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.