...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