My Site

Where You Can Find Me

I often get a lot of questions about my site as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Colombia. The nascent program here in Colombia is significantly different from Peace Corps in other countries: Whereas in other countries, PCVs are often located outside of big cities – in small towns, villages, and rural outposts – most of the volunteers in Colombia are located in urban or peri-urban (just outside of city) areas. A Volunteer in, say, Paraguay or Peru, could expect to live for two years in a small town in a farming area or high on the barren altiplano of the Andes. In Colombia it is more common for a PCV to live in a middle or lower-middle class neighborhood in the beachside city of Santa Marta, industrial Barranquilla, or the touristy, historical city of Cartagena. 

The urban location or proximity of most sites in Colombia certainly appeals to many PCVs: Wait, you mean as a PCV in Colombia I can just hop on a city bus to go watch a movie at a mall and eat something different instead of having to make a cross-country trek for the nearest semblance of Americana? Fantastic! 

Other volunteers enter Peace Corps service with at least a fleeting romantic desire for life off the grid: Living in a mud hut or a yurt in the middle of nowhere with no Internet access or TV to return to the US after service and be able to regale friends and family members on how you survived two years without pizza, decent beer, knowledge about the most popular songs of the season, or having watched the latest episodes of the Daily Show or Top Chef. 

My site is not quite the urban experience of the majority of my co-volunteers, nor is it completely the isolated, middle-of-nowhere experience had by volunteers in parts of Mongolia, Namibia, or other countries. Close to a major Colombian city, my site is located on an island.

Situated a kilometer or two in the water in front of a major coastal city, this island contains four little towns (or, more accurately, “townships” since they are under the jurisdiction of the city) ranging in population from around 400 people to over 8,000 people. Most of the inhabitants of the four localities are Afro-Colombians, descendents of runaway slaves that escaped from the city and sought refuge in the lush forest on the island off the coast; the town where I am living has between 1,800-2,000 inhabitants, most of whose families have lived on the island (from what I gather) for the past 100 years or so.

On one hand, my site is the essence of development living: Plastic jugs sit waiting to be filled with water. With no potable water available on the island in the brackish bay, all the water for drinking, bathing, washing laundry and dishes, is brought in on boats from the city unless collected during rain storms. No plumbing means waste water – from toilets, buckets that serve as kitchen sinks, washing machines – ends up in latrines, septic tanks, the backyard, or the bay. 

On the other hand is modernity in full display: DirectTv satellites lining most rooftops, lighting up windows with the latest soap Colombian soap operas, live soccer games from all parts of Europe and Latin America, CNN Español broadcasting breaking news from NY, Atlanta, Washington, the Middle East, and other regions of the world (when the power isn’t out, that is).

From various spots around town, in the distance I can see the high rises of luxury condos in a wealthy neighborhood, the illuminating flames from gas companies, and the passing of loaded container ships bringing in cars from the United States, clothing Central America, and consumer electronics from Asia and cruise ships filled with tourists. 

Around me are concrete block houses and wooden board houses of varying degrees of development – some with nicely painted, vibrant facades and clean tile floors, others with empty living rooms and floors of packed dirt. Speakers parked on front porches blast a variety of music, deafeningly loud. Plastic bags, packaging from purchases in the city, refuse from houses and stores strewn the unpaved streets and backyards. Pigs, dogs, and chickens roam freely. 

The island, the town. The unimaginable wealth disparity from the city across the bay. It’s a strange mix of creature comforts and daily challenges, relaxing lifestyles and opportunities for constant stress. And it’s my site, my home for two years.