I woke up this morning to the mad hammering of torrential rain on that tin roof. The sound galvanized a sweaty dream and the whole room cooled within a second. I was dreaming about Oreos and chasing down words with my teeth, and finding somewhere to hide everything that I remembered.
(I mixed those antibiotics from last week´s hospital visit with a benadryl to stop the heat from itching, and my head ran wild with dream.)
Then my alarm sounded, and I could smell the scrambled eggs the Señora was cooking and the coffee from Lorena and Justin´s organic farm, and the rain kept moving and it was morning.
It´s so hot here. I know mostly you´re in snow and hate me for saying that, but heavy heat is just as oppressive as the deep cold. For the last 3 days it was hard to move anything, anywhere. It was hard to breath. The moment any energy was exerted, skin would erupt and pour uncontrollably. It was actually kind of astounding...and disgusting, that much sweat.
One day, I drank 3 litres of water, in succession.
It´s hot here.
But the heat finally broke from those torrential rains and the weather has been softer since. This happens to have coincided with my decision to finally do all the touristy things Bocas. First, snorkeling in Dolphin Bay and Zappatista! Sadly, canceled by the rain.
After changing my reservation to Sunday, I went back home and did my homework. And the Señora fed me.. again.
The Señora has taken to feeding me whenever I´m in the house. And she goes to great pains to take the meat out of whatever she´s cooked...so I feel obliged. The other morning while I was trying desperately to get through the scrambled eggs with onion and tomato, grill cheese sandwhich, and half a pineapple, she asked me if I liked banana bread. ¨Si, Señora! Me gusta mucho la dulce de banana!¨
Never did I imagine that she would come out with a huge chunk of banana right then and there! Now I get banana bread with EVERYTHING else every morning and I´m sure I´m gonna burst... Or the 3 pairs of pants I brought with me will stop fitting me imminently.
(NOTE: No puedo comer mas- I can´t eat anymore- is a commonly uttered thing in my house, yet the food doesn´t get less or stop coming.)
Truthfully, it´s very kind and I´m happy for the home cooking.. mas. And I assume the banana bread is almost done with now, so... phew.
I´ve been here nearly three weeks to the day. So far, I can speak Spanish (almost), dance salsa (kinda), and cook rice and beans with coconut milk from scratch. And it feels so much longer than just 3 weeks... I can´t wait to see what happens next.
Miss you. xo
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
That time.
(Small disgression from travel talk at the end of a hard week)
She remembers that day they walked into Molinaseca carefully.
It was cool for the first time since....the beginning. It was cool in a way they forgot about in all those days over the fiery Meseta. It was mountainous. Clear.
Sometime before lunch they reached the highest point and there they wrote things on rocks that were meant to be secrets. He looked at hers anyway and then didn´t leave her side the whole day. It was the day her uncle died and she´d known it had happened from the moment she wrote ´Uncle, be peaceful´ on that rock, and she told him so. That she´d felt her Uncle pass.
He never left her side the whole day.
Sometime after lunch she took a photo of him on a rocky pass. The horizon a sea of mountains and green and the sky crisp with those clouds, those ethereal clouds. His t-shirt was blue and not ripped yet. His hair stuck to the right.
Click.
Later, as she picked her way carefully across that rocky rubble she told him about her fractured collarbone. That bone to the right that would jut and swell slightly when it rained, damaged doing dive rolls in an ill-fated karate class. He asked her why she was taking karate and she could tell he already knew the answer. Because she wanted to be a ninja.
She asked about his parents, his sisters and he spoke of them quietly, as an old soul. They talked about life, and also about geology.
Later she called her mother (and got the sad news) while he sat next to her. She cried quietly on his shoulder, and then alone behind that hostel staring at that farm and feeling bad that she didn´t want to go home.
At dusk he bought her beer and threaded her blister. She found a magic paste for his arm, infected with a cut from that drunken night. Then they ate vegetarian soup with huges chunks of bacon that she dropped bit by bit onto his plate while they laughed and stared at each other.
She remembers that day on the grass in Portomarin carefully.
They sat in that damp grass against that concrete, elbow to elbow for hours. The others talked and played songs on that ukelele and rolled cigarettes from loose tobacco to save money. They ate ham flavored chips that she liked because of him and despite being a vegetarian.
They all started dinner separately so they would have more wine. Wine in addition to all that cheap supermarket wine in the afternoon, and beer on the lawn, and all that. After dinner the others smoked cigarettes of tea and they laid back in the damp grass talking about how he caught up with her that other day and how she was glad for it. They talked about differences that didn´t matter, and they also talked about geology.
It got cold, up there in those mountains and she wore his hoodie, and in that sea of people they went to sleep. Happy.
She thinks of those days carefully. In that mass of good days. Threaded to her, into her. She thinks of them especially in the absence of any help for that ache. That burrowing thing that she picked at and scarred and so matches that one on his shoulder.
She thinks of those days specifically, carefully. And walking west in her memory, she leaves them there... in that mass of perfect days.
She remembers that day they walked into Molinaseca carefully.
It was cool for the first time since....the beginning. It was cool in a way they forgot about in all those days over the fiery Meseta. It was mountainous. Clear.
Sometime before lunch they reached the highest point and there they wrote things on rocks that were meant to be secrets. He looked at hers anyway and then didn´t leave her side the whole day. It was the day her uncle died and she´d known it had happened from the moment she wrote ´Uncle, be peaceful´ on that rock, and she told him so. That she´d felt her Uncle pass.
He never left her side the whole day.
Sometime after lunch she took a photo of him on a rocky pass. The horizon a sea of mountains and green and the sky crisp with those clouds, those ethereal clouds. His t-shirt was blue and not ripped yet. His hair stuck to the right.
Click.
Later, as she picked her way carefully across that rocky rubble she told him about her fractured collarbone. That bone to the right that would jut and swell slightly when it rained, damaged doing dive rolls in an ill-fated karate class. He asked her why she was taking karate and she could tell he already knew the answer. Because she wanted to be a ninja.
She asked about his parents, his sisters and he spoke of them quietly, as an old soul. They talked about life, and also about geology.
Later she called her mother (and got the sad news) while he sat next to her. She cried quietly on his shoulder, and then alone behind that hostel staring at that farm and feeling bad that she didn´t want to go home.
At dusk he bought her beer and threaded her blister. She found a magic paste for his arm, infected with a cut from that drunken night. Then they ate vegetarian soup with huges chunks of bacon that she dropped bit by bit onto his plate while they laughed and stared at each other.
She remembers that day on the grass in Portomarin carefully.
They sat in that damp grass against that concrete, elbow to elbow for hours. The others talked and played songs on that ukelele and rolled cigarettes from loose tobacco to save money. They ate ham flavored chips that she liked because of him and despite being a vegetarian.
They all started dinner separately so they would have more wine. Wine in addition to all that cheap supermarket wine in the afternoon, and beer on the lawn, and all that. After dinner the others smoked cigarettes of tea and they laid back in the damp grass talking about how he caught up with her that other day and how she was glad for it. They talked about differences that didn´t matter, and they also talked about geology.
It got cold, up there in those mountains and she wore his hoodie, and in that sea of people they went to sleep. Happy.
She thinks of those days carefully. In that mass of good days. Threaded to her, into her. She thinks of them especially in the absence of any help for that ache. That burrowing thing that she picked at and scarred and so matches that one on his shoulder.
She thinks of those days specifically, carefully. And walking west in her memory, she leaves them there... in that mass of perfect days.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Small places, Carnivale.
Carvivale is magic in small places like Bocas.
It´s the return of all those family, those friends that left for bigger towns, dreams. And it´s the tourists that flea now to those bigger towns, dreams. (The ones with the supposed epic Carnivales, like Panama City, like San Jose.)
Carnivale here is children and music. It´s devils dancing in the streets at midday and that cracking sound of the whips on wood and the smell of barbecued meats and rice and beans and stale beer, sweat. It´s holding up that kid, too small to see. It´s that booming base constant in the damp air and that town square filled and bars tearing at the seams. It´s stepping over drunks, over crushed beer cans, bottles. It´s sharing wine, rum.
It´s the beach to escape, or to return. It´s home for a break. For Jenga. For goodbyes, hellos. For those hammocks at The (camping) Spot and vino rojo from the box.
It´s the crackle of speakers transcended by drums, and clasping fingers and hips badly (like a gringa) with that Costa Rican musician. In the heavy heat dancing. Swaying on those Spanish songs with the words that vanish in their speed, ´til the sky is black and the power fades and the water at home is gone.
Late. Nights.
It´s Carnivale in Bocas del Toro, where I live for a while.
It´s the return of all those family, those friends that left for bigger towns, dreams. And it´s the tourists that flea now to those bigger towns, dreams. (The ones with the supposed epic Carnivales, like Panama City, like San Jose.)
Carnivale here is children and music. It´s devils dancing in the streets at midday and that cracking sound of the whips on wood and the smell of barbecued meats and rice and beans and stale beer, sweat. It´s holding up that kid, too small to see. It´s that booming base constant in the damp air and that town square filled and bars tearing at the seams. It´s stepping over drunks, over crushed beer cans, bottles. It´s sharing wine, rum.
It´s the beach to escape, or to return. It´s home for a break. For Jenga. For goodbyes, hellos. For those hammocks at The (camping) Spot and vino rojo from the box.
It´s the crackle of speakers transcended by drums, and clasping fingers and hips badly (like a gringa) with that Costa Rican musician. In the heavy heat dancing. Swaying on those Spanish songs with the words that vanish in their speed, ´til the sky is black and the power fades and the water at home is gone.
Late. Nights.
It´s Carnivale in Bocas del Toro, where I live for a while.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Panama (firstly)
Panama is hot. Steaming, really. The weather digs into the pores and pulls hard. In stillness, the skin decompresses and feels like a starfish out of water.
It´s gritty here, or it seemed to be at first. I´m used to it now and anyway, I feel like it could only be a prelude to places like Ecuador, Bolivia. Those places without a world wonder.
(Aside: My Great-great Grandfather worked building the Canal, which is a strange thing to know when you´re standing in front of it. Or in front of that archival photo mosaic, looking for a glint of yourself.)
Panama City was the beginning. Was overwhelming. I stayed in Casco Viejo where gentrification is in the midst. The buildings are beautiful, the buildings are falling down. Planks, bare bulbs, flat screen tvs. This is Panama.
In Panama City, I mostly wandered. Wandered to the Miraflores Locks where I missed all the big ships, but watched the small ones rise with the gates. Wandered to the tip of Cerro Ancon and stood in the sway of the Republic of Panama flag, hard won in it´s place. I wandered across the coast of that Old Town, knocking on hollow bricks meant as pirate code. Wandered through the hostel and all the new people. Drank with some, ate with some, left.
And then, Bocas.
In Bocas I am burned and bit and in love with it. My skin contracts almost painfully with the weather and the pores open to the surf and sand and feel dirty and I am constantly accosted by mosquitoes and sea creatures, but... In the mornings Senora makes me huevos and piña and Rodolpho asks ¨How you doin´today, Leeeeeesa?¨ And the people all say ¨Buenos¨and want to talk and the boat taxis constantly offer to take me to Bastimientos and I tell them that the sun burned me and there will be no beach today or tomorrow and then Rodolpho or Jason or that other student ask me to go and I do because that´s what you do in Bocas.
Bocas is beautiful. Not shiny, not clean, not perfect. Beautiful.
It´s main bits are owned entirely by gringos, but if you wander slightly to the right you´ll find the true Bocas. Those hearts that sold the land and lost the money and built anew with less, with much less. They speak all different languages and cobble them together to something new. And they are quiet. And they are good.
It´s hard to see nonetheless. I have too much...we have too much. But I know this is just a prelude to those places without a world wonder.
Bocas is good. Beautiful.
(Pictures forthcoming)
xo
It´s gritty here, or it seemed to be at first. I´m used to it now and anyway, I feel like it could only be a prelude to places like Ecuador, Bolivia. Those places without a world wonder.
(Aside: My Great-great Grandfather worked building the Canal, which is a strange thing to know when you´re standing in front of it. Or in front of that archival photo mosaic, looking for a glint of yourself.)
Panama City was the beginning. Was overwhelming. I stayed in Casco Viejo where gentrification is in the midst. The buildings are beautiful, the buildings are falling down. Planks, bare bulbs, flat screen tvs. This is Panama.
In Panama City, I mostly wandered. Wandered to the Miraflores Locks where I missed all the big ships, but watched the small ones rise with the gates. Wandered to the tip of Cerro Ancon and stood in the sway of the Republic of Panama flag, hard won in it´s place. I wandered across the coast of that Old Town, knocking on hollow bricks meant as pirate code. Wandered through the hostel and all the new people. Drank with some, ate with some, left.
And then, Bocas.
In Bocas I am burned and bit and in love with it. My skin contracts almost painfully with the weather and the pores open to the surf and sand and feel dirty and I am constantly accosted by mosquitoes and sea creatures, but... In the mornings Senora makes me huevos and piña and Rodolpho asks ¨How you doin´today, Leeeeeesa?¨ And the people all say ¨Buenos¨and want to talk and the boat taxis constantly offer to take me to Bastimientos and I tell them that the sun burned me and there will be no beach today or tomorrow and then Rodolpho or Jason or that other student ask me to go and I do because that´s what you do in Bocas.
Bocas is beautiful. Not shiny, not clean, not perfect. Beautiful.
It´s main bits are owned entirely by gringos, but if you wander slightly to the right you´ll find the true Bocas. Those hearts that sold the land and lost the money and built anew with less, with much less. They speak all different languages and cobble them together to something new. And they are quiet. And they are good.
It´s hard to see nonetheless. I have too much...we have too much. But I know this is just a prelude to those places without a world wonder.
Bocas is good. Beautiful.
(Pictures forthcoming)
xo
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
post two (pre-travelogue.. barely)
They say the Camino starts when you leave your front door and ends... when it ends.
The Camino never felt like it ended. It felt paused, but in that crazed way. Like a horse caged mid-race. One day I started walking and just as things started to make sense, the world dropped off into ocean (Finisterre) and real life swung back around from the wings of planes. To apply all those things that started to make sense to real life meant a whole lot change. And constantly. But that's kinda the thing, isn't it? A willingness to evolve and fight for the minimums...
I'm still trying to figure it all out, trying to keep moving forward, so I know the Camino hasn't really ended. It's just continuing in another form on another continent in brand new shoes (!!), but still with the same intent.
A pilgrim would say to this: Buen Camino.
Plane leaves in the morning. (Eeeeeeeee!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
