Only photos for now, but words are in the works…
———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.
Only photos for now, but words are in the works…
———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.
(the sunrise, this morning, in oregon)
*****
(A letter to two former neighbors, dear friends, and fellow divemasters, who continue to live in Taganga, in the hotel of the house where I was living in Colombia.)
Hey boys!
Haven’t forgot you at all. In fact, I gather lots of fine stares every time I pull out my rabbit book and pet the stuffed bunny face (you guys gave me) pasted onto the cover. I think it (the bunny) is lonely for the old times, when it was attached to a birthday bag and used to distribute gifts of tacky taste. But it’s found a happy home now with the other rabbits of “Watership Down”, who are all quite accustomed to a life of pilgrimage and adaptation, and I think it’ll be very content with its new burrow on the bookshelf of my 6-year old niece.
As for me and being far away from our own old shared burrow, I don’t “long” for South America, so much as I simply hold love for it. After all, there’s no need for me to dwell in a past when my present and future have managed to match in adventure and excitement (which I consider the ultimate “trick” to living in the present moment). And although my arrival back in the States was safe and without major complications, it hasn’t been without slight and expected turbulence…
On my first connection, the airline stewardess tried to put no less than six “disposable” cups on my tray table; 1 can of apple juice “double-cupped” with a plastic cup, with 1 more plastic cup full of ice, and then 1 styrofoam cup of tea, double-cupped again inside another plastic cup with 1 more empty cup for water. I handed them all (but one) back. And an hour later, when I denied her offer of three more plastic cups and asked instead for my requested refill in the exact same cup that I used the first time around, she looked at me like I was crazy.
Am I?
This I am beginning to wonder.
And, accustomed to a life of tuning IN to everything (because it’s either silent, new, or not quite understood) I suddenly feel like some one has reached over and swung the life volume knob round 360 degrees . During my layover in Miami, much like a rabbit, I scurried around the airport, hiding from the obvious and bombarding clarity of English cell phone conversations, overhead speakers and televisions. Having no tent to retreat into (as I did during my last lay-over in the Miami airport), I finally found a sunny corner in a hallway that was in the quieter process of remodel – and tuned myself out. You can probably imagine my relief, when I finally took cover in the cozy, quiet and known surroundings of my parent’s home in the hills of Portland, Oregon.
But yesterday, at the movie rental store (while coincidentally renting, “Supersize Me”), I picked up a washer-machine sized “pre-packaged, ready-to-serve” bucket of microwave popcorn (with the popcorn, butter, salt and seasonings pre-mixed in a plastic bag at the bottom of the well) and laughed out loud. I held it up (it took two hands) and showed it to my mom, “God I wish I could show this to my Colombian host mother, Diana! Wouldn’t she have a laugh at this!” And my mom cocked her head and me and asked, “Why? What’s funny about that?” And then my 2-year-former self cocked her head inside of me and said, “Yeah. Why? What’s so funny about this?”
Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s more disturbing or relieving when you come to those moments in your life where you suddenly realize, with inner-self-cocking clarity, just how much you’ve changed over a recent life course. Seems “home” — along with hugs, flannel sheets, organic tofu and 6-year old nieces — is also great for setting that life learning limbo bar.
And I can’t help but notice that my bags are still unpacked and wonder if that might be reflective of some subconscious reluctance to settle in. (Although I think I’ll give myself a break on this one in consideration of the fact that as soon as they are emptied, they will again be repacked). I feel a bit transparent; haunting my old house, dropping in and out of new and old versions of “me,” and letting my mind wander and wonder how a 10-hour flight can really define the difference between “here” and “there.” I probably sound perplexed, but truth is, I’m quite comfortable on this couch of confusion. The world is definitely spinning around me right now, but is there any better way to seek what’s straight, solid and still?
Enough of my ramble. It’s time for me to get going. The sun is about to rise, and honestly, the show here is just as impressive over the mountains and tall pines of Oregon as it is over the hills and smooth beach of Taganga. Thank god the Divine is not prejudiced or biased with where she exhibits her daily displays of brilliancy.
Please give Freddy, Diana and Mayra my hugs and love. Remind Freddy to figure out what (American) size he wears in Chacos so that I can bring him a pair the next time I come to Colombia. Let Diana know that I’m still crying in the isles with laughter at her comic levels of shock over the American pre-packaged and processed food fetish. And tell Mayra that I demonstrated her reggaeton dance routine to my niece, who in turn, tipped over in her own fit of laughter at me.
sending more warmth to your tropics,
sol
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Back on the border between Ecuador and Colombia and the first words that I heard upon making contact in this county echo from the corridor of what seems a curiously distant past…
“They are going to rob you.”
In the backseat of the taxi, I hug my backpack closer to my chest and instinctively touch my moneybelt to make sure it’s secure and hidden. With all the naivety of a newcomer, fresh with the worries and warnings of a lifetime of “Colombia = Danger!” conditioning, I furrow my brow in fear and brace myself for the blow.
Though I can’t quite figure out what I lost in my translation of what he’s said in Spanish; “Does he mean HE’S going to rob me? Or that there are others involved and we’re on our way to meet them?”
The taxi driver throws a calm arm over the front seat of the car, turns around and smiles warmly, “Yes. One of our Colombian boys will surely steal your heart. And then you’ll never want to leave.”
*****
Well he was partially right. Although I wouldn’t point at just one person, but an entire line up of men, women, children and in particular, one very special family of whom are guilty of claiming my admiration, love, affection and inspiring my wish to live here for a lifetime.
And I’m usually not much of a goodbye-crier, but judging by how many tears I left on the pavement of the road winding up and away from Taganga, I’d say Colombia is indeed, the hardest country I’ve ever had to leave in all of my adventures through the Americas.
And while we’re on the subject, I would just like stand up as a witness and clear Colombia’s terribly unjustified bad rap.
For it’s very much in the best interest of the American Government (who obviously must justify the making and selling of 1.3 billion USD in military “aid” to Colombia) to name Colombia as host to yet another famous “axis of evil” and therefore promote it as so, declaring anyone daring enough to stand up and speak out against the (terribly unjust) system as a “terrorist” and “enemy” and automatically devoid of voice or rights, but quite deserving of an American-made bullet shot by an American-trained soldier.
(Oh, just look at my bitterness get the best of me!)
Colombia IS a dangerous place for elite foreign investors and local executives on business trips scouting new ways to exploit and take advantage of the people and precious resources of this land. For these are the people that are targeted by the armed groups who have desperately resorted to violence to seek system change and revolution in this county.
But Colombia is NOT dangerous for petty backpackers carrying curious, open and alert minds. In my nine weeks traveling (alone, American and female) across the country and all overland, I never once felt my safety or security jeopardized. I have heard very few first hand accounts of robbery or violence targeted at backpackers. And strolling the streets of Colombia’s major cities was like a ride in Disneyland in comparison to some of my fright-worthy walks in downtown Quito (Ecuador), San Jose (Costa Rica) and Guatemala City.
Without reservation, I encourage anyone with basic travel safety wits to venture forth in Colombia. The county, the land, the cities, the sights, the food, the culture, and the people, the people, the people (because they deserve triple emphasis) guarantee an adventure that far outweighs the risks.
Now it’s time for me to cross the Colombian border. And what, might you ask, after all my fawning and flattering, could possibly take me away from this dream of a country?
Some very, very, very exciting news…
*coming*
> *Last* New Pictures Now in the Colombia Album
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(My entire hostel in Cartegena was woken up and all the rooms were systematically searched on the morning of the weekend that Bush visited Uribe in Cartegena last month. Snipers patrolled the rooftops and police and military (readily equipped with riot gear) were also stationed in small groups on all four corners of every block. Persons carrying any sort of bag or backpack on the street were subject to any number of searches without explanation or question.)
My dinner conversation last night was centered around the comment and question;
“Interesting how easily and eagerly the US Government extended to us (Colombia), and even dipped into “emergency aid” funds to offer, an assistance package of 1.3 Billion dollars. Perhaps Asia would have gotten more than 15 million dollars in help if they´d asked for it in guns and helicopters instead of rice and water?”
Perhaps.
In any case, I went online to think the question out (of US “aid” and intervention in Colombia) and decided to share what I spent my entire afternoon reading…
(I obviously do not support all the statements and opinions made in the following articles, but I did find them extremely interesting, and in alignment with I’ve personally seen in Colombia and heard from the Colombians I know.)
*****
The Environment, Plan Columbia, and U.S. Aid
by Kristine A. Herwig
Colombia, which is roughly the size of Texas, New Mexico, and Oklahoma combined, supplies the U.S with as much as ninety percent of its cocaine and seventy percent of its heroin (Rosenberg 51). The U.S. has been involved in spraying herbicides on drug crops for nearly a decade in Colombia, but since 1995 production has doubled and a country known for its extreme violence and dismal human rights record has seen both escalate to even higher levels, implying that U.S. efforts thus far have had no success (Rohter). Because of this, in 1998 Colombian President Pastrana sought help from the Clinton administration to seek aid in reducing drug trafficking, negotiating peace with the guerrillas, and investing in development programs to wean peasants away from growing coca and heroin poppy (Bald). What was born in 2000, however, bore little resemblance to what Pastrana had originally proposed as Plan Colombia. The Clinton administration had given Plan Colombia a very different face that involved a military component of nearly $800 million dollars, 80% of the total 1.3 billion dollars being offered (Rosenberg 51). This military aid, however, may offer little chance of reducing the production of cocaine and heroin and is ?likely to make things worse ? to widen the war, handicap the peace talks between the government and the rebel groups, embolden the hard-liners and cause more civilian death? (Ibid.).
*****
by Noam Chomsky
There is nothing particularly novel about the relation between atrocious human rights violations and US aid. On the contrary, it is a rather consistent correlation. The leading US academic specialist on human rights in Latin America, Lars Schoultz, found in a 1981 study that US aid “has tended to flow disproportionately to Latin American governments which torture their citizens,… to the hemisphere’s relatively egregious violators of fundamental human rights.” That includes military aid, is independent of need, and runs through the Carter period. In another academic study, Latin Americanist Martha Huggins reviewed data for Latin America suggesting that ?the more foreign police aid given [by the US], the more brutal and less democratic the police institutions and their governments become.? Economist Edward Herman found the same correlation between US military aid and state terror worldwide, but also carried out another study that gave a plausible explanation. US aid, he found, correlated closely with improvement in the climate for business operations, as one would expect. And in US dependencies it turns out with fair regularity, and for understandable reasons, that the climate for profitable investment and other business operations is improved by killing union activists, torture and murder of peasants, assassination of priests and human rights activists, and so on. There is, then, a secondary correlation between US aid and egregious human rights violations.
*****
by Jorge Robledo
For those Colombians who don’t want to deceive themselves, what the U.S. is seeking with ?free trade? has been explained with exceptional frankness by its strategists. Thus, according to Robert Zoellick, (U.S. Trade Representative in the negotiations), the “FTAA will help open Latin American and Caribbean markets to U.S. businesses and farmers by eliminating barriers to trade, investment, and services, and by reducing tariffs on U.S. exports which are much higher in these markets than those applied by the United States.? And the Secretary of State, Colin Powell, stated: ?Our objective with FTAA is to guarantee North American companies the control of a territory that goes from the Arctic Pole all the way to Antarctica, free access to the whole hemisphere without difficulties or obstacles for our products, services, technology, and capital.?
Thus, not unexpectedly, the decision to create the FTAA was made in 1994 by the only one in a position to make it, then President George H. Bush, a man loyal to a Henry Kissinger dictum that is truer in the Americas than anywhere else: ?Globalization is nothing but a euphemism for American domination.” And the Colombian government pledged to join such agreement without consulting Colombia’s people and without any analysis of its consequences.
*****
Colombia: Another U.S.-Sponsored Killing Field
(An interview with Doug Morris, Co-director of the David Anderson Center for Peace and Justice)
Put simply the U.S. wants a system dominated by elites who support U.S. wealth and power interests, so that U.S. businesses will be given free access to Colombian resources — material and human — particularly oil resources, but not limited to oil. Apparently Colombia has the largest oil reserves in the hemisphere.
There is a systematic history of the U.S. destroying independent alternative social movements when those movements represent the interests of the “wrong” people, namely, the poor, the peasants, indigenous people, working people, etc. It is the threat of “people taking matters into their own hands,” as Kennedy officials put it in discussing the real threat in Cuba. The point is the U.S. will not allow a successful alternative to develop and that is a real crime against all of humanity. This “monotheistic” approach, where “Profits over people” is the state religion which allows no alternative, is making conditions increasingly worse for people and the environment.
Given our enormous wealth and resources we should be funding experiments in alternative social, economic and political organization, not destroying them. This “monotheistic” approach, for most of the people of the world, is a grotesque catastrophe. Corporate rights should not come before human rights.
So, to sum up in answer to your question, the U.S. goal is to create conditions of “stability” in Colombia. Conditions are “stable” after people are forced, often through brutal repression and murder, to passively accept whatever the United States is imposing on them, in this case neo-liberal structural adjustment programs and austerity programs, often called the “Washington Consensus,” i.e. “good for corporations, bad for people,” which put corporate rights and profits above all else. Conditions are “unstable” when people are actively resisting U.S.-imposed programs. The FARC resistance movement are not angels, they kidnap, they “tax” businesses, including coca growers, they murder, though nowhere near the rate of the paramilitaries and military, but all of that must be seen in the context of Colombia’s real problems.
*****
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After enjoying our evening English sessions so much, I was invited to move into the house to share in a season with one of the most carinoso, loving and fun families I’ve ever encountered in my travels. Now, I’m quite conscious that here in the magical little Colombian community of Taganga, I’m making memories that my eyes will one day tear up over, but I’m too busy loving it all up to miss it quite yet.
Please, meet my family…

This is Mayra, my 12-year old adopted sister. She teaches me how to properly mash patacones (fried plaintain) and I help her translate Bob Marley songs. When we’re not swimming or singing, she’s usually making “yuck” faces at all my raw vegetables and doing everything within the power of her persuasions to get me to eat meat.

This is my host mother Diana. She’s taught me the secrets (canela and panela!) of making a proper Colombian tinto (coffee). Despite the fact that she’s lived in Taganga for three years, she’d never been to the only discoteque in town. So, on her insistence, Annie and I took her out last weekend, where she held her own on the dance floor (without a sip of alcohol) ‘till 3:30 in the morning!
 
 
 
 
Meet Annie, our in house resident expert in song and salsa! We spend evenings turning the kitchen into a dance floor as she instructs me in the subtle shoulder, hip and rump rotations that distinguish cumbiafrom mapale and purro. She shakes it like only a Latina pura can.

And this is Freddy! From the minute I wake up (at the crack of dawn) to the first minute he spots me climbing over the hill towards the house, at the top of his lungs he screams his enthusiastic greeting; “CHRISTINA AGUILERA!” He wants nothing to do with conjugating verbs and is constantly throwing his fist onto the table to ask, “Yes. But HOW do I say in English, “If your new Colombian girlfriend spends the night while you’re staying in our hotel, then you have to pay the price of two people.” We take trips on the moto to go pick up Mayra at her grandmother’s house in true Colombian style: one moto, three people, two backpacks, two ice-cream cones, and a weeks work of groceries and a five gallon jug of water dangling off all limbs not driving.

I’m not the only long-term hotel guest who’s fallen in love with this house. This is Martin, who Diana refers to as “whoo hoo!” which is the whoop noise he makes when he gets excited, which he did a lot of when making Switzerland’s national dish, Roshti, for everyone last night.

And this is David from Israel, who’s been happily “stuck” in Tanganga while suffering from some “mystery disease” that the doctors here think might be dengue fever and which he INSISTS that he cured by consuming obscene amounts of garlic. But I have to admit, the 40 cloves of garlic that I chopped and added to his special Shakshuka recipe, did make for a salivating experience.

This is the fruit juice bar of Anna and Kelli, where you can find me every morning and at every sunset, sipping on concoctions of guanabana, papaya, mango, maracuya, and lulo. There isn’t an easier place in the world to do a juice fast and as a result, we wink at each other over my special discounted rates.

This is Swiss Diana, who has an English book exchange in town that I visit on almost a daily basis. I’ve already read four books off her shelf and am now busy translating and creating promotional flyers for her in exchange for organic papayas from her garden. Yum.

This is Black #2. I used to take him for walks on the beach, but when he gets tired he refuses to move and I’ve grown tired of carrying him home. And he only responds to commands in Spanish “puppy-talk” (which is what Diana uses) and I just can’t bring myself to make my voice so high or strange.

This is Dana, the REAL big baby of the house. She sneaks up on me in the grass or when I’m in the hammock, and with no warning, I suddenly have 100 pounds of Dana on top of me. My only protection is…

Mama Tacha, who’s always ready to take a quick snap at a sol-stalking Dana. Mama Tacha and I have a special affinity towards each other. I think it’s because she too was a wanderer who followed her nose up to this house where she was treated with such love that she refused to leave. Tacha follows me everywhere. Be it on the beach or at the bar, she stands patiently by my side, always within distance of a reassuring pat or longer loving pet.
Well, it’s Christmas Eve, and “CHRISTINA AQUILERA! VENGA POR UN TINTO!” is being shouted up to me from downstairs. Time for me to join and delight in the laughter and smells wafting up to my room. Sending wishes out to all, that in your holiday also, may the only thing hotter than the tinto be the warmth of the loved ones you share it with.
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There comes a point, along the path of every traveller, when in one neck-stiffening and heart-palpitating moment, you come to a course changing conclusion enlightened by a single flashing revelation…
Um. Pretty, yes. But the enlightenment I´m talking about right now goes a little more like this…
*flash*
“Insufficient Funds”
*flash*
Ah, yes. Quite the nerve of an ATM to talk back to you in such a haughty manner and then spit your card back at you despite all that you’ve put into it.
Well, okay. So maybe I have filled out only one deposit slip in all of 2004. And running quite perpendicular to all my university accounting course learnings, my personal revenue rules go a lot like this…
– “Sufficiency” is key. Anything more only weighs you down with worry.
– Trade services instead of cash when and where ever possible.
– Pursue your passion and funds for making a “living” of it will follow.
– Nix the retirement fund. Invest in the present and the making of a memory fund.
– Find “work” that you love so much that you would never want to retire from it.
– Don’t EVER look at magazines.
– Give away (or sell) everything that you don’t use on a weekly basis.
– Say “no” to credit cards and loans.
– Check your bank account one day a month. Forget about it the other 29.
– Take public transport.
– Don’t spend money on alcohol.
(And if you fancy long-term travel like I do…)
– Don’t spend more than $50 on anything that doesn’t fit in your backpack.
I met a backpacker recently who quit smoking for one year, saved all the money that he would have otherwise spent on cigarettes, and is now travelling for a year in South America on the savings. Ironically, smoking is so cheap here that he’s now back to a pack a day. But at least he’s now smoking over sunsets instead of stress? (Colombia can also support some other bad backpacker habits seeing as the drugs here are cheaper than the beer (10,000 pesos/ $4.54 USD will buy you either a gram of cocaine or a quarter bag of weed, sold right over the counter at the local bar.) But don´t be confused. The demand, even here, does not come from the Colombians, but the North Americans and Europeans.)
Anyway, as is the way with the good ol’ divine plan, all kinds of blessings have come from my bank account’s winter color, red.
Instead of paying (how boring really) for my beautiful little studio apartment on a cliff overlooking the sea, I’m now exchanging rent for evening English classes. And we are enjoying ourselves so much, that I’ve now adopted a proper family to share meals, life and love with (which also in turn improves my Spanish scores). Additionally, I’m exchanging diving for divers at a scuba dive shop down the street. My only expenditure now is my weekly trip to the market which amounts to about $13 US dollars. Add my fresh and frothy daily “jugo de lulo” on the beach and time on internet (my biggest expense) and my monthly budget total comes to about $80 USD.
Not bad math, eh?
View from the hammock balcony of my studio…
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On to Arecifes Beach in the Parque Tayrona…
To find me, follow these simple directions:
Life`s too fun.
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(New pictures in the Colombia Album)
The heat has exhausted me and I slide under the shade of a palm-thatched hut on the beachfront. Small, tanned, naked children roll around on the sand floor absorbed in their individual imaginations. I smile, again admire the world that those under seven live in, and wonder if I’ll ever be able to find that door again. Two older boys play chess with soda bottle caps on a hand painted log stump in the corner of the hut and a man and his wife recline in the table next to mine. The woman is nursing a new child. Every few minutes someone from the community stops by the hut and tries to steal the baby for a toss, coo or cuddle. A group of men return from the sea and take seats at the table and a round of cold beers are immediately placed before them. Fingers and feet naturally tap along to the salsa streaming out from the radio as if the beat can never quite escape their bodies. I am always awed by this natural relationship with rhythm that those of lighter skin seem always to struggle so much with.
Someone whistles from the back and one of the young men disappears and returns with the pitcher of fresh lemonade that I have requested. He puts it on the table and stares at me without reserve or embarrassment. Then he asks me where I’m from.
“The United States,” I slowly reply. I always say the name of my country as gently and softly as possible, perhaps in silent hopes that this grace will also soften the sharp and cutting edge of the controversial conversations that usually follow.
He plops down soundly into the chair next to mine and crosses his arms across his chest.
Noting his body posture, I appropriately brace myself for the Question. What will it be today? The election? The war in Iraq? Bush’s recent visit to Colombia? The Free Trade Agreement the US is trying to push on some of the poorest countries in S. America in order to guarantee its freedom to exploit their precious resources? “Plan Colombia” and infamous drug war? What will be the Question today?
“Como hago?” he says.
I’m confused by his coastal slang and look at him blankly.
He puts both his hands on the table and clarifies, “How do I get there? Why can’t I go there? You can come here, right? Why can’t I go to your country?”
Ah. The immigration question. An exhausting discussion that I’ve had on islands around the world. And one of my least favorite. Because not only do I not have any answers for why people are constantly denied visas or even visiting rights to the US, but I also have to battle bitterly with the “dream” that Hollywood has not only painted on the “life ideal” billboards of America, but also broadcast across continents to make citizens of otherwise perfectly content communities question if they actually are happy without a car, two story house, vacuum cleaner and wall mounting television.
I shake my head and sigh.
“Why do you want to go to the United States? Do you know that what you see on television is not true? Do you know that Americans work 50 weeks a year in hopes of finding the time and money to spend only a few days in a pardise like this?”
I throw my arm out and spread it over the tropical beach, the sea, the children playing in the sand and the family laughing behind me…
“Look what you have here! You live on an island in the Caribbean with everyone you love! You have warmth, and beauty, and music and community and family, and comfort and long, lazy and sunny days to enjoy it all.”
He looks around for a second and acknowledges, but swipes aside, what I see.
He squints his eyes and says, “I hear you can make $20 dollars a day just washing windows of the cars in the street. Tell me. Is that true?”
I press my fingers to my temples and sigh. I, as of late, have been feeling particularly overwhelmed by qualities of life and humanity. Earlier this same day, I found out that Playa Blanca (see pictures below) was recently bought by a huge international 5-star chain resort that is making the island private and is now in the process of kicking off its inhabitants. No longer will people be able to rent a hammock on the beach for a night (4000 pesos, US $1.80) and enjoy a fresh fish and coconut rice meal (7000 pesos, US $3.18) prepared by Mama Ruth. Via exuberant prices, only the elite will have access to the island. And Mama Ruth and family, may themselves have to relocate in order to oblige.
“Is that what life is about? Money?”
He rubs his fingers together and says, “Not just money; but the Dollar.” He contines, “If I can get to the States, I can get myself some dollars. And then I can find myself a nice American wife and…”
I don’t have to listen. I know how the sentence and story ends. I’ve seen it in music videos, magazines, movies, soap operas, and TV enough times to have the script memorized on all kinds of conscious and subconscious levels.
I look at the sea and watch a small naked child taking chase after a retreating wave and then turn, shrieking with joy, as the chase suddenly turns on him.
The children see so easily. If there’s anything we should watch, it should be them. When did we forget those innate secrets of living and loving? When did the simple recipe for joy become so cluttered, complicated and confused? And what must we unlearn to reveal and realize them again?
*****
Playa Blanca (“White Beach”)
Morning…

Noon…

and Night…

Journal Entry
December 1st, 2004
Playa Blanca, Islas de Rosaria
Off of coast of Cartegena, Colombia
Yesterday, today, tomorrow. 365 days a year, For millennia upon millennia. Over desert, jungle, city and sea. In the slums, on the streets and over the suites. Morning, noon and night. Life diligently and gracefully raises a hand and sweeps the sky. In a brush of brilliancy to allure and lift weary and downtrodden eyes. To bring to attention the questions that the striking evidence would only imply; In inspired wonder of who, what and why.
My favorite color is that of the sky minutes after the sun has set, but before the first star has shown itself yet. A fleeting and paradoxically incalculable minute. That by these instructions can be recognized and captured only by intuition. (As I think all life’s most inspiring moments to be.) This color. If captured in a stone. Would woo and wow the Royal to send troops to destroy, devastate and enslave, just to put a piece of it on their plump fingers. And here it is. That same color. Spread across the sky wide. Unprejudiced of all whom it adorns. Making even the sea look small and pale. In bold declaration. That all royalty and richness will befall. To those who look up. Any and all.
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Wandering but not lost.
On a 6 day trek to La Ciudad Perdida (the lost city.)
Here are some pics I found online while mine are in the making…)
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Come closer my friend, for I have something to share with you that we don’t necessarily want the rest of the world to know…
Colombia is I-N-C-R-E-D-I-B-L-E.
*hands down*
The best kept secret of South America.
Where to start?! The gasp-worthy countryside? The wicked rumbas (parties)? The “ambiente caliente”? The masses of photo-worthy faces? The daunting size of the avocados and mangos? The smells wafting from the bakeries? The alleys full of flowers tumbling over amazing architecture? The breed of backpacker? The sweaty salsa discoteques? And the people! The people! The people!
Let me give you two of a dozen examples…
– I walk into a hotel in Popayan and inquire as to if a room is available. The young woman smiles and informs me that the entire town is booked because of a conference. The first drops of the afternoon monsoon start to splatter in the garden in the center plaza of the hotel. “Ni una cama?” (Not one bed?) I plead. The smile never leaves the face of the girl as she replies, “No problem. You can sleep in the bed of mi papi. He’s out of town for the weekend. Okay? Follow me.”
– I wander out of the rain and into a building in Cali and ask the receptionist where I can find a map of the city. She shakes her head and tells me she hasn’t any idea. A young girl approaches me and says, “Come with me. I’ll drive you to the tourist office. And here’s my card. Call me tonight and I’ll show you around all of Cali, okay?!”
I have never, in all my travels, met such a warm and welcoming people as the Colombians.
The backpackers too are of a whole other breed; Uniquely united in a dare to challenge the rumor of danger, they’ve each surrendered their security at the border in exchange for a romp where only those that take their life less seriously can wander. In the last two nights, I was the only American at tables with representatives from Serbia, Slovenia, Denmark, Czech Republic, Israel, Colombia, Thailand, Holland, Norway, Australia, France, England, Belgium and Zimbabwe. And not a pair of zip-off pants in the whole bunch.
And Colombia is easy on the backpacker budget as well — although the value of dollar has dropped dramatically in the last week (ranging from 3000 to 2000 pesos in exchange for US1$). My taxi driver informs me that the drop is due to the US presidential elections. He then tells me that he should be able to vote for my president because, “…what happens in your country probably actually affects me more than it does you.” I nod my head in absolute agreement.
And the cities!!! There aren’t enough pretty adjectives in the dictionary so I’ll just let you see for yourself…
  
  
  
  
  
  
>63 New Pictures in the Colombian Album.
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