Botero's style and symbols. And, while looikng at the impressionists, we started talking about Woody Allen's Match Point -- how artists can base their work on the masterpieces of others. A point Botero proves well.

I ended up spending close to two full days in the museum -- and I would gladly return for more. The museum is so well-curated, it would be possible to visit there once a week and still find something new. There is also a modern art museum dedicated to the works of Colombian artists that is worth a serious look.

Go to Colombia. Meet Botero. And spend time with the art that he collected for himself. You will be the better for it.

it all started with bolívar

Colombia is quickly slipping from my memory.

It has been six weeks since I was there. And, before the whole trip retires with the memory of the names of my second grade classmates to "the southern hemisphere of the brain,/ to a little fishing village where there are no phones" (as Billie Collins would have it), I will try to capture a few vignettes for you.

If you followed the adventures of the three of us (my cousin Dan, his wife Patty, and me) in April, you already know how much I appreciated the place. Enough so that I will return, and I strongly recommend that you consider a visit yourself.

I have a blogger friend, who is a rather tough cookie to please. Each of her visits there have entranced her.
Here is my plan. I sifted through my photographs and came up with eight categories I would like to share with you:

• art
• Simón Bolívar 
• coffee
• flora
• food
• lodging
• street scenes
• wildlife

Whether I write eight separate essays or combine a couple, we shall see. Consider yourself as my therapist as I give you a stream of consciousness trek through Colombia -- solely from my perspective.

Let's start with Simón Bolívar -- because that is where independent Colombia began.
Antonio, my pool man asked me yesterday how similar Colombia and Mexico are. He was surprised when I told him there are some similarities, but they are quite distinct cultures.

Our exchange reminded me of one of my favorite scenes from Clear and Present Danger. Agent Murray asks Jack Ryan what the food is like in Colombia. "It's like Mexican food."

Well, Jack was wrong. It isn't. And Colombia is very different than Mexico. One reason is its history.

Colombia has the honor of having the first stable Spanish settlement on the continent of South America. That was in 1510.

When the Spanish arrived, there were multiple Indian tribes in the area, some had been there as early as 12,000 BC. Unlike most of the Indian tribes in Mexico, the tribes in Colombia honored gold. It is from Colombia that the legend of El Dorado ("the city of gold") arises. And that was to be the undoing of the Indians.

The Spanish who came to Colombia were transfixed with acquiring wealth -- especially, gold. The Spanish used several weapons to capture territory where gold might be mined. The primary was turning tribe against tribe.

But the most effective was an ally that the Spanish did not even know they were utilizing -- smallpox. Just like Mexico and the Caribbean, 90% of the Indian population died from either warfare or a disease against which they had no natural immunity.

With depopulation, the Spanish crown sold the deserted land to colonists, who created large farms and ranches.

Then known as New Granada, Colombia was ruled from Peru by the Spanish Viceroy. Colombians had many of the same grievances that initiated the Mexican move for independence. After several failed rebellions, Simón Bolívar declared independence in 1819, and was finally successful in liberating Colombia from Spanish rule in 1822.

Colombia consisted of the territory of what we now know as Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, and Panama. Ecuador and Venezuela broke off in 1830. And Panama gained its independence in 1903 when, as Senator S.I. Hayakawa drolly put it: "We stole it fair and square."

It is hard to overstate Bolívar's importance to Colombians. He was the first president of the republic. But, even though Americans honor Washington for his similar role, we do not venerate Bolívar in the same way.

One reason may be because he was a visionary. He dreamed of uniting the original territory of Colombia with Peru and Bolivia to create a Confederation of the Andes that would be an example to the world of a successful republic. That dream, of course, collapsed with the Balkanization of Colombia.

What followed his death was a series of civil wars that lasted into the 20th century -- usually pitting politicians who supported Bolívar's notion of centralized power opposing those who favored local control.

Maybe that is another reason for the Bolívar nostalgia. Colombians long for the long-gone stability that he brought following the war with Spain. To modern Colombians who are doing their best to unwrap themselves from the terrorism of FARC, that past is something to yearn for.

Of course, the Bolívar myth can just as easily be misused -- as the region discovered with Hugo Chávez's comic opera "Bolivarian socialism" that has reduced Venezuela from being one if South America's wealthiest nation to a country that now looks as if it wants to vie with Haiti in the economic basket case list.

 Even Chávez, who is despised by the Colombians with whom I talked, cannot tarnish Bolívar's reputation in Colombia.

Those photographs peppered throughout this essay? They are all statues of Colombia's liberator. 

There was not a town we visited on the trip that did not have a statue in its town square to honor the father of his country -- who had a dream of a stable republic. Including this powerful nude.

A dream that Colombians are now living.

power drain

The  moment I saw the blue light on my cigarette lighter, I knew I was in trouble.

My brother had warned me not to leave my telephone charger plugged in while the car was not running. The equation did not look good. My car was at rest -- and the charger was blinking away.

I needed to pull the car into the garage for the night. So, I steeled myself and pushed the start button.

My dash lit up like an F-111's when targeted by an enemy missile. But the only sound of ignition was a sotto voce series of clicks and an ominous warning on my video panel that my battery saver had turned off.

I knew the next day was going to be one of those days that has drawn me to Mexico -- not having any idea how I am gong to get through the day when I get up.

The next morning I headed off on my first daily hike -- with the additional destination of my favorite mechanic. I told Cruz my problem. He agreed to come over to the house to give me a jump. And all went well. The car was now in running mode.

I needed to go to Cihuatlán to pay my annual bank trust fee on the house. The twenty-minute drive would be sufficient to charge the battery -- assuming that was the problem. If not, I either would need a new battery or to have the alternator examined.

When I got back in the car, after taking care of another annual duty for the benefit of the Mexican government, I pushed the start button with every expectation that my car would start. It didn't. That meant relying on the kindness of a stranger -- a mechanic I did not know -- to get Mexpatriate back on the road.

I drove directly to Cruz's shop. Out came the battery onto a charger. After two hours, it barely moved the meter.

That was relatively good news. It probably meant I did not need a new alternator.

One of the things I have not quite adjusted to in Mexico is not knowing where to find things. That, of course, is true of anyone who moves to a new area. The trick is knowing people who do know those things. Like Cruz.

When the battery was stolen out of my late Shiftless Escape in San Miguel de Allende, I ended up walking across town to find a replacement. Here, Cruz drove me to one of his auto parts suppliers.

Finding auto parts shops in Mexico is rather easy. I admit I still have a kernel of prejudice from the early 1970s on that score, when driving through Mexico without spare parts in the trunk was an invitation to long-term breakdowns.

No more. Mexico is now the prime provider of auto parts to the United States and Canada. And unlike tomatoes, where all the quality produce heads north, Mexico keeps a prime lot of auto parts for its own use. The reason is simple. Mexico is almost as car-crazy as the United States.

The supplier looked up the specifications, and I was the proud owner of a new battery for about $2000 (Mx) -- $109 (US).

Alas, this is Mexico. There had to be some drama to add to this tale that was going along far too well in my favor.

Like many after-market parts, the battery did not quite fit as well as the old one had. It fit in the frame without a problem.

But the top of the battery was too high to allow the bracket that holds the battery in place to be screwed down. In fact, the screws would not even reach the battery.

There was some loose talk of cutting a hole through the top of the battery, but it was short-lived. Probably due to the look of horror that froze my face.

Ford had designed a very clever cover, for its Escapes, that goes across the top of the battery after it is installed. Of course, it would not now snap into place because of the preternatural height of the new battery.

Cruz and his assistant set to work with a drill and several screws. I walked away in the same manner a father would if his child had been under a LIston knife.

And, then, it was all over. I had power restored, and I was ready to roll down the road.

Now, I just need to get two new wheels and a bent tie rod replaced -- all from the infamous Gibraltar strike last January. And I will be done with car work for awhile.

And thus are the gods tempted to punish hubris.

what if harold stassen had been elected president?

Election day is upon us.

That is if you live in the State of Mexico.

The rest of the world may be suffering election fatigue, but the local pundits are watching a gubernatorial race in the state of Mexico to see if the entrails of an iguana can foretell the outcome of Mexico's presidential election in 2018.

The governor race has all of the makings of a dress rehearsal for next year. The leading contenders are from PRI (the Institutional Revolutionary Party) of President Peña Nieto and Morena, the party founded by the left-wing populist Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO). If the Morena candidate wins, it will be an indication AMLO may be elected president of Mexico next year.

How can one state have such influence? It isn't the state that is so important (even though the state has the largest population of Mexico's states, and Peña Nieto stepped up to the presidency in 2012 after being governor there), it is the history surrounding Mexican elections since 2000.

In the mid-1990's PRI agreed to allow free elections for governors and members of congress. It was a grand departure for a party that had ensured it would not lose important elections.

That change resulted in the election of President Fox of the center-right PAN (the National Action Party) in 2000 and his successor President Calderon (also of PAN) in 2006. At the time, a lot of pundits declared PRI dead -- just as they have with the Republican and Democrat parties after each American election.

But PRI did not die. It held on to a good portion of Congress and a majority of governor positions. And, then, in 2012, PRI took back the presidency. The question is which party will prevail next year. President Peña Nieto is prohibited from running for election by the Mexican constitution.

AMLO is not new to presidential elections. He is the Harold Stassen of Mexico -- having run for the presidency (and lost) twice before: in 2006 and 2012 as the candidate of a coalition headed by the leftist PRD (the party of the Democratic Revolution). What sets him aside from Stassen is that he almost won both races.

He has now decided that PRD is too establishment for him, and has founded a party further to the left to be his populist vehicle to run for president -- Morena. And he has the wind at his back.

For five years he as acted as the unofficial opposition to almost everything President Peña Nieto has done (dr. lopez obrador has a cure for you). When Peña Nieto acted to improve the oil industry, the telecommunications monopoly, and the lamentable education system, AMLO was there to throw himself in the way of the reform train.

AMLO's biggest stick, though, is corruption -- which he conflates with reform. And Peña Nieto has served up a plate of steaming malfeasance for AMLO's campaign. Elected (like every president since the Revolution) to fight corruption, Peña Nieto has mired himself in the worst type right up to his photogenic neck.

Infrastructures contacts (some with China) that would be an ideal ethics case study in conflict of interest. Expensive homes at bargain prices for his wife. A Keystone Cops approach to crime. And, worst of all, a bungled investigation of the disappearance of 43 student teachers -- all wrapped up in a nice package of local political corruption and cartel connections.

Mexican voters are not pleased with Peña Nieto -- nor with PRI. Even though the party has held the governorship of Mexico state since PRI was established, this may be the year another candidate wins.

If PRI keeps the governor seat, it will mean little. PRI has not yet named its presidential candidate for next year. Whoever it is, the voters will undoubtedly offer him up on an altar of electoral sacrifice.

If Morena wins, AMLO's credentials to harness national anger in a populist cause will be enhanced. (If that recipe sounds familiar to Americans, it should.)

There is also the possibility of a real upset. Even though PRI has a slight lead in the polls, Morena, PRD, and PAN are bunched up together within striking distance.

As for me, I have no dog in this fight. But it will be interesting to see if the state of Mexico offers a preview for what next year will offer us.

morning vampires

This morning I was awakened by a nibble on the neck.

Not so much a nibble as a bite. The strange thing is I was alone. Or so I thought.

It turns out my cheaply-won affection was from a large cockroach in my bed. I had no idea they would bite people.

But I know very little about cockroaches. Some people say cockroaches do not exist where they live. Unless they grew up in Antarctica, they simply may be not very observant.

Cockroaches exist in Oregon, but most of us do not see them very often. Unless you spend a lot of time in the woods, where they can be seen with all of their other exoskeleton clan.

The first inside cockroach I saw was in the Kenilworth Hotel in Miami Beach during the 1968 Republican convention. I pulled open the shower curtain to use the tub only to discover that it was already occupied by the largest insect I had ever seen. (One of the few things I got from that trip was the idea for a pseudonym -- Sanford Kenilworth -- that I used for years to write commentaries.)

A quick search of the internet reveals my early morning tryst was not unique. Cockroaches, being omnivores, like meat. And human flesh -- even of the living -- is on their menu.

But that is supposed to happen only due to cockroach overpopulation when no other food is available. Of course, there is always the possibility my bed-mate may have been the Hannibal Lecter of insects.

Considering the number of scorpions (and now a human-eating cockroach) that have shown up in the living quarters of the house, it may be time to find a reputable exterminator to spray for likely suspects.

Or, I could just leave matters as they are, and have extra grist for the Mexpatriate mill.

the vineless trellis

I am the procrastination champ.

Three months ago, I told you I needed to trim back the landscaping in my patio (strangling time). The architect of the house placed a planter in front of each of the four bedroom doors to provide an attractive privacy screen.

It is a great concept -- as long as the vines on each trellis are kept under control. That I have not done.

I trim them back occasionally, but they tend to twine on one another and become quite top heavy.

Before Christy left, we managed to cut back one of the vines, and decided the full vine would need to be cut down to about eye level. It was a start. But I have been gone from the house since then.

When, I returned the vine had grown back. Taking that as a challenge, I planned on attacking the vine on Sunday. But my Mexican friend, who had agreed to help me, never showed up.

So, on Monday I started cutting back bit by bit. By Wednesday, I was half done. Today, I finished the job.

Ten large garbage bags of vine now sit in front of my house -- and this is the result.

It will not take long for the vine to revive. That is its nature. And this is still the growing season. It also helps that no one will be using that bedroom until next October or November.

As soon as I see how quickly the first vine recovers, I will start on the other three. When guest arrive next winter, their privacy will be guarded by vine lines that replicate those in the house.

And, if you would like to volunteer as a vine cutter (because I suspect I will never see my friend on this project), just stop by. Ladders and cutters will be at hand.

exploding crickets

Cicadas were not a part of my youth.

They are uncommon in Oregon. My first encounter with one was on a high school trip to Washington, DC in 1966.

We were staying at a hotel in suburban Virginia when I went outside to watch another new insect -- fireflies. While standing there, I heard a buzz that could have come from a malfunctioning electrical transformer.

When I asked a local resident, he said it was a cicada. That set me off on a research journey that lasts until this day.

Even though I did not see any in Oregon, Mexico is alive with this family of true bugs. The valleys around Colima echo with the plaintive call of males looking for a mate before he drops dead.

And they visit my courtyard -- along with field crickets. I suspect Philip Glass could compose a passable symphony based on the combined nocturnal chirps of the crickets and the buzz of the cicadas.

Because the cicadas have their skeleton on the outside of their bodies, they are forced to molt their skins as they grow new bodies and new wings. The carcasses hanging on my landscape leave a rather melancholy reminder of their presence -- even now when they have all died.

That is the scientific explanation. Colombians have a much more poetic explanation. They believe that cicadas explode when they sing -- like some mythic character out of a Chinese fable. Paying the ultimate price for such beauty.

Now, that sounds a bit strange to those of us whose imaginations have been straight jacketed by The Enlightenment. Aristotle and Dali would tell us there is much more to the world than can be restricted to logic and the scientific method. And, in a certain way, the Colombian explanation is far more romantic than the one I tend to accept.

I suspect Colombians like the tale, but know the truth. Just as Mexicans do about the myth of the eagle, the snake, and the cactus. But each serves its purpose of defining a culture.

Speaking of Colombia, I talked with a reader on the telephone last night. She wondered when I was going to write my long-promised essays on my visit to Colombia.

They are in the works. Now, that I am back at my desk, I will try a bit of discipline in getting them written.

Until then, I will miss the song of the exploding crickets.