A collage of photography taken by myself and others from various cameras. Thank you all.
http://picasaweb.google.com/adley.bertsch/PhotographySeven#
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
6 de mayo
Walking in the early morning is about
petroglyphs depicting spiraling scorpion god like figures
waterfalls. pink flowers. lush green jungle forest and bamboo.
Looking for monkeys in the time before the world gets busy
Friendship is about
laughing when it seems most unlikely there is anything to laugh about
standing on the side of a highway for hours waiting to catch a bus thirsty
tired.
chorus of honking ´hola mi amor´ ridiculously enthusiastic waves. hooting. whistling telling each other stores helps pass the time helps clock out this sometimes overwhelming machismo world.
being a team of two.
keeping one eye open at all times for one another
Trust is about
walking on the left side of the road in a rain shower on the left half a tree crashes to the ground with a bang
Some nights are about
Itchy sand in between every toe
Thick salty hair
Backpack stuffed, messy, crinkled clothes, cloth and bags of ecuador, colombia stacked tightly
dreaming of privileges- clean sheets, hot water, butter, tea.
El Valle de Panama is about
the silhouette of La India Dormida.
Lush and fertile, lands of an extinct volcano.
men walk the cloud forests with machetes and black rubber boots.
white crosses on green hillside- crooked from time.
Turtles scuttling in streams. Heavy rains filling afternoons and streets.
Joy is about
mangoes falling from trees like apples
Refuge and relief is about
sitting drinking coffee in a warm restaurant where three women prepare tortillas
Different than America is about
People riding two, sometimes three to a bicycles men with small children,
men with men, man and woman, mother and child-
one peddles, the others perch on the front bar
Panama hip hop videos blaring on buses
who´s mirrors are decorated with fake green feathers
neon green stuffed dice always prepared for fiesta
Finding humor in it all is about
the ninety-five year old half blind grandfather
big dark sunglasses
panama hat crooked teeth
wondering out loud where all the women his age are, for he is not yet tired
New discoveries are about
a starfruit tree. an avocado tree.
intricately farmed river valleys full of watercress
Thank you is about
the tea, made fresh from the garden
ginger, hibiscus, lemongrass and a bit of fresh green tea leaves
Where I was before is about
San Blas Islands- Kuna Yala. carefully crafted molas of bright colors
birds seahorses flowers women who´s legs are adorned fully with strings of beads
bright red orange cloth. golden rings.
Caribbean islands turquoise waters
enormous starfish, sting rays, shells, sailboats
dolphins dancing
men selling pina, passion fruit, potatoes, lettuce, onions, melon, grapefruit, tomatoes and celery
from a dug out canoe
Humbleness is about
not listening when previous to boarding, the captain suggested to buy medicine for
motion sickness
being the first person down in the pit to start the stomach heaving
lasting for two days on choppy sea
Where my mind is now is about
how it will be to return to the country from which I came
How will I carry these hundreds of stories
these taste buds covered in mango
this full heart
these moments of ´pretty little things´
these two eyes transformed by all they have seen,
in one small bag?
petroglyphs depicting spiraling scorpion god like figures
waterfalls. pink flowers. lush green jungle forest and bamboo.
Looking for monkeys in the time before the world gets busy
Friendship is about
laughing when it seems most unlikely there is anything to laugh about
standing on the side of a highway for hours waiting to catch a bus thirsty
tired.
chorus of honking ´hola mi amor´ ridiculously enthusiastic waves. hooting. whistling telling each other stores helps pass the time helps clock out this sometimes overwhelming machismo world.
being a team of two.
keeping one eye open at all times for one another
Trust is about
walking on the left side of the road in a rain shower on the left half a tree crashes to the ground with a bang
Some nights are about
Itchy sand in between every toe
Thick salty hair
Backpack stuffed, messy, crinkled clothes, cloth and bags of ecuador, colombia stacked tightly
dreaming of privileges- clean sheets, hot water, butter, tea.
El Valle de Panama is about
the silhouette of La India Dormida.
Lush and fertile, lands of an extinct volcano.
men walk the cloud forests with machetes and black rubber boots.
white crosses on green hillside- crooked from time.
Turtles scuttling in streams. Heavy rains filling afternoons and streets.
Joy is about
mangoes falling from trees like apples
Refuge and relief is about
sitting drinking coffee in a warm restaurant where three women prepare tortillas
Different than America is about
People riding two, sometimes three to a bicycles men with small children,
men with men, man and woman, mother and child-
one peddles, the others perch on the front bar
Panama hip hop videos blaring on buses
who´s mirrors are decorated with fake green feathers
neon green stuffed dice always prepared for fiesta
Finding humor in it all is about
the ninety-five year old half blind grandfather
big dark sunglasses
panama hat crooked teeth
wondering out loud where all the women his age are, for he is not yet tired
New discoveries are about
a starfruit tree. an avocado tree.
intricately farmed river valleys full of watercress
Thank you is about
the tea, made fresh from the garden
ginger, hibiscus, lemongrass and a bit of fresh green tea leaves
Where I was before is about
San Blas Islands- Kuna Yala. carefully crafted molas of bright colors
birds seahorses flowers women who´s legs are adorned fully with strings of beads
bright red orange cloth. golden rings.
Caribbean islands turquoise waters
enormous starfish, sting rays, shells, sailboats
dolphins dancing
men selling pina, passion fruit, potatoes, lettuce, onions, melon, grapefruit, tomatoes and celery
from a dug out canoe
Humbleness is about
not listening when previous to boarding, the captain suggested to buy medicine for
motion sickness
being the first person down in the pit to start the stomach heaving
lasting for two days on choppy sea
Where my mind is now is about
how it will be to return to the country from which I came
How will I carry these hundreds of stories
these taste buds covered in mango
this full heart
these moments of ´pretty little things´
these two eyes transformed by all they have seen,
in one small bag?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
...The European tradition is not enough. We Americans are the children of many mothers. Europe yes, but there are also other mothers. And not only the American. All the little humans, everybody is much more than what they believe they are. But the earthly rainbow will not shine, in all its brilliance, as long as it continues to be mutilated by racism, machismo, militarism, elitism and all those isms that deny us the fullness of our diversity. ·Eduardo Galeano
I found myself in a world where in there were people of unspeakable tenderness. I slept among friends in a hammock perched in the tree branches of Palomino, where birds, instruments, coca leaves, traveling artisans, kogis, and mosquitoes gathered. Where mountains and rivers leave a trail to the ocean. Mountains who hold in their embrace the whispers and sought after ancient knowledge of four differing indigenous groups,(Kogis, Arhuacos, Wiwas, and Kankuamos) having been forced in the attack of the past and present to retreat continuously further from the coast in the attempts to live a life of choices versus one of complete extinction or total assimilation. I, like many others, went to this area to see if there might be a possibility of entering into the mysterious zones, to hear the undercurrent words of a people whose grandmothers wove stories and bags that still exist within the eyes and hearts of these people, where something somewhat intangible, exists- different form the recently conquered and Euro centric North American culture from where I come. Within the first two hours of arriving, bathing in the river, and speaking to a local, I knew I would not enter into the mountains. They were too sacred to go waltzing into and I thought, who am I , to invite myself into such a place? No, let it be it´s own, let it dwell in peace with one less tourist.
Now, I find myself fin Cartagena, a place that reveals that what I thought was humid heat in the past was but a mild warmth. A city like so many others, brimming with grand architecture and war stained walls of colonialism, with tourist in khakis and Hawaiian print shirts. With fruit sellers, shoe sellers, cigarette and tinto (sugar coffee shots) sellers. full of the bustle and charming display of clean streets and fancy nick-nack shops set out to please those who come carrying cameras and money. Though if one looks closely they might see too, the no names who fill the streets, whose who sweep the sidewalks, those who wait patiently with eyes and arms outstretched for a bit of change, those who come out late in the night when space opens, to sleep in the crook of a stone doorway, those who were perhaps born into a world that does not acknowledge the injustice of the have´s and have not´s.
Here, there are churches, there are parks, there is music, and I appreciate all three. Churches for the quiet and cooling space they provide, where people light candles and pause momentarily. Parks, for their trees and birds and benches for all to sit upon- old and young, rich and poor- and pigeons of course. And music- the love of my life. A quit humorous event two nights past. Having discovered that music does not begin to come alive here till past midnight, I went to sleep at around ten, only to wake up from a dream in which I was listening to music by the side of a river- to realize that there was actually music floating down from the nearby Cafe Havana. It was two in the morning and the temptation to go hear more closely could not be stopped. I woke up Fabienne, who after a brief moment of confusion, agreed to come along. We threw our dresses on and went out to enter into the swirling of drums, trumpets, guitar, piano, bass and the most incredible sounding electric violin- not to return back to bed until roosters theoretically began to crow somewhere in the country.
Tomorrow I set sail for the islands of the San Blas and then the plan is onward to Panama, from where my journey home begins. Finding a captain and a boat seemed like gambling, there is no clear schedules and everybody at the docks tells a different truth. But alas, it seems we found a good one, her name is Anasu and she carries on board a guitar and a fiddle- An Irish captain, a young red headed English skipper gal, Fabi and I, a woman of Austria, a man of Australia, and one French man.
I have been reading words of my favorite author, and so I end sharing one more...
...perfection shall remain the boring privilege of the gods, while in our bungling, messy world every night shall be lived as if it were the last and ever day as if it were the first.
. E G
I found myself in a world where in there were people of unspeakable tenderness. I slept among friends in a hammock perched in the tree branches of Palomino, where birds, instruments, coca leaves, traveling artisans, kogis, and mosquitoes gathered. Where mountains and rivers leave a trail to the ocean. Mountains who hold in their embrace the whispers and sought after ancient knowledge of four differing indigenous groups,(Kogis, Arhuacos, Wiwas, and Kankuamos) having been forced in the attack of the past and present to retreat continuously further from the coast in the attempts to live a life of choices versus one of complete extinction or total assimilation. I, like many others, went to this area to see if there might be a possibility of entering into the mysterious zones, to hear the undercurrent words of a people whose grandmothers wove stories and bags that still exist within the eyes and hearts of these people, where something somewhat intangible, exists- different form the recently conquered and Euro centric North American culture from where I come. Within the first two hours of arriving, bathing in the river, and speaking to a local, I knew I would not enter into the mountains. They were too sacred to go waltzing into and I thought, who am I , to invite myself into such a place? No, let it be it´s own, let it dwell in peace with one less tourist.
Now, I find myself fin Cartagena, a place that reveals that what I thought was humid heat in the past was but a mild warmth. A city like so many others, brimming with grand architecture and war stained walls of colonialism, with tourist in khakis and Hawaiian print shirts. With fruit sellers, shoe sellers, cigarette and tinto (sugar coffee shots) sellers. full of the bustle and charming display of clean streets and fancy nick-nack shops set out to please those who come carrying cameras and money. Though if one looks closely they might see too, the no names who fill the streets, whose who sweep the sidewalks, those who wait patiently with eyes and arms outstretched for a bit of change, those who come out late in the night when space opens, to sleep in the crook of a stone doorway, those who were perhaps born into a world that does not acknowledge the injustice of the have´s and have not´s.
Here, there are churches, there are parks, there is music, and I appreciate all three. Churches for the quiet and cooling space they provide, where people light candles and pause momentarily. Parks, for their trees and birds and benches for all to sit upon- old and young, rich and poor- and pigeons of course. And music- the love of my life. A quit humorous event two nights past. Having discovered that music does not begin to come alive here till past midnight, I went to sleep at around ten, only to wake up from a dream in which I was listening to music by the side of a river- to realize that there was actually music floating down from the nearby Cafe Havana. It was two in the morning and the temptation to go hear more closely could not be stopped. I woke up Fabienne, who after a brief moment of confusion, agreed to come along. We threw our dresses on and went out to enter into the swirling of drums, trumpets, guitar, piano, bass and the most incredible sounding electric violin- not to return back to bed until roosters theoretically began to crow somewhere in the country.
Tomorrow I set sail for the islands of the San Blas and then the plan is onward to Panama, from where my journey home begins. Finding a captain and a boat seemed like gambling, there is no clear schedules and everybody at the docks tells a different truth. But alas, it seems we found a good one, her name is Anasu and she carries on board a guitar and a fiddle- An Irish captain, a young red headed English skipper gal, Fabi and I, a woman of Austria, a man of Australia, and one French man.
I have been reading words of my favorite author, and so I end sharing one more...
...perfection shall remain the boring privilege of the gods, while in our bungling, messy world every night shall be lived as if it were the last and ever day as if it were the first.
. E G
Friday, April 16, 2010
photography six
The remaining photos that were backed up on my memory card before the camera was stolen...and a few from friends. Taganga, Riohacha, Manaure, Cabo de la Vela...enjoy.
http://picasaweb.google.es/adley.bertsch/PhotographySix#
http://picasaweb.google.es/adley.bertsch/PhotographySix#
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A passage from my journal.
I sit, leaning against a fence constructed of dried cactus. On one side of me lies one of the local dogs, having dug a hole in the sand to stay cool amidst this tropical fire/like air, on my other side sits Fabienne, reading. We arrived here in Cabo de la Vela yesterday, by what has now become a classic traveling scenario: In the town of Uribia, we are pointed in the direction of an old pick up truck with a covered back, piled high with people old and young, boxes of panella (a sweet cooked down sugar cane block, most often added to water and lime for a refreshing drink), stacks of eggs, baskets of fruit. With our large backpacks being thrown on top of the truck we are assured there is room, load on in. I squeeze between a man and an old indigenous Wayuu woman whose face is decorated in lines of work and sun, hands large and gracefully knobby. I wrap my arm around the outside railing, trying to make myself as small as possible, smile softly and allow my eyes to close, the sweat to flow down my face, as we voyage out the bumpy desert road. The three hour trip is hot and long and fills the eyes with sand. Red rocks, cactus, desert...nothing else seems to be out here, though I know there are rancherias, communities of indigenous people who dwell in this harsh dry land, for we drop women off at little huts that sit blended in with the landscape. I am curious how the driver know which way the road is, for it all just looks like sand to me, it feels like we are driving to the end of the world.
Now, I look out at the deeply turquoise Caribbean Sea, the grass hatched roof whispers in the wind, women in long brightly colored robes made of light cotton slowly move about little kitchens, preparing the shrimp and fish they received from the hands of these men who fish, who seems to be part fish themselves, so filled are their eyes with ocean, wind, salt and spirit. It is quiet here, having left the reggae ton, electronic beats that blare out of nightclubs, in Taganga...here; the stars have space to be. North, close to Venezuela. Though it feels like we (I now travel with two more friends, Steven and Mila, in addition to Fabienne) have happened upon a slice of paradise, I am reminded, by the presence of military men who are stationed along roads, and through conversations, that I am in Colombia, a land of beauty that has been filled with drug trafficking, corruption, and unclear politics...so we must practice awareness.
We have been engaging interesting and thought provoking conversations on tourism, on cultural appropriation, danger and fear...on being travelers in lands of indigenous peoples. Asking, what do we bring, as individuals, and as people who represent the western world? And is this okay, an equal exchange for the experience, seeing, heart, and wisdom, we take with us? I have now seen many different places, some filled with the noises and hustle of tourism, of surf culture, of scuba diving culture (I am now a certified open water scuba diver, btw!), mountain pueblos with huge markets, and others with no market, no gringos...places where I feel I am welcome, people are open to the exchange, and others who are understandably closed, to foreigners. I remember the first time a man pulled out his cell phone up in the remote village of Chacula, and I was shocked that the influences of western world and technology had reached so far, and yet now I have seen it all over, in the most unexpected of places. So I have pondered this topic, and questioned how I, as a foreign traveler, play a role in this movement, this stampede and colliding of western ways with other lands, ancient cultures. I have found and concluded that for myself, nothing is black and white. I am quite sure there are aspects of tourism, of globalism, of my own trace as a traveler, that is harmful, but perhaps and hopefully (I think) too, there is a beauty, a richness, an exchange that extends and exists as well. A vein, an under/current, that runs through and connects all people, in all lands, a place in the heart where we understand we are more alike than so different.
In my humble state of being a beginner student of Spanish, I have learned that a language barrier, can so simply be overcome, for there exists other languages that we all, as humans, know. So that, though I stumble and receive confused faces in verbal conversation, still I can lay in a brightly colored hammock holding a child of the Wayuu tribe, playing, tickling, giggling, and exchanging absolute delight, four hours. I can swirl and move in salsa, cumbia, meringue beats, glowing with the delight of the language of dance. I can participate in the language of music, of preparing meals with women, greeting hello and goodbye with a smile, in this there is an acknowledgement and sharing of the heart. For this I travel, learning the different ways people go about being human. I study Spanish, and I study people, and people's connection to place. Ho existence is different depending on whether people live in mountains, by the ocean, in a desert...and all of this in some ways is a study of myself as well. A gathering of nectars, like a bee does from different flowers, I, from differing cultures.
When I embarked on this journey I committed to allowing travel to be a space and time for me, to discover, share, and live with myself for a bit, to concentrate not on what I should or could be doing for others and the world at large, but how I am connected to and dwell in it. Interestingly, what I have found coming up now is, having dedicated time to my self study, I now desire, more deeply than anything, to give back, to the world, to small communities, to individuals, to the land, to..."I can invest my hearts desire and the work of my hands to things that will outlive me." So, these are some thoughts of today...
Traveling is suiting me quite well, and there are still so many moments, small wonders, that occur everyday, moments I see something or hear something and just laugh or smile to myself, of the beauty and humor of a different world, that so touch my heart. Dancing in the streets of Taganga under a full moon, the electricity having went out in town, to three men singing beautiful three part harmonies, drums, guitar. Walking through markets of Santa Marta, huge piles of watermelon, trucks full of pineapple, raw hanging meat. During Semana Santa, women in white dresses, men with white heats, the smell of sweet Palo Santo filling churches and cities. In Manaure, a young woman invites my friends and I to her home in a rancheria, and I observe once again how those with so little give so freely...a place to hang our hammocks, hot mugs of checha (a thick ground corn mixed with panella drink) ladled from a large pot on the open fire, a lesson in weaving baskets. The joy of hearing music of Cuba mixed with Colombian style, like I have never before heard. Then, there are the moments that are so bizarre, like the time a kid fell out of the moving bus, suffering only minor injuries...Fabienne and I shared a somewhat inappropriate laugh, for the fact that this would not happen in our countries with our strict rules, liabilities..ect, no open doors on a bus. Goats tied onto the back of bicycles. Finding out that the soup I just ate was made from the stomach of a cow...Brilliant moments.
In other news, I have now experienced the not so fun occurrence of having my i pod and my camera stolen in South America. I have bought a ticket home..I will fly into Chicago for a wedding the 13th of May, before heading out west. I hope this finds you all so well.
I sit, leaning against a fence constructed of dried cactus. On one side of me lies one of the local dogs, having dug a hole in the sand to stay cool amidst this tropical fire/like air, on my other side sits Fabienne, reading. We arrived here in Cabo de la Vela yesterday, by what has now become a classic traveling scenario: In the town of Uribia, we are pointed in the direction of an old pick up truck with a covered back, piled high with people old and young, boxes of panella (a sweet cooked down sugar cane block, most often added to water and lime for a refreshing drink), stacks of eggs, baskets of fruit. With our large backpacks being thrown on top of the truck we are assured there is room, load on in. I squeeze between a man and an old indigenous Wayuu woman whose face is decorated in lines of work and sun, hands large and gracefully knobby. I wrap my arm around the outside railing, trying to make myself as small as possible, smile softly and allow my eyes to close, the sweat to flow down my face, as we voyage out the bumpy desert road. The three hour trip is hot and long and fills the eyes with sand. Red rocks, cactus, desert...nothing else seems to be out here, though I know there are rancherias, communities of indigenous people who dwell in this harsh dry land, for we drop women off at little huts that sit blended in with the landscape. I am curious how the driver know which way the road is, for it all just looks like sand to me, it feels like we are driving to the end of the world.
Now, I look out at the deeply turquoise Caribbean Sea, the grass hatched roof whispers in the wind, women in long brightly colored robes made of light cotton slowly move about little kitchens, preparing the shrimp and fish they received from the hands of these men who fish, who seems to be part fish themselves, so filled are their eyes with ocean, wind, salt and spirit. It is quiet here, having left the reggae ton, electronic beats that blare out of nightclubs, in Taganga...here; the stars have space to be. North, close to Venezuela. Though it feels like we (I now travel with two more friends, Steven and Mila, in addition to Fabienne) have happened upon a slice of paradise, I am reminded, by the presence of military men who are stationed along roads, and through conversations, that I am in Colombia, a land of beauty that has been filled with drug trafficking, corruption, and unclear politics...so we must practice awareness.
We have been engaging interesting and thought provoking conversations on tourism, on cultural appropriation, danger and fear...on being travelers in lands of indigenous peoples. Asking, what do we bring, as individuals, and as people who represent the western world? And is this okay, an equal exchange for the experience, seeing, heart, and wisdom, we take with us? I have now seen many different places, some filled with the noises and hustle of tourism, of surf culture, of scuba diving culture (I am now a certified open water scuba diver, btw!), mountain pueblos with huge markets, and others with no market, no gringos...places where I feel I am welcome, people are open to the exchange, and others who are understandably closed, to foreigners. I remember the first time a man pulled out his cell phone up in the remote village of Chacula, and I was shocked that the influences of western world and technology had reached so far, and yet now I have seen it all over, in the most unexpected of places. So I have pondered this topic, and questioned how I, as a foreign traveler, play a role in this movement, this stampede and colliding of western ways with other lands, ancient cultures. I have found and concluded that for myself, nothing is black and white. I am quite sure there are aspects of tourism, of globalism, of my own trace as a traveler, that is harmful, but perhaps and hopefully (I think) too, there is a beauty, a richness, an exchange that extends and exists as well. A vein, an under/current, that runs through and connects all people, in all lands, a place in the heart where we understand we are more alike than so different.
In my humble state of being a beginner student of Spanish, I have learned that a language barrier, can so simply be overcome, for there exists other languages that we all, as humans, know. So that, though I stumble and receive confused faces in verbal conversation, still I can lay in a brightly colored hammock holding a child of the Wayuu tribe, playing, tickling, giggling, and exchanging absolute delight, four hours. I can swirl and move in salsa, cumbia, meringue beats, glowing with the delight of the language of dance. I can participate in the language of music, of preparing meals with women, greeting hello and goodbye with a smile, in this there is an acknowledgement and sharing of the heart. For this I travel, learning the different ways people go about being human. I study Spanish, and I study people, and people's connection to place. Ho existence is different depending on whether people live in mountains, by the ocean, in a desert...and all of this in some ways is a study of myself as well. A gathering of nectars, like a bee does from different flowers, I, from differing cultures.
When I embarked on this journey I committed to allowing travel to be a space and time for me, to discover, share, and live with myself for a bit, to concentrate not on what I should or could be doing for others and the world at large, but how I am connected to and dwell in it. Interestingly, what I have found coming up now is, having dedicated time to my self study, I now desire, more deeply than anything, to give back, to the world, to small communities, to individuals, to the land, to..."I can invest my hearts desire and the work of my hands to things that will outlive me." So, these are some thoughts of today...
Traveling is suiting me quite well, and there are still so many moments, small wonders, that occur everyday, moments I see something or hear something and just laugh or smile to myself, of the beauty and humor of a different world, that so touch my heart. Dancing in the streets of Taganga under a full moon, the electricity having went out in town, to three men singing beautiful three part harmonies, drums, guitar. Walking through markets of Santa Marta, huge piles of watermelon, trucks full of pineapple, raw hanging meat. During Semana Santa, women in white dresses, men with white heats, the smell of sweet Palo Santo filling churches and cities. In Manaure, a young woman invites my friends and I to her home in a rancheria, and I observe once again how those with so little give so freely...a place to hang our hammocks, hot mugs of checha (a thick ground corn mixed with panella drink) ladled from a large pot on the open fire, a lesson in weaving baskets. The joy of hearing music of Cuba mixed with Colombian style, like I have never before heard. Then, there are the moments that are so bizarre, like the time a kid fell out of the moving bus, suffering only minor injuries...Fabienne and I shared a somewhat inappropriate laugh, for the fact that this would not happen in our countries with our strict rules, liabilities..ect, no open doors on a bus. Goats tied onto the back of bicycles. Finding out that the soup I just ate was made from the stomach of a cow...Brilliant moments.
In other news, I have now experienced the not so fun occurrence of having my i pod and my camera stolen in South America. I have bought a ticket home..I will fly into Chicago for a wedding the 13th of May, before heading out west. I hope this finds you all so well.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Three Months In
On a cold blustery day of January I hopped on a plane that took me from Chicago to Guatemala City. Now I am three months in, and I am aware that a shift has taken place. These southern lands, this latino-latina culture, these inviting families, salt filled winds, these beats that blare from speakers at all hours of the day, these old white churches and most of all, this underlying sense of heart that permeates through every mountain village, every crazy city, every coastal town, has captured my heart. South America has taken me in, and I have surrendered.
And everyday is not perfect, in fact most days hold little trinkets of challenging events. For example, my now constant travellers diarrhea (excuse the gross honesty, I have lost all modesty in traveling) has become completley normal. Many hours and nights have passed on a bus, clutching my stomach, and praying that the bus driver will find it in his heart to stop for a break somewhere within the fifteen hour trip. I have gotten used to waking from a small nap on the bus to us passing a large truck at what seems like 70 miles per hour around a blind curve, headlights from an oncoming vehicle glaring, and horns blaring as passing signals. I am no longer fazed by perplexing toilets and am learning to remember more often to bring my own TP or napkin with me, as often is the case, there is none. There are different standards of cleanliness now. I have grown accustomed to my clothes reaking of a weeks activity, and in turn, gotten used to washing my clothes by hand, rubbing them vigarously over stone washboards like the local women (while contemplating how women find time to do anything besides the wash) and hanging them on rocks, in trees, on rails.
My wallet has been heavy with unchangable coins, my eyes heavy with sensory overload. I am learning new rhythms of living, and how to discover and follow my own beat. Plans change, new ideas manifest, and at times I find myself going or arriving to places I did not expect. For example, Fabienne and I just bused all the way through Colombia, stopping only briefly in Popayan and Medellin along the way. Many people asked why we would do such a thing, and miss out on visiting all of the different places, old ruins, mountain markets, coffee farms, places to rock climb and dance salsa. But the truth is there can always be more to see, more to do, what really matters is how one is where one is, and in this instance for Fabienne and I , we needed to return to the waves, to the people of the coast. We had many other plans that got left behind as we awoke each morning craving the ocean. Now we are here, re-energizing and re-rooting a bit among the sweetest mangoes, most kind people, and music to accompany the drips of sweat that run constantly down the whole body.
I have found that with enough time and curiosity interesting things will happen. Time reveals a place. Conversations with sun worn fishermen manifest, friendships with locals happen, laughter and play with children has an oppertunity to surface. Sometimes it is difficult to arrive in a new place, but mostly it is the leaving that anxiously pulls at my heart. Leaving Canoa was one of the hardest decisions to make, and at each stopping point heading north I questioned turning back. Traveling encourages the practice of trusting, of following intuition, and then sometimes without quite knowing how or why, going forth, following pathways of the heart with blind faith that what will be, will be, nothing more is necessary. I read a passage recently that stated: If you´re not doing something new, you´re doing something you´ve done before. Simple in context, profound in enactment.
So, will you all be seeing me soon? Probably. My beautiful friend Melina has a grand wedding planned to take place come mid May, my mom tells me to come home as soon as possible, and friends assure me there is beauty and magic that still resides in the United States. However, on days like today, surrounded by turqoise blue Carribean water like I have never seen, a wonderful girlfriend to share beer and coffee and matte with, a family with a child called Etienne who has curly dark hair and teaches me spanish words like ´paloma´ and ´cucaracha´- a little bit of my mind wonders about staying here, teaching yoga, laughing, learning, and exchanging- in these lands so rich in heart.
Cheers.
And everyday is not perfect, in fact most days hold little trinkets of challenging events. For example, my now constant travellers diarrhea (excuse the gross honesty, I have lost all modesty in traveling) has become completley normal. Many hours and nights have passed on a bus, clutching my stomach, and praying that the bus driver will find it in his heart to stop for a break somewhere within the fifteen hour trip. I have gotten used to waking from a small nap on the bus to us passing a large truck at what seems like 70 miles per hour around a blind curve, headlights from an oncoming vehicle glaring, and horns blaring as passing signals. I am no longer fazed by perplexing toilets and am learning to remember more often to bring my own TP or napkin with me, as often is the case, there is none. There are different standards of cleanliness now. I have grown accustomed to my clothes reaking of a weeks activity, and in turn, gotten used to washing my clothes by hand, rubbing them vigarously over stone washboards like the local women (while contemplating how women find time to do anything besides the wash) and hanging them on rocks, in trees, on rails.
My wallet has been heavy with unchangable coins, my eyes heavy with sensory overload. I am learning new rhythms of living, and how to discover and follow my own beat. Plans change, new ideas manifest, and at times I find myself going or arriving to places I did not expect. For example, Fabienne and I just bused all the way through Colombia, stopping only briefly in Popayan and Medellin along the way. Many people asked why we would do such a thing, and miss out on visiting all of the different places, old ruins, mountain markets, coffee farms, places to rock climb and dance salsa. But the truth is there can always be more to see, more to do, what really matters is how one is where one is, and in this instance for Fabienne and I , we needed to return to the waves, to the people of the coast. We had many other plans that got left behind as we awoke each morning craving the ocean. Now we are here, re-energizing and re-rooting a bit among the sweetest mangoes, most kind people, and music to accompany the drips of sweat that run constantly down the whole body.
I have found that with enough time and curiosity interesting things will happen. Time reveals a place. Conversations with sun worn fishermen manifest, friendships with locals happen, laughter and play with children has an oppertunity to surface. Sometimes it is difficult to arrive in a new place, but mostly it is the leaving that anxiously pulls at my heart. Leaving Canoa was one of the hardest decisions to make, and at each stopping point heading north I questioned turning back. Traveling encourages the practice of trusting, of following intuition, and then sometimes without quite knowing how or why, going forth, following pathways of the heart with blind faith that what will be, will be, nothing more is necessary. I read a passage recently that stated: If you´re not doing something new, you´re doing something you´ve done before. Simple in context, profound in enactment.
So, will you all be seeing me soon? Probably. My beautiful friend Melina has a grand wedding planned to take place come mid May, my mom tells me to come home as soon as possible, and friends assure me there is beauty and magic that still resides in the United States. However, on days like today, surrounded by turqoise blue Carribean water like I have never seen, a wonderful girlfriend to share beer and coffee and matte with, a family with a child called Etienne who has curly dark hair and teaches me spanish words like ´paloma´ and ´cucaracha´- a little bit of my mind wonders about staying here, teaching yoga, laughing, learning, and exchanging- in these lands so rich in heart.
Cheers.
Monday, March 22, 2010
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