Havana

The classic Latin colonial plaza meets Marty McFly travels back to Hill Valley 1955.  That is Havana.

Yank tank Thunderbirds rumble down the cobblestone streets in front of towering gothic cathedrals.  Salsa music floats through the alleyways while lovebirds stroll hand in hand with chocolate ice cream cones.  Panaderías sit next to old school barber shops.  Big-booty black women walk alongside gangs of Danny Zukos with gelled hair and wife-beater tank tops.  

When I burst out of the salsa club with the flautists (my host and her friends) giggling with our elbows linked, a convertible Chevy Chevelle overflowing with people rolled up, and the guy leaning out asked us where we were going and why we didn’t hop in with them.  The next thing I expected was for everyone to burst out in choreographed dance and song about summer nights.   Instead we went to the boardwalk on the shore and listened to shirtless trovadores on acoustic guitars.  

Every day in front of the statue in the main plaza, the men gather to debate, fifteen at a time, arms waving, fingers jabbing, back hand clapping, forehead slapping, all shouting at the same time.  It looking like a typical South American machista pow wow, but they’re not fighting about soccer or women--they’re talking about baseball. 

The juxtapositions are endless...

Rincon del Mar

Iris' friend's sister's friend knew people who might have possibly been able to find us a place to stay in Rincon del Mar, a fisherman's town a couple hours south of Cartagena.  This opportunity, naturally, was not one to be passed up.  Sixteen dollars, one bus and two motorcycles later, we arrived at the entrance to Paradise... with one slight complication: the gatekeeper didn't want to let us in.  We tried to explain that we weren't just random foreigners, we were practically family with Martin--they guy who knows Claudia, the sister of our friend Eduardo, also known as El Mono (the blonde guy). "You know El Mono, right?" we pleaded. His eyes, a striking white contrast in a black raisin face, narrowed as grey smoke curled slowly upwards from his cigarette, as if it was a great effort to rise below the weight of the hot costal air.  It didn't help that neither of us speaks Co'teño, an S-less spanish spoken by Caribbean Colombians. "Y cómo e' que u'tede' vam pa' ya?" (What business do you have there?) Making ourselves understood was even more challenging.  Every sentence we spoke was met with another unconvinced look from the corner of his eyes and then a repetition of the same question.  Eventually, he warmed up enough to flag down a motorcyclist to take me to Martin who, by an amazing stroke of fortune, was more than happy to receive friends of El Mono, Claudia's brother. Within the hour we had reached heaven--drinking beers and eating fancy cheese, sitting in hammocks and rocking chairs on a marble patio discussing the tragedy of the impending development of the area.  In the stretches of white sand behind the house, dwarf palm trees fluttered in the sea breeze like the eyelashes of a flirtatious woman shyly blinking as if hiding a wonderful secret.  Beyond their shade, a bright aqua iris glistens, seductively, speechlessly luring onlookers into her light.  Emerging on the other side of the trees, the ocean is an illusion.  Is it there?  Or is it a blue-green tear welling up in the bottom of my eye, blinding me to everything below the middle of my vision? Martin, a Spanish-speaking Bill Murray, lounged shirtless on the white cushions of the sofa debating with his significantly younger Colombian lover about Idealism versus Realism.  "I was a dreamer all through my 40s," he said reminiscently, "And then I realized that some things in this life will simply never change."  He shrugged his shoulders.

Parents: Do not read.

The taxi driver didn't know where it was but he said we could ask for directions once we got closer.  But as we rolled slowly down the dark neighborhood avenues of Havana, the streets were as silent as a wax museum--not a soul in sight.

It was one o'clock in the morning and I was fresh off the plane--phoneless, nearly cashless, friendless, and hopelessly lost.  So I read again the address  I had scrawled in my notebook, as if the verbal repetition of the words would magically transport me to their destination, like Dorothy and her red slippers.  "There's no place like Calzado Aires, Numero 60, Apartamento 6."  Again.  Again.

"Tiene que estar por aquí, no?" (It has to be close to here, right?)
He didn't know.

Eventually we found the street.  Numero 50, 52, no-number building, no-number building, 64, 70... We rolled backwards.  I looked out the window into the night, squinting up and down the shadowy concrede edifices.  No numbers.  But it had to be one of those two.  That is, if indeed I had written the correct address.  Which I had.  I was almost positive.  Right?

So I asked the driver to wait for me to go knock, praying that he would value the CUC15 I hadn't paid him more than all of the contents my backpack.  I walked slowly up the cement staircase that enshouded me with an eerie darkness and along a narrow balcony on the side of the building, passing door number 3, 4, 5, and then, the last door with a barely-visible metal number 6 nailed to the frame.

This is the part in the movie when the people in the theater start to shout, "Don't do it!  Go back now!"  I could almost hear the high pitched minor notes on the violin stretching out in climactic suspense.

I knocked on the door.

I immediately stepped back and to the side, so that when I saw the ax in the door crack when it opened I would at least have a head start.  After a few seconds of piercing silence, there was a shuffling inside.  Certainly the assassin readying the silencer on his handgun.  The doorknob clicked.

And there was Sadys--a little sleepy-eyed and nappy-headed, but undoubtedly the 25-year old girl I had been emailing.

After an introductory greeting of apology exchanges--me for arriving so late and her for falling asleep--I extended my hand: "Mucho gusto, soy Kata."  We brought up the backpack from the taxi driver that had miraculously not disappeared and she welcomed me into her markedly non-creepy apartment.

By the next morning, we could have been confused for biracial stepsisters--sipping sugary coffee in the kitchen, swapping ex-boyfriend stories in our PJs.

[Excerpt from journal in Panama Airport, 1/11/12]

I haven't been outside of the country for more than two hours and I already miss Colombia.

The Panama airport is so...America.  The iPads, bathrooms with toilet paper, $7 sandwiches, everyone minding their own business, stores that accept credit cards, people looking busy--completely disconnected from the present world and completely connected to a virtual one, and people of all shapes and sizes--little white kids tugging mini roller suitcases, fit middle-aged men with salt and pepper hair and a baseball cap to match their squeaky sneakers, busty latin women in impossible heels, tattoos, thick-framed glasses, stripy backpacks, English, Japanese, Portuguese...

It was such a human garden salad that not a single head turned for a second glance at my blonde hair.   Talk about culture shock.  I walked to the other side of the airport to spend $5 on a beer I didn't want just on the off chance of attracting some attention.

As I sat there loathing myself for the COP20.000 I had blown on three chocolate bars and a beer--completely violating the eating/spending fast I had vowed to in the morning--I realized my impending re-assimilation to the States might be harder than I thought.

$$

"It's not even about the money," she said defensively, "I just don't like being taken advantage of.  Iris and I were buying fruit from some teenagers on the dusty avenue (and only road) in Rincon del Mar.  She added matter-of-factly, "And that's not a sustainable way to develop a micro economy."

The pineapple, papaya and pomelo cost us COP10.000 ($5) and collectively weighed about ten pounds.  I've spent more on organic vegan granola bars that weighed ten grams. But it was the principle of the matter, because the fruit would have cost a non-Gringa COP6.000.

Even in canvass shoes and dirty t-shirts, our imperialism-laden blonde hair is reflected as two fat dollar signs in the eyes of the local vendors.  The scent of the First World emits from the pores of our white skin resulting in an average markup of about 30% on everything we buy.  Of course to us, the relative cost is usually negligible.  The extra expense of a product could quite easily be recovered by going one full day without buying alcohol or dessert--a taxing, but manageable sacrifice.  Whereas for our providers, the influx of capital we supply might be enough to feed their family for a few days. 

Hence my rolling eyes at Iris' indignation. 

I decided to make a New Years resolution to buy more things from people and for people--in other words shop local and be a better gift giver.**  But I must have jinxed myself by framing my intentions as a "resolution" because not two days later I found myself walking down the cobblestone streets of Cartagena with my default-mode tunnel vision.  The pedestrian alleyway swirled with the characteristic kaleidoscope of mangoes, sun hats, earrings, and arepas.  And I glide through the center, unphased and uninterested, too prideful to fall prey to the tourist scalpers.

How do I justify the distinction?  Why does my moral intuition accept being ripped off by teenage fruit vendors on the beach and not by dread-locked bracelet weavers downtown?  Is it appearance? Context? Circumstances?

In Cartagena, I stayed with a girl I met on a bus.  I felt extremely indebted to her for taking me, practically a complete stranger, into her home, introducing me to her friends, feeding me, and showing me around the city.  On my last night I wanted to get her a present and then take her out to a nice dinner (thinking, "New Years resolution. Be a good gift giver.").  That morning, I was buying some sunscreen and she caught me at the cash register and put a toothbrush on the conveyor belt.  She asked if I would get it and she would pay me back later but I told her I that I would just gift it to her.  I figured it was the least I could do.  Turns out it was a $7 toothbrush (the average toothbrush in that store costing about $0.50).  But she was very thankful. "Don't worry about it," I told her, "I was looking for a gift for you anyway."

After that we went walking downtown and suddenly every third window item was of immense interest to her.  "Wow!  Look at that handbag!" A $100 leather purse.  "Isn't it fabulous?"  From shoe store to bra store to hat store, she would longingly stroke the pretty things and then say with a sigh something about if only she could afford it... I know the act because it is identical to the one I performed for 18 years when I lived with my parents.  When you know someone wants to buy you things, you want to maximize the situation in your benefit, it's logical human nature.  She is not a bad person, but I did feel unease about being manipulated. 

I can't seem to figure out what my subconscious criteria is for when I feel someone "deserves" generosity.

The beggars on the streets, the musicians on the bus, the vendors on the beach, the kind waitress, the taxi driver, the black child, the white charity volunteer...

I don't know.

*Disclaimer: I have no intention of making an international economic policy out of my New Years resolution because, as has been explained to me, that is simply not how the world works and not a good strategy for improving depressed economies.  But I will strive for the personal satisfaction of less time spent in supermarkets. And that is all. 

Cartagena

I was by no means the first Gringa to arrive in Cartagena, awkwardly tottering down dusty streets under the weight of a bulging stripy backpack.  Cartagena is one of Colombia's tourist gems, renowned for its colonial architecture, idyllic beaches, and tenatious street vendors.  Surely the locals are used to seeing grungy blondes in sunglasses wandering around looking lost. 

Then why did I feel like ET deboarding the mothership when I got off the bus? (The women in the fruit stands waiting for my fingertips to start glowing, the men smoking on the corner ready to leave me a trail of empananadas so I would follow them home).  It turns out Cartagena is a zonal city.  

There's a commercial zone in the center where dancers perform in the plaza and sunburned backpackers buy artisnal bracelets.

There's a tourism zone on the beach with 20-story hotels and restaurants with pretty hostesses.

And then there are the barrios.  Our hostel was located in one called El Bosque (and by "hostel" I mean truckers lodging).  Something tells me that the residents of El Bosque aren't so accustomed to international visitors.  And, granted, Iris (my travel buddy) and I weren't exactly inconspicuous outsiders.  My morning jog was a blasphemy against the sacred religion of Slow that dominates coastal culture. At the store on the corner, curvy black women sat with their (from all appearances) unplanned babies eating rice and steak for breakfast while we, the flip-flipping white girls, straw sipped tall glasses of all-natural fruit juices sin azucar.

Despite the strange looks and the excessive flattery (or, to put it less euphemistically, mild verbal harassment in the streets), the costeños certainly live up to their reputation of Caribbean friendliness.  One woman left her kitchen (lit stove and crying baby) to walk barefoot with me for three blocks to show me the direction I needed to go.  The owner of the trucker motel gave us her cell phone number to call if we needed anything.  All the buses slow down for you when you're walking to ask you where you're going and if they can take you.  One driver (who might not have been completely sober) was going for the Guinness Record of passengers.  I was sitting on top of the metal registradora holding on to the pole and there were five people between me and the door.  Everyone was laughing and shouting for more people to get on and one woman started passing around a Gatorade bottle of Aguardiente and a ripe mango.  They all cheered when I took a shot and a big juicy bite of mango.  Whenever someone had to get off, the people pleaded, "No te vayas! (Don't go!)"  

All I could think of was, "This would never happen on a bus in New York."

[Unedited excerpt from journal 12/29/11]

I can tell I'm growing rusty with this hand-written journal business.  I've grown accustomed to the ease of mechanically encoding my streams of consciousness on computer documents and then rearranging the thought blocks like a tetris game until the pieces form something of a coherent narrative.  But in this archaic ink world, in which I contentedly self-expressed for years prior to this July, I suddenly feel suffocated and mortal--physically limited by the two-dimensional space, mentally incapable of slowing my jumbled neuron firings to the clumsy speed of my hand, and technically prevented from pressing the delete button or copy/pasting the random thought bubbles to put them in order.

This practice forces me to take pause and consider which waves of words in the ocean of my brain deserve to break against the shore of The Record.  When I'm feeling tired or lazy, the pages flood with unadorned recountings of the day's events and undeveloped annotations of my surface-level emotional state.

"Today, Fabian, Iris and I hiked to a waterfall and gave ourselves a 'spa treatment' with exfoliating red clay from the trail and a massage from the cascading falls.  Not my typical Christmas morning."

It's dry and straight, but it's raw.  It grants me the comfort that at least the memory will not be completely drowned in the depths of rememberlessness.  It may rust or discolor, it may only be a palm-sized artifact of a Titanic experience which, in its time, was vibrant with characters, colors, sounds, smells, and feelings.  But it's something--if even the smallest of relics--to save the moment from oblivion.

And, honestly, it is hard to say if the other kinds--the carefully premeditated word waves--will provide any more useful to the future (if that is, indeed, who these writings are dedicated to).  With all of their metaphors and verbose articulation, they still carry but a drop of the sea of the Present.  

It is most frustrating when attempting to capture The Beautiful.  The Unfortunate can be conveniently framed in sarcasm and The Ordinary is made novel simply by exposing curious particularities.  But despite even the most eloquent efforts to describe the pristine, the magical, and the surreal, the recaptured stories seem to uncurl on the sand, flat and foamless, without even so much as a white crown to show for all their immensity of detail and wonder when they were forming.  I will never remember them fully. The waves always disappear in the sand, no matter how magnificent. 

Reflecting on the fleetingness of even the most momentous of events creases a whirlpool of nihilism in which one can easily drown in the despair of futility and impotence.  I rescue myself by saying that I write for the Present, for myself, for the Now--as a means of meditation, a way of drinking in even more of a moment by willfully applying conscious language to the infinite waters of sensations and observations.  I tell myself that my journal is a pure art, seeking only self-expression without concern for recognition, validation, or preservation.  If I actually believed this philosophy, I would suffer no trauma f this entire notebook sunk to Atlantis tomorrow.  Hence my theory is, like so many of man's religions, a hypocrisy.  [As proven by the fact that I am transcribing this entry to this page right now].    It is a merely a mind game, an existential life preserver, to keep me afloat in the unrelenting tides of passing time.  

"All the time we are aware of millions of things around us - these changing shapes, these burning hills, the sound of the engine, the feel of the throttle, each rock and weed and fence post and piece of debris beside the road - aware of these things but not really conscious of them unless there is something unusual or unless they reflect something we are predisposed to see. We could not possibly be conscious of these things and remember all of them because our mind would be so full of useless details we would be unable to think. From all this awareness we must select, and what we select and call consciousness is never the same as the awareness because the process of selection mutates it. We take a handful of sand from the endless landscape of awareness around us and call that handful of sand the world." - Robert Pirsig