san blas, translated.

I arrived to San Blas in the biggest storm. I was on a tiny boat crossing the water to that island called Diablo when the sky turned dark gray and the ocean got so angry. The waves stood up and went over the boat with so much fury. It was stunning, frightening.

I arrived drenched to the bone... papers, clothing, identity, self.

The islands of the Kuna Yala are beautiful, isolated. I could almost wrap my arms around them and carry them away. They are small, perfect, drowned into the ocean as they are. Yet, I walked around them and felt lost, after Bocas and so many people and...

The sand of Diablo was clean and white and burnt toes in the midday sun. The water was a blue that lives mostly in dreams. The sky was always clear, bright, except at noon when the rain came through, always. It hammered on the grass roofed huts and dripped dampness, down onto hammocks.

At night the leaves on the trees made the sound of raindrops and the sky blew the wind around the slats of those huts, and I dreamt of things that have passed and people I miss and...

I dreamt of speaking perfect Spanish, articulating all those things that need out, with that softness that flows the words off the tongue, loose. I dreamt of what I should have said, and I woke up wondering where to find all those words lurking around my subconsious. Words of perfect Spanish for...

I dreamt of goodbye. And missing things.

I bought a new camera in the city and I kept trying to take photos, to start the archive of experience over, but all I can remember is those pictures I took at the last goodbye, and how I wish I could get just those back.

Now.

I lost a bet and came to Columbia. Sweet Cartagena.