Most of the time, I feel like I am an actor in a bad Hollywood war movie. I don’t think it helps that many of our code names for people are names of A listers.
While in the process of writing an article, I went on an investigative hike up to the recently abandon military encampment just adjacent to (at times, arguably on) the Peace Community property of La Union. I took many photos, which will be uploaded shortly. You can see just how far the Peace Community was from the trenches. Not far. In response to the post overlooking the gate to LU, Emily said: “Well, I guess they knew when we came and went.” I went up to the filo with a neighbor. He didn’t warn me about the stuffed fatigues and when we walked up on them, I thought we were walking up on a corpse. I gasped. He said it was just one of their tricks to draw fire. A scarecrow military man overlooking the Peace Community… spooky enough to keep me away. The only military term crossing my mind as we traversed through the abandoned encampment was RETREAT, but my neighbor coaxed me along. He explained the different tactics they used to know people were coming. He showed me where they played cards (flipping a moldy deck into 52 card pick up) and how they gathered water and where they slept. The trenches were spooky. The abandoned tents were spooky. Everything about it was spooky. “Look,” he said, “only a couple months since they left and the jungle is already retaking the area.” He continued along, and I said I didn’t want to follow anymore. He asked why not. I said, in reference to the land mines neither of us were talking about,: “I want to go back to my country with two legs.” He said, “I want to go back to my house with two legs.” I said, “Let’s.” He laughed.
I heard the closest combat since I’ve been in the community a couple of weeks ago. I was in bed. It sounded like it was right outside my window (which figuratively I could say it was, but literally there was a bit more space). It made me wonder just how loud those machine guns are to those actually firing them.
We were talking about all the recent killings the day that the young man’s body was brought into the community for his vigil. He died that night while crossing the river. A neighbor sighed, then looked at me and said, “here even the river is an assassin.”
FOR in Colombia also accompanies organizations outside of the Peace Community. Emily and Isaac went on an accompaniment in Medellin. They accompanied the Red Jovenil, an amazing group of young people who are contentious objectors (they can legally be so as of last year in Colombia) and who threw an anti-militarization festival. There were bands and shows and theatre performances all in the lovely city center. They spoke out about resistance to all forms of domination- from capitalism to machismo. Emily came home with amazing pamphlets and newsletters and stories. It was so good. To hear about resistance in the cities, with the youth and outside the context of San Jose de Apartado. Tunnel vision, I think, happens to us all in our daily lives. We forget about things that happen outside our small little world. The accompaniment was just what we needed to remember that the fight is happening all over, and that the world is oh so big.
We have all been on the move so much that Emily, Sean and I have not all three been in the same place for more than 24 hours in more than two weeks. I spent my first days and nights alone in LU. When a hen climbed onto Emily’s desk and made everything fall, I thought for sure a small child was playing “jump out at Gina.” They have realized I don’t like this game and they think it’s hilarious. My dad use to play it with a monster mask on when I was a child. It scared the shit out of me. Now I am in a war zone and of the opinion that nobody should jump out at me. Ever. Kids hung out a lot while I was alone. Mostly I didn’t mind. In the end being alone wasn’t so bad. I fell asleep to the rain like always and had visitors like always and did a lot of work like always. I was pretty proud of my lack of fear. When Emily came back we were staring from the kitchen over to the wooden house and commenting on how in the world we managed to have ten kids so quickly. They were wildly swinging in hammocks. Emily said, “Isn’t that what the monkeys do in the zoo… climb the hammocks up to the wooden beams and then hang there?” It sure was. We stared in awe.
The kittens grew large enough to be terrorized by the neighbor children. They used to think riding on my shoulders was bad, but when the kids came around they started actually clawing their way up my bare skin to take refuge there. Yesterday we gave them away. We will see if they stay away.
It is zapote season. We eat them in abundance.
Emily made banana cake. She looked like a house-fire victim in search of the fireman- hanging her head out from the one foot square window in the stove shack of our neighbor, smoke billowing out from around her head as she gasped for air.
The 20th was Colombia’s Independence. We did not realize this until we tried to get in touch with the general and were told he was “at the parade.” We asked our neighbors why they didn’t tell us it was Independence Day. They said, “well I didn’t know that either.” Alternative education.
The older I get and the more time I spend in Latin America, the less I think about traditional culture shock and the more I think about personal life shock. The other day I was listening to my cousin sing, like I have since forever. His cd was pouring from the office computer. His voice was competing with an artillery helicopter. When I arrived at the internet café today I was reminded that this month is my ten year high school reunion. Memory and growth and bringing everything you are everywhere you go… life really is a strange one.
Tomorrow I take off for Cauca. It is very far away from where I am. It’s my turn to go travel and accompany and see how wonderful it is what people do to improve our world.
domingo, 31 de julio de 2011
viernes, 22 de julio de 2011
Marissa and Patrick brought nummy chocolates, and I got a few days off...
Marissa and Patrick came up to the community to visit while on their Colombian summer vacation. They brought good luck. I do get slightly nervous bringing my loved ones into a war zone, but I was excited to show them my life and where I lived and it’s great to have people in your life who can picture where you live and what you do. It is, afterall, pretty impossible to describe. The whole thing could not have gone safer/better. We had dry days for the walks both up and down with low river crossings, even though it had been raining up until they arrived. We had strangely cool evenings (I saw Sean in a sweater for the first time!). When the torrential downpour did happen, the light didn’t even go out (!!!). And when the rain stopped, there was a rainbow. It looked like it ended at the FOR house. When I said, “the end of the rainbow is at the FOR house” Marissa thought I said “whore house” and this still cracks me up when I think about it. We went to the poza and talked about life in the war zone and life not in the war zone. We ate nummy chocolates that they brought me and we hugged a lot and lay in hammocks and cooked meals and visited neighbors. And then they left. And I miss them.
Sapa moved her babies out of my room. I am beginning to think they shit where they sleep until they can’t take it anymore and then move to another room to do the same. It may be about time to get knee-deep in bleach in LU. Sapa is the only cat I have ever met who doesn’t like to chase string. I don’t think the babies got that gene. After all her tender loving care, Emily may kill them with her knitting needles.
One thing that’s difficult about this job is that there is so much pain in a war zone. I may be ready to drink my morning coffee and laugh at pigs chasing their mother, but a neighbor may feel like talking about a massacre. And conversations end up being pretty heavy pretty often.
It was us and a few PBIers talking about our lives and siblings. He was the only community member in the room. When we asked him about his siblings, he said he didn’t have any: “I used to, but not anymore.” Sensing he wasn’t up to telling the story, we asked him about his kids. He said, “I had four children. They were all killed by paramilitaries. The last one three years ago.” He was crying, the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he wiped them before they could drop down his cheek. He is alone. Everyone in his life is not only dead, but has been killed.
She tells us about her children that have been killed. About the lies told about her. About why people want to kill her. She talks easy and tells it like it is. In the end she says, “If I am honest and die for the truth, that’s ok. Dying for the truth is ok.”
This job constantly brings to mind the difference between international human rights defenders and local campesino resistance.
This month there is a FOR volunteer reunion. We will hear more stories and meet the people who came before us in this accompaniment program. This afternoon I am meeting up with the first to arrive. Historical memory.
We get three days off a month. I am taking mine right now. I am staying in an airconditioned room. It is amazing. And skyping with my family. They are amazing. And listening to Lou Reed sing Street Hassle. He is amazing. It’s called a “salida de contexto” and is supposed to remove us a bit from what we do all of the time. Even that is difficult, though. I find it hard to remove myself from the context of life here. The stories and the people and the tears, they are always present.
I have updated the slideshow, for those of you who are interested in seeing some new photos from the field.
Sapa moved her babies out of my room. I am beginning to think they shit where they sleep until they can’t take it anymore and then move to another room to do the same. It may be about time to get knee-deep in bleach in LU. Sapa is the only cat I have ever met who doesn’t like to chase string. I don’t think the babies got that gene. After all her tender loving care, Emily may kill them with her knitting needles.
One thing that’s difficult about this job is that there is so much pain in a war zone. I may be ready to drink my morning coffee and laugh at pigs chasing their mother, but a neighbor may feel like talking about a massacre. And conversations end up being pretty heavy pretty often.
It was us and a few PBIers talking about our lives and siblings. He was the only community member in the room. When we asked him about his siblings, he said he didn’t have any: “I used to, but not anymore.” Sensing he wasn’t up to telling the story, we asked him about his kids. He said, “I had four children. They were all killed by paramilitaries. The last one three years ago.” He was crying, the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he wiped them before they could drop down his cheek. He is alone. Everyone in his life is not only dead, but has been killed.
She tells us about her children that have been killed. About the lies told about her. About why people want to kill her. She talks easy and tells it like it is. In the end she says, “If I am honest and die for the truth, that’s ok. Dying for the truth is ok.”
This job constantly brings to mind the difference between international human rights defenders and local campesino resistance.
This month there is a FOR volunteer reunion. We will hear more stories and meet the people who came before us in this accompaniment program. This afternoon I am meeting up with the first to arrive. Historical memory.
We get three days off a month. I am taking mine right now. I am staying in an airconditioned room. It is amazing. And skyping with my family. They are amazing. And listening to Lou Reed sing Street Hassle. He is amazing. It’s called a “salida de contexto” and is supposed to remove us a bit from what we do all of the time. Even that is difficult, though. I find it hard to remove myself from the context of life here. The stories and the people and the tears, they are always present.
I have updated the slideshow, for those of you who are interested in seeing some new photos from the field.
domingo, 17 de julio de 2011
We've got time to kill, what a thrill, June and July...
Thank you to everyone who responded to my last blog and politcally supported the community last month by contacting your representatives in regard to the Dear Colleague letter in Congress and by signing the petitition against the U.S.-Colombia Free Trade Agreement. We are following the developments here, and hoping for the best.
To all of my fellow fans of snail mail: I now have an address in Apartado, as the post office has officially re-opened after their move. The name on the box is Susana Pimiento, so your letters would have to read:
Gina Spigarelli c/o Susana Pimiento
P.O. Box 25008
Apartado Postal
Colombia, Sur America
My first jeep ride up to the communtiy post-vacation had me sitting next to a neighbor of mine. Four to a row, facing the four on the other row (that’s four adults- not counting bags, children, chickens etc.) and packed in pretty tight. About fifteen minutes into the ride, the woman across from me’s face went slightly whitish. I thought perhaps she had motion sickness. She did not. She saw the notedbook sized spider located behind my head. (Note: I think most spiders here are large. Most locals think most spiders here are invisible, so the fact that the four individuals accross from me were concerned about this spider suggested it actually bites.) As everyone in the jeep noted the size and “anger” of the spider, I tried to wiggle my way further away from it (futile). My neighbor, bless her, realized I was not going to be the one to deal with the situation, even if I was the closest. She asked the driver if he “had a tool with which she could kill a large spider” and he stopped the car to remove his boot. I was instructed to lean forward and I lept to Emily’s lap, a feat in and of itself since she was kiddy corner two people away. The spider was hit. The spider did not die. In the end I think it was a mixture of boot, pole and random sharp object that took him down. I have not ridden inside the jeep since. Hanging off the back of the jeep as it bumps up the mountain has the extra advantage of a quick bail out if the whole thing goes off one of the cliffs (also likely).
Coming back to La Union after vacation took a few days of readjusting. Luckily, Bendy is the most amazing friend ever and brought me curries, soap, sriacha and music to ease me back into war zone living. I found myself reacting fiercly to the surroundings- jumping back and forth between slightly relaxed and severely stressed- depending on the activity. At one point Emily looked at me and said, “I think you need some hot chocolate.” So wise. And then things fell back into place and I stopped startling myself at the helicopters and gunfire and I stopped losing sleep over my neighbor’s stories of death and destruction and historical horror and injustice. I started to enjoy weeding the garden with Emily and (far more effective than the two of us combined) one of my favorite teenagers, and I laughed at my grandmotherly neighbor whipping chickens to get them out of her house (yes, with a horse whip), and I joyfully shook popcorn in a plastic bag full of salt to share with the kids, and I watched a confused hummingbird watch himself in our mirror, and I relaxed into the rythmic sound of Emily juggling bowling pins outside my window, and I listened to neighbors whistle communication across the canyon, and I lectured loud cow’s mom when she woke me up at 5:30AM (she, obviously, just continued chomping away, staring at me with eyes half-mast and jaw slowly circulating), and I visited one of my favorite families at sunset and sat on their porch and gorged on the last mangos of the season while they reassured me that the zapote and mandarine seasons that came next were also deliciously fun.
June was full of hot days and balmy nights. In town the shop owners sat directly in front of fans, and left the freezer open an extra second when they sold ice cream. In the campo people scrubbed their water tanks more often than normal and took multiple showers a day. My hair had to go. Emily cut it in front of our house while I overlooked a country mountain landscape, dotted with horses grazing and children chasing piglets. I wanted her to shave it (it was so hot I thought I could not go on), but she refused. Instead it now hangs shoulder length. A foot and a half of my redishblonde hair was piled in front of our house for a few weeks, admist cowpies and horse poo. Just when I thought none of it was going to go to use in a bird nest or the like, a puppy arrived to play in it. He wanted to be blonde.
Sapa gave birth to two babes in Emily’s bed. Between Sapa and Emily, they were protected for weeks from any and all threats. The kittens have now officially grown out of the blind rat stage and are furry and open-eyed and pretty frickin’ cute. They have also officially moved from Emily’s room to mine (Sapa, uninvited, carried them there a couple weeks ago for some unknown reason that apparently was not up for debate) where they play in my arts and crafts bag and sleep on my clothes shelf and dart out from under my bed to attack my feet when I walk in. There were a few nights of constant struggle with Sapa, who was convinced my bed was actually hers. The nightly battle went something like this:
Gina: (delicately sleeping)
Sapa: Jumps on Gina’s head with baby in her mouth looking to take over the bed, simultaneously breaking the mosquito net.
Gina: Violently removes Sapa and gently sets babies on ground then gets up, cursing, and reties mosquito net.
Sapa: (after waiting patiently for mosquito net to be retied)Jumps on Gina’s head with baby in her mouth looking to take over the bed, simultaneously breaking the mosquito net.
Gina: Violently removes Sapa and gently sets babies on ground then gets up, cursing, and reties mosquito net.
(Repeat until dawn or until Gina is so tired she doesn’t mind choking on mosquito net.)
There were a few nights of lost sleep, but I think we understand eachother now. We were feeding Sapa while she was pregnant and first nursing. She is now back to the hunt; last night I woke up to the sound of crunching on bones. Poor little field mouse.
One thing every member of the Peace Community does is participate in weekly community work days, where everyone gives a day to work on something that benefits the entire community. This month they spent several weeks in a row improving the walking path from La Union to San Jose. It’s pretty awesome now… enough rocks jetting out of the mud that you pratically don’t ever have to step in it. Parts of it are nearly (gasp!) cobbled. How do they do it!?! In other community work day news, there have been Peace Community sugar cane harvests and honey making. Check this out- throw a little baking soda in freshly made Peace Community honey and voila- you have malt candy. Campo tricks = so good.
I have been up and down a lot this month…
The first time we met on the path he jumped out at me. I nearly had a heart attack. But he was unarmed and familiar looking and had a nice smile and told me where he lived. Another time he and his sister were knee deep fishing in the river with translucent line while I clumsily crossed it trying now to get wet (fail). They waved and smiled. One time they ran down to the path to bring me coconut for a snack when I was walking by their house. I think they find me strangely intriguing. They comment on how sweaty I am and ask me how to say things in English and compliment me on how “quickly” I walk (note: we are but gringo slugs next to the local campesino cheeta). I like them because they are nice to me. And because it is nice to have friends outside the community. And because they are siblings who get along, and I miss mine.
You always here about them- here and there, killing a chicken or killing a cat. Emily saw one once. The first time I saw a snake on our path,I was moving pretty quickly. I was on my way to a meeting and I wanted to arrive with enough time to shower. The snake wasn’t moving at all. It was just in the way. I watched it watch me for a moment and then walked far around it and continued on my way. About 200 yards down the path I ran into a family on horse back:
Me: There is a snake on the path.
Son: Where?
Me: Just up there. I don’t know if it’s poisounous.
Mom: What does it look like.
Me: Yay big, head like this, red.
All: Nervously laughing.
Mom: Is it alive or dead?
Me: Alive. Why would I tell you to be careful of a dead snake?
Dad: Oh my child, that one will kill you.
Mom: Are you alone?
Me: Yep.
Dad: You need to carry a machete.
Yes, I can see it now. The machete wielding peace working gringa in the war zone, taking on poisounous snakes. Since then I’ve seen a few more, but that red one was the coolest looking.
A new jeep record was set: 12 people hanging on to the outside.
I took antibiotics on vacation, but apparently they didn’t kill the infection because I just got gradually sicker upon me return to La Union. This culminated during the week my boss and a former FOR volunteer where here visiting. We managed to get quite a bit of work done, but I was nowhere near feeling well. Liza, my boss, is lovely. We talked about many things and how to make them even better. We got approval for pending requests and we ate delicious food. She even brought sundried tomatoes without knowing my obsession for them. Paul worked for FOR in La Union in 2005, just after a masacre. We talked about how quickly things change in a war zone and he told us story after unbelievable story from his time here. He told us about accidentally meeting the FARC under a avocado tree while on the way to the fields and the Military walking straight down the street next to the FOR house. It was nice to have visitors. Particularly these two. They are what I may call gems. Unfortunately I missed a lot of the lively conversation while either shitting, puking, feeling faint, laying feverish in a hammock, listening to sounds I’ve never heard coming from my stomach, or otherwise in pain/delirium.
Eventually I was thrown over a donkey which Paul and Liza alternatively led down to town. When I visited the doctor she was surprised I wasn’t complaining of a sore throat. I told her, now that she pointed it out, it was pretty difficult to swallow. I had strep. She asked if I had a fever. I told her I was hot. She took my temperature and told me that was because I had a fever. I told her I was always hot and slightly delirious due to the climate. She told me if I was this hot and delirious, it was because I had a fever and not because of the climate. I also had leptospirosis. It’s a nice little disease contracted by ingesting urine from farm animals. I dare you to google it. I spent five days in Apartado sleeping and drugging myself and visiting the clinic. Once the fever subsided, I visited the PBI house and they made me tea. I went to the internet mid-day because it has airconditioning. I watched so many sitcoms I never knew existed. I was sick and alone and sad.The worst thing about being sick far away from home is that sickness is always pumped with homesickness. It was pretty lame. One evening Forest Gump was on (dubbed in Spanish, mind you) and I cried when Forest told Jenny about the beauty he could see in the war zone. Then I got better and felt like a Whole. New. Person. I realized I’d been sick since my arrival in La Union, at least at a low-level. Strong kill-all antibiotics are amazing. Now there is just the conundrum of finding local probiotics so that I don’t catch the first thing that I come in contact with now that all of my nice infection fighting bacteria are, like the infection, dead.
When I came back up to the community, I heard my name shouted accross the canyon. I waved at the lush green hill from which the shouting came. Later I learned it was some neighbors, traversing the mined hill, looking for a rogué pig. I couldn’t help the flash of a scene from the movie Los Colores de La Montana when it crossed my mind.
Eating is even more fun when your stomach acts like it should. The papaya grew on our garden tree for more than a year. We ate it in less than a half an hour. Sean says, “fried yucca is the closest thing to a campo pretzel” and our neighbor makes them so well you could sell them at a traveling carnival. Garden vegetable soup is so good when the vegetables actually come from your garden. I love soup. Palomas, the Italian accompaniment organization, invited us to a dinner meeting- their pasta dishes = . Emily accomplished the imposible: she made a loaf of bread without an oven. I could have died from happiness.
Emily’s birthday week kicked off with a trip to the swimming hole. The wáter was high from rain and more than 10 of us were in one pool, playing tag on a hot Sunday afternoon under the mini waterfall. Our full visión for Emily’s big 3-0 was that she would be “princess for a day,” wearing a chiffon dress and a crown while riding around on loud cow and shouting orders to all her humble subjects. In the end I did make her a crown, but the chiffon dress was unattainable. When she went down to town for some food for the party, kids gathered at the house to make decorations. At the party we made empanadas and covered crackers with homemade fudge and danced to vallenato. Neighbors passed by and hung out and danced a song or two. It was a wild ragin’ succesful campo celebration. At one point a neighbor turned to the birthday girl and said, “you know, we usually only have birthday parties for the children.” In fact this worked out fine, because Emily and I had previously decided she was actually celebrating the quinceañera she was denied during her childhood in the states.
Emily and I did an accompaniment to Mulatos, another of the Peace Community villages that’s a 6 hour horse/mule ride from where we live in La Union. The path is beautiful. You climb and climb and climb and at the top of the mountain, there’s a view of the caribbean bay. We passed the most picturesque of places. We saw land that belongs to our neighbors, where they hike everyday to work. It was a good thing I practiced riding a horse with a neighbor before going (a thought that randomly occured to me a few days prior) because it was an intense ride. The up is UP. The down is DOWN. There is mud and horse flies and biting ants and the horses are tired and they look for ways to avoid the knee deep mud by walking on the edge of the path, dragging you through trees and bushes and thistle. We arrived in Mulatos with new bruises and cuts and saddle sore. The Mulatos Peace Community makes La Union look like a bustling urban center. There are seven families there, Split 3 and 4 by a river. It is quieter. Emily and I even managed to take a nap one day. The stars are clearer. The roofs are made with palapa, which makes the terrential rains sound more gentle. One of the community leaders there has the most infectious of laughs. The war there is louder. We went for meetings. We went to see the military presence in the zone. Our first night we heard land mines being disactivated. We listened to stories of the various armed actors and what they were doing and where they were. We heard helicopters and saw single soldiers on the path and knew in the back of our minds they were backed by entire tropos, hiding in the jungle and watching us.
And then, unexpectedly while we happened to be there, a neighbor (note: “neighbor” implies anyone within two hours walking for this community) was taken by the military and didn’t return home. His wife called. It was decided if he didn’t return home by dawn, the community would go look for him. At 6AM we took off on a 1.5 hour hike/rescue mission to locate the mobile counter-insurgent troop that had this man. Some 20 campesinos met on the path along the way- men, women, children, babies- some on horse back, most walking, all with complaints they intended to bring up to the troop commander in their backyard. We walked past the sight of the FARC planted, military disactivated land mines. They were no more than 30 feet off the path and left large cráter holes. Spooky. We hiked up to the top of a hill where the troop was last sighted. There, soldiers appeared from behind banana leaves and disappeared again behind them. Eventually the commander agreed to talk with the community and emerged from the lush jungle. On behalf of the two groups there was a lot of talking. There was a lot of discussing. On my behalf, there was a lot of furious note-taking. On Emily’s behalf there was a lot of satalite phone-call making. In the end, the man was returned to his family. We felt pretty good about international accompaniment. We left our friends in Mulatos blowing kisses into the wind and promising to return soon. We half hiked-half rode back home. The last 30 minutes we followed a man bringing his cherry tomato harvest down to town to sell. We bought some. I’ve never had better cherry tomatoes in my life. The hike/ride was long and we arrived in La Union exhausted.
July 4th passed without incident here. Sean, Emily and I did our June finances. We wished eachother a lacluster ‘Happy 4th of July’ whenever someone asked the date.
July 8th however, the 11th anniversary of the 2000 La Union massacre, did not pass without incident. The day brought in a low fog and an oppressive humidity, and of course, an emotional heaviness that lasted a few days longer as people remembered the massacre of their family members and community leaders. On that day in 2000, a group of military backed, paramilitary soldiers entered La Union, gathered everyone in the center of town, and massacred the community leaders.
Emily knits with her natural died wool. The bag she is making now has wool dyes made from avocado, marigold, fruits and other campo seed delights. Sean plays Silvio Rodriguez songs on his guitar and jams with our neighbor. He has also been playing on the La Union soccer team in the Peace Community ternament and they have been winning, although he says this is not due to him. Emily and I got up to our knees in bleach and scrubbed out the shared accompaniment house in San Josecito. We now itch less when we sleep there. A boy turned seven and Emily had no problem being the only non-organizing adults at the party. Parties are fun. This one came chalk full of fun- piñatas and balloon games, and young children dancing vallenato and reggaeton with more finesse than I could ever dream. We also played community bingo, which we lost. One afternoon I pulled out my clown makeup and let the little girls do my makeup and their own. Emily looked at me and said, “frightening.” Last night we attended a party at the PBI house down in town. Attending parties full of OEA and Doctors without Borders and the UN Refugee workers makes me feel like a foreign diplomat. Then I remember where I live. And what I do. And I find life all the more strange.
Two friends from Guatemala arrive tonight. Friends are so good.
To all of my fellow fans of snail mail: I now have an address in Apartado, as the post office has officially re-opened after their move. The name on the box is Susana Pimiento, so your letters would have to read:
Gina Spigarelli c/o Susana Pimiento
P.O. Box 25008
Apartado Postal
Colombia, Sur America
My first jeep ride up to the communtiy post-vacation had me sitting next to a neighbor of mine. Four to a row, facing the four on the other row (that’s four adults- not counting bags, children, chickens etc.) and packed in pretty tight. About fifteen minutes into the ride, the woman across from me’s face went slightly whitish. I thought perhaps she had motion sickness. She did not. She saw the notedbook sized spider located behind my head. (Note: I think most spiders here are large. Most locals think most spiders here are invisible, so the fact that the four individuals accross from me were concerned about this spider suggested it actually bites.) As everyone in the jeep noted the size and “anger” of the spider, I tried to wiggle my way further away from it (futile). My neighbor, bless her, realized I was not going to be the one to deal with the situation, even if I was the closest. She asked the driver if he “had a tool with which she could kill a large spider” and he stopped the car to remove his boot. I was instructed to lean forward and I lept to Emily’s lap, a feat in and of itself since she was kiddy corner two people away. The spider was hit. The spider did not die. In the end I think it was a mixture of boot, pole and random sharp object that took him down. I have not ridden inside the jeep since. Hanging off the back of the jeep as it bumps up the mountain has the extra advantage of a quick bail out if the whole thing goes off one of the cliffs (also likely).
Coming back to La Union after vacation took a few days of readjusting. Luckily, Bendy is the most amazing friend ever and brought me curries, soap, sriacha and music to ease me back into war zone living. I found myself reacting fiercly to the surroundings- jumping back and forth between slightly relaxed and severely stressed- depending on the activity. At one point Emily looked at me and said, “I think you need some hot chocolate.” So wise. And then things fell back into place and I stopped startling myself at the helicopters and gunfire and I stopped losing sleep over my neighbor’s stories of death and destruction and historical horror and injustice. I started to enjoy weeding the garden with Emily and (far more effective than the two of us combined) one of my favorite teenagers, and I laughed at my grandmotherly neighbor whipping chickens to get them out of her house (yes, with a horse whip), and I joyfully shook popcorn in a plastic bag full of salt to share with the kids, and I watched a confused hummingbird watch himself in our mirror, and I relaxed into the rythmic sound of Emily juggling bowling pins outside my window, and I listened to neighbors whistle communication across the canyon, and I lectured loud cow’s mom when she woke me up at 5:30AM (she, obviously, just continued chomping away, staring at me with eyes half-mast and jaw slowly circulating), and I visited one of my favorite families at sunset and sat on their porch and gorged on the last mangos of the season while they reassured me that the zapote and mandarine seasons that came next were also deliciously fun.
June was full of hot days and balmy nights. In town the shop owners sat directly in front of fans, and left the freezer open an extra second when they sold ice cream. In the campo people scrubbed their water tanks more often than normal and took multiple showers a day. My hair had to go. Emily cut it in front of our house while I overlooked a country mountain landscape, dotted with horses grazing and children chasing piglets. I wanted her to shave it (it was so hot I thought I could not go on), but she refused. Instead it now hangs shoulder length. A foot and a half of my redishblonde hair was piled in front of our house for a few weeks, admist cowpies and horse poo. Just when I thought none of it was going to go to use in a bird nest or the like, a puppy arrived to play in it. He wanted to be blonde.
Sapa gave birth to two babes in Emily’s bed. Between Sapa and Emily, they were protected for weeks from any and all threats. The kittens have now officially grown out of the blind rat stage and are furry and open-eyed and pretty frickin’ cute. They have also officially moved from Emily’s room to mine (Sapa, uninvited, carried them there a couple weeks ago for some unknown reason that apparently was not up for debate) where they play in my arts and crafts bag and sleep on my clothes shelf and dart out from under my bed to attack my feet when I walk in. There were a few nights of constant struggle with Sapa, who was convinced my bed was actually hers. The nightly battle went something like this:
Gina: (delicately sleeping)
Sapa: Jumps on Gina’s head with baby in her mouth looking to take over the bed, simultaneously breaking the mosquito net.
Gina: Violently removes Sapa and gently sets babies on ground then gets up, cursing, and reties mosquito net.
Sapa: (after waiting patiently for mosquito net to be retied)Jumps on Gina’s head with baby in her mouth looking to take over the bed, simultaneously breaking the mosquito net.
Gina: Violently removes Sapa and gently sets babies on ground then gets up, cursing, and reties mosquito net.
(Repeat until dawn or until Gina is so tired she doesn’t mind choking on mosquito net.)
There were a few nights of lost sleep, but I think we understand eachother now. We were feeding Sapa while she was pregnant and first nursing. She is now back to the hunt; last night I woke up to the sound of crunching on bones. Poor little field mouse.
One thing every member of the Peace Community does is participate in weekly community work days, where everyone gives a day to work on something that benefits the entire community. This month they spent several weeks in a row improving the walking path from La Union to San Jose. It’s pretty awesome now… enough rocks jetting out of the mud that you pratically don’t ever have to step in it. Parts of it are nearly (gasp!) cobbled. How do they do it!?! In other community work day news, there have been Peace Community sugar cane harvests and honey making. Check this out- throw a little baking soda in freshly made Peace Community honey and voila- you have malt candy. Campo tricks = so good.
I have been up and down a lot this month…
The first time we met on the path he jumped out at me. I nearly had a heart attack. But he was unarmed and familiar looking and had a nice smile and told me where he lived. Another time he and his sister were knee deep fishing in the river with translucent line while I clumsily crossed it trying now to get wet (fail). They waved and smiled. One time they ran down to the path to bring me coconut for a snack when I was walking by their house. I think they find me strangely intriguing. They comment on how sweaty I am and ask me how to say things in English and compliment me on how “quickly” I walk (note: we are but gringo slugs next to the local campesino cheeta). I like them because they are nice to me. And because it is nice to have friends outside the community. And because they are siblings who get along, and I miss mine.
You always here about them- here and there, killing a chicken or killing a cat. Emily saw one once. The first time I saw a snake on our path,I was moving pretty quickly. I was on my way to a meeting and I wanted to arrive with enough time to shower. The snake wasn’t moving at all. It was just in the way. I watched it watch me for a moment and then walked far around it and continued on my way. About 200 yards down the path I ran into a family on horse back:
Me: There is a snake on the path.
Son: Where?
Me: Just up there. I don’t know if it’s poisounous.
Mom: What does it look like.
Me: Yay big, head like this, red.
All: Nervously laughing.
Mom: Is it alive or dead?
Me: Alive. Why would I tell you to be careful of a dead snake?
Dad: Oh my child, that one will kill you.
Mom: Are you alone?
Me: Yep.
Dad: You need to carry a machete.
Yes, I can see it now. The machete wielding peace working gringa in the war zone, taking on poisounous snakes. Since then I’ve seen a few more, but that red one was the coolest looking.
A new jeep record was set: 12 people hanging on to the outside.
I took antibiotics on vacation, but apparently they didn’t kill the infection because I just got gradually sicker upon me return to La Union. This culminated during the week my boss and a former FOR volunteer where here visiting. We managed to get quite a bit of work done, but I was nowhere near feeling well. Liza, my boss, is lovely. We talked about many things and how to make them even better. We got approval for pending requests and we ate delicious food. She even brought sundried tomatoes without knowing my obsession for them. Paul worked for FOR in La Union in 2005, just after a masacre. We talked about how quickly things change in a war zone and he told us story after unbelievable story from his time here. He told us about accidentally meeting the FARC under a avocado tree while on the way to the fields and the Military walking straight down the street next to the FOR house. It was nice to have visitors. Particularly these two. They are what I may call gems. Unfortunately I missed a lot of the lively conversation while either shitting, puking, feeling faint, laying feverish in a hammock, listening to sounds I’ve never heard coming from my stomach, or otherwise in pain/delirium.
Eventually I was thrown over a donkey which Paul and Liza alternatively led down to town. When I visited the doctor she was surprised I wasn’t complaining of a sore throat. I told her, now that she pointed it out, it was pretty difficult to swallow. I had strep. She asked if I had a fever. I told her I was hot. She took my temperature and told me that was because I had a fever. I told her I was always hot and slightly delirious due to the climate. She told me if I was this hot and delirious, it was because I had a fever and not because of the climate. I also had leptospirosis. It’s a nice little disease contracted by ingesting urine from farm animals. I dare you to google it. I spent five days in Apartado sleeping and drugging myself and visiting the clinic. Once the fever subsided, I visited the PBI house and they made me tea. I went to the internet mid-day because it has airconditioning. I watched so many sitcoms I never knew existed. I was sick and alone and sad.The worst thing about being sick far away from home is that sickness is always pumped with homesickness. It was pretty lame. One evening Forest Gump was on (dubbed in Spanish, mind you) and I cried when Forest told Jenny about the beauty he could see in the war zone. Then I got better and felt like a Whole. New. Person. I realized I’d been sick since my arrival in La Union, at least at a low-level. Strong kill-all antibiotics are amazing. Now there is just the conundrum of finding local probiotics so that I don’t catch the first thing that I come in contact with now that all of my nice infection fighting bacteria are, like the infection, dead.
When I came back up to the community, I heard my name shouted accross the canyon. I waved at the lush green hill from which the shouting came. Later I learned it was some neighbors, traversing the mined hill, looking for a rogué pig. I couldn’t help the flash of a scene from the movie Los Colores de La Montana when it crossed my mind.
Eating is even more fun when your stomach acts like it should. The papaya grew on our garden tree for more than a year. We ate it in less than a half an hour. Sean says, “fried yucca is the closest thing to a campo pretzel” and our neighbor makes them so well you could sell them at a traveling carnival. Garden vegetable soup is so good when the vegetables actually come from your garden. I love soup. Palomas, the Italian accompaniment organization, invited us to a dinner meeting- their pasta dishes = . Emily accomplished the imposible: she made a loaf of bread without an oven. I could have died from happiness.
Emily’s birthday week kicked off with a trip to the swimming hole. The wáter was high from rain and more than 10 of us were in one pool, playing tag on a hot Sunday afternoon under the mini waterfall. Our full visión for Emily’s big 3-0 was that she would be “princess for a day,” wearing a chiffon dress and a crown while riding around on loud cow and shouting orders to all her humble subjects. In the end I did make her a crown, but the chiffon dress was unattainable. When she went down to town for some food for the party, kids gathered at the house to make decorations. At the party we made empanadas and covered crackers with homemade fudge and danced to vallenato. Neighbors passed by and hung out and danced a song or two. It was a wild ragin’ succesful campo celebration. At one point a neighbor turned to the birthday girl and said, “you know, we usually only have birthday parties for the children.” In fact this worked out fine, because Emily and I had previously decided she was actually celebrating the quinceañera she was denied during her childhood in the states.
Emily and I did an accompaniment to Mulatos, another of the Peace Community villages that’s a 6 hour horse/mule ride from where we live in La Union. The path is beautiful. You climb and climb and climb and at the top of the mountain, there’s a view of the caribbean bay. We passed the most picturesque of places. We saw land that belongs to our neighbors, where they hike everyday to work. It was a good thing I practiced riding a horse with a neighbor before going (a thought that randomly occured to me a few days prior) because it was an intense ride. The up is UP. The down is DOWN. There is mud and horse flies and biting ants and the horses are tired and they look for ways to avoid the knee deep mud by walking on the edge of the path, dragging you through trees and bushes and thistle. We arrived in Mulatos with new bruises and cuts and saddle sore. The Mulatos Peace Community makes La Union look like a bustling urban center. There are seven families there, Split 3 and 4 by a river. It is quieter. Emily and I even managed to take a nap one day. The stars are clearer. The roofs are made with palapa, which makes the terrential rains sound more gentle. One of the community leaders there has the most infectious of laughs. The war there is louder. We went for meetings. We went to see the military presence in the zone. Our first night we heard land mines being disactivated. We listened to stories of the various armed actors and what they were doing and where they were. We heard helicopters and saw single soldiers on the path and knew in the back of our minds they were backed by entire tropos, hiding in the jungle and watching us.
And then, unexpectedly while we happened to be there, a neighbor (note: “neighbor” implies anyone within two hours walking for this community) was taken by the military and didn’t return home. His wife called. It was decided if he didn’t return home by dawn, the community would go look for him. At 6AM we took off on a 1.5 hour hike/rescue mission to locate the mobile counter-insurgent troop that had this man. Some 20 campesinos met on the path along the way- men, women, children, babies- some on horse back, most walking, all with complaints they intended to bring up to the troop commander in their backyard. We walked past the sight of the FARC planted, military disactivated land mines. They were no more than 30 feet off the path and left large cráter holes. Spooky. We hiked up to the top of a hill where the troop was last sighted. There, soldiers appeared from behind banana leaves and disappeared again behind them. Eventually the commander agreed to talk with the community and emerged from the lush jungle. On behalf of the two groups there was a lot of talking. There was a lot of discussing. On my behalf, there was a lot of furious note-taking. On Emily’s behalf there was a lot of satalite phone-call making. In the end, the man was returned to his family. We felt pretty good about international accompaniment. We left our friends in Mulatos blowing kisses into the wind and promising to return soon. We half hiked-half rode back home. The last 30 minutes we followed a man bringing his cherry tomato harvest down to town to sell. We bought some. I’ve never had better cherry tomatoes in my life. The hike/ride was long and we arrived in La Union exhausted.
July 4th passed without incident here. Sean, Emily and I did our June finances. We wished eachother a lacluster ‘Happy 4th of July’ whenever someone asked the date.
July 8th however, the 11th anniversary of the 2000 La Union massacre, did not pass without incident. The day brought in a low fog and an oppressive humidity, and of course, an emotional heaviness that lasted a few days longer as people remembered the massacre of their family members and community leaders. On that day in 2000, a group of military backed, paramilitary soldiers entered La Union, gathered everyone in the center of town, and massacred the community leaders.
Emily knits with her natural died wool. The bag she is making now has wool dyes made from avocado, marigold, fruits and other campo seed delights. Sean plays Silvio Rodriguez songs on his guitar and jams with our neighbor. He has also been playing on the La Union soccer team in the Peace Community ternament and they have been winning, although he says this is not due to him. Emily and I got up to our knees in bleach and scrubbed out the shared accompaniment house in San Josecito. We now itch less when we sleep there. A boy turned seven and Emily had no problem being the only non-organizing adults at the party. Parties are fun. This one came chalk full of fun- piñatas and balloon games, and young children dancing vallenato and reggaeton with more finesse than I could ever dream. We also played community bingo, which we lost. One afternoon I pulled out my clown makeup and let the little girls do my makeup and their own. Emily looked at me and said, “frightening.” Last night we attended a party at the PBI house down in town. Attending parties full of OEA and Doctors without Borders and the UN Refugee workers makes me feel like a foreign diplomat. Then I remember where I live. And what I do. And I find life all the more strange.
Two friends from Guatemala arrive tonight. Friends are so good.
martes, 14 de junio de 2011
Urging all U.S. citizens to act in solidarity this week!
Thank you to everyone around the world who has been following my blog and supportive of my work here in Colombia. I am writing to ask U.S. citizens for your help this week in politically defending the Peace Community of San Jose de Apartado.
We have some great news about activism on behalf of the U.S. government: Representative Hank Johnson from Atlanta has introduced a "Dear Colleague" letter in Congress. The letter calls on the Colombian government to create a Justice and Evaluation Commission which will both investigate the history of violations against the community as well as why the Colombian State has not provided legal justice for these crimes.
When Jesús Emilio Tuberquia, a leader of the Peace Community, was in the United States last month, he talked about the systematic attempts by the Colombian State to destroy his community. "They have used every means of violence, and it has occurred under all the presidents" since the community began in 1997, he said. After some 900 violations against the San José community, including more than 160 murders committed by the army or their paramilitary allies, only one military officer (an army captain who confessed to participating in the 2005 massacre) has ever been convicted.
By way of our Congressional Representatives, we have the opportunity to do something about this impunity of violence against a community pledged to peace. Members of Congress may sign on to this letter until THIS FRIDAY, JUNE 17th.
This is what I, the community and the organization FOR are asking of you:
Please call your Congressional Representative today!
(Congressional Switchboard, #202-225-3121) then:
* Ask for the foreign policy staff
* Say that you would like your Congressman/woman to sign on to the Hank Johnson letter on the San José Peace Community in Colombia
* Offer to send the staff person a copy of the letter. (I have posted the letter to my blog below and you can access a PDF copy of it here: http://forusa.org/sites/default/files/uploads/sanjosecongltrtextmay2011.pdf)
* Urge them to contact Sascha Thompson in Hank Johnson's office at:
225-1605 (do not call Sascha yourself)
*Say you would like to hear back from them and leave your phone number
Success! Thanks for your efforts in solidarity!
* Give FOR a call at 510-763-1403 or send us an email: action@forusa.org and let us know about your call and what staff told you.
We are looking for as many signers as posible. This action will help push the commission forward, show the Santos' government that the U.S. as a whole is concerned about impunity, and once again raise the visibility of the Peace Community of San Jose de Apartado. If you can take time to do this before Friday, please do.
Below is a list of signers from a Dear Colleague letter in 2005 regarding the massacre of the same year. If you are in the district of someone on this list or know anybody who is, please call them and urge them to sign onto this letter. Even if you don’t know anyone in these districts, please encourage your fellow activists, friends and community members to also take the time out of their day and make a call to their representatives.
On behalf of the entire FOR Colombia team (Emily, Sean, Jon, Liza, John, Susana and myself) THANK YOU in advance for supporting the Peace Community of San Jose de Apartado.
List of signers for letter regarding massacre, 2005:
- Peter Defazzio, Oregon's 4th
- Rosa DeLauro, Conneticut's 3rd
- Elliot Engel, New York's 17th
- Sam Farr, California's 17th
- Bob Filner, California's 51st
- Raul Grijalva, Arizona's 7th
- Luis Guitierrez, Illinois' 4th
- Maurice Hinchey, New York 22nd
- James Langevin, Rhode Island's 2nd
- Barbara Lee, California's 9th
- Zoe Lofgren, California's 16th
- Nita Lowey, New York's 18th
- Jim McGovern, Massachusetts 3rd
- Pat Meehan, Pennsylvania's 7th
- Gregory Meeks, New York's 6th
- John Olver, Massachusetts 1st
- Donald Payne, New Jersey's 10th
- Bobby Rush, Illinois' 1st
- Janice Schakowsky, Illinois' 9th
- Christopher Smith, New Jersey's 4th
- Henry Waxman, California's 30th
- Lynne Woolsey, California's 6th
Current letter for which we seek Congressional support, 2011:
Mr. Angelino Garzón
Vice President of Colombia
Carrera 8a No.7-57
Bogotá, Colombia
Dear Vice President Garzón:
We write to strongly encourage you to expeditiously create a Justice Evaluation Commission to examine alleged human rights abuses committed against the Peace Community of San José de Apartadó, and to effectively investigate and prosecute assassinations of members of the Peace Community by paramilitary groups operating in the area.
The purpose of this commission would be to analyze the text of the Right of Petition submitted to the High Courts (January 2009) This document, submitted by Jesuit Priest Father Javier Giraldo, contains details of over 180 killings of Peace Community members, including the names of state agents allegedly implicated, the status of investigations and recommendations and to examine alleged irregularities in the administration of justice. The final commission’s report will provide to all interested parties a diagnosis of how the judicial process has operated in these cases, and make recommendations to correct the failings.
Considering the role ascribed to the Ombudsman, Mr. Volmar Perez, by the Constitutional Court in its jurisprudence, Mr. Perez should negotiate its creation with the Prosecutor General in order to establish whether or not the Prosecutor is willing to support it
As you know, the U.S. Congress has monitored the situation of the Peace Community of San José de Apartadó for many years. On numerous occasions, Members of the U.S. Congress have expressed to the Colombian Government their concerns regarding assassinations of Peace Community members by paramilitary groups and members of the Colombian National Army, as well as concern with continued threats against Peace Community activists.
After Congress learned of the February 21, 2005, massacre of seven Peace Community members, including three small children and a teenager, by paramilitary forces of the United Self Defense Forces and members of the Colombian National Army´s 17th Brigade, the U.S. temporarily suspended some foreign aid to Colombia and ceased providing assistance to the 17th Brigade.The lack of effective investigation and prosecution of these cases is deeply troubling, particularly in light of continued U.S. military assistance to the Government of Colombia. As of today, only one conviction of a state agent has resulted from investigation of the killings.
In October of 2010, several Members of Congress met Mr. Jesus Emilio Tuberquia, the legal representative from the Peace Community of the San José de Apartadó. Mr. Tuberquia expressed his deep concern with the ongoing threats against and assassinations of members of his community, the lack of protection and effective support from the Colombian Government, the continuous existence of paramilitary groups who operate with impunity, and the lack of investigation and prosecution of many cases of intimidation or alleged murder.
It is troubling to learn that paramilitary groups continue to operate bases in Nueva Antioquia (Antioquia Department) and nearby Batata (Cordoba Department), and that these groups are consistently targeting the civilian population and in particular members of the Peace Community. In addition, we are aware of a list that has been circulating in the area which threatens the lives of Peace Community leaders. We would like to take this opportunity to urge the Colombian Government to immediately investigate these allegations.
We would also like to express our deep satisfaction with the meeting in November of 2010 between representatives from the Vice Presidency´s Human Rights Program, and representatives of the Peace Community of San José de Apartadó in Bogotá. It is our understanding that during the meeting the Peace Community reiterated to the Colombian Government the urgent need for effective protective measures. We were pleased to learn about the Santos’ administration wiliness to investigate and prosecute the crimes and human rights violations suffered by Peace Community members as well as the administration’s acknowledgment of Peace Communities as important humanitarian zones for the protection of Colombian civilians affected by the armed
conflict. We welcome these observations and the government’s intention to seek justice for the Peace Community’s victims. We hope such expressions will be followed by appropriate action.
While this meeting represents a very positive step, it is imperative to reiterate the importance of moving towards the creation of a Justice Evaluation Commission in coordination with the Colombian Human Rights Ombudsman to effectively address human rights abuses, and to fully investigate and prosecute all pending assassination cases.
Please bear in mind that Members of Congress must approve continued U.S. military assistance to the Government of Colombia. Continued reports of military and paramilitary abuses against civilian activists and apparent negligence in the investigation and prosecution of such acts call into question the commitment of the Colombian government to civil rights and accountability on the part of the Colombian military. We believe it is in the best interest of all parties for the Colombian government to demonstrate a stronger commitment to protection of its civilian activists so U.S. policymakers continue to feel comfortable providing substantial military assistance to the Government of Colombia.
We would like to restate our strong support for the creation of the Justice Evaluation
Commission as a crucial initiative of significant interest to the Peace Community of San José de Apartadó, and we urge you to take the necessary steps towards the prompt establishment of the Commission.
Sincerely,
[signatures]
Cc: Mr. Peter McKinley, U.S. Ambassador
Cc: Mr. James Steinberg, Deputy Secretary of State
Cc: Mr. Volmar Perez, Human Rights Ombudsman
Cc: Mr. Germán Vargas Lleras, Minister of the Interior
Cc: Mr. Fernando Pareja Reinemer, Vice-Prosecutor General
Cc: Mr. Alejandro Ordoñez, Inspector General
sábado, 4 de junio de 2011
A Colombian Caribbean Vacation
Vacation is so good.
I have had a couple weeks of friends to fill up my heart with goodness. First, my friend Ed (former co-worker in Guatemala/room mate in Bogota) came to visit the community and hang out with me for a few days in Uraba. Then we headed to the Caribbean where dearest Bendy (other half of this power couple) was waiting with open arms to whisk me away on beach hopping bliss and finally, Beth (other Bogota roomie) hooked up with all of us in Cartagena. Too good to be true. Here is Ed’s blog, which has some of his own reflections from his time in the community and his photo link, which has some great photography:
My initial bus ride to Cartagena where I was to meet Bendy was extended several times due to bad road conditions and fallen bridges. As in: “Everybody off the bus, time to cross the river on foot!” (And we did, by crossing a bamboo drawbridge.) A long time later I rolled into the Cartagena bus stop in the middle of the night and arrived to a smiley Bendy sometime around 2am.
We stroll in old town Cartagena and enjoy flowered balconies and colonial architecture with pretty peeling paint. We eat amazing entrees and street vendor coco treats and stop for coffee whenever we please. We laugh in hammocks and talk of our lives. We are the goodness that real power couples should be but never really are. We are a different kind of power couple. Bendy eases me into an outside the warzone reality where low flying choppers are just the coast guard and canons protected the city so long ago that now you can just sit on them and drink a sunset beer. We catch up and laugh some more and drink beers on a plaza with salsa playing. I wear long red beads. We are but once upon a time.
Then we bus to Santa Marta. We eat more amazing food. We drink on a hostel bar balcony with a Peruvian. We repack for the beach.
We leap off the bus in front of Parque Tayrona and hike in to the beach. We hike through mud and fire ants, over streams and moss covered rock. We hike along and we sing songs. And as the rocky moss and lizards gives way to shells and sand and palm trees, we stop for a juice at a seaside resort. We hike on, walking in the waves, jumping beach to beach and then we disappear again back to the jungle. We weave and hike and laugh some more. We meet a boy picking mangos from a tree. He shares them. He tells us he has snorkel gear. We have reached Cabo. We sleep in hammocks and spend our days in front of a bluegreen cove full of brightly colored fish and white sand. We borrow our new friend’s snorkle goggles and swim along the grey-brown reef. I see an octopus. We gorge on mango and coconut. Bendy sees monkeys. We saunter from beach to beach and somehow manage to be the only people on them. Life is just us and our snorkel friend and our beer vending friend on beaches that could not be more beautiful. How can this be? I feel I am in a dream. We bronze, we swim. When the rain storm comes in the evening, I go back in the water. With my goggles I can see bioluminescents all around my arms as they move. After dinner we sit and watch the lightening storm in yet a different cove. It lights up the mountains and the forest and the turbulent water and the boat in the bay. Later, from my hammock, I still watch the lightening, while listening to the rain on the palapa. I think I may never be happier.
Bendy has a vision- an abandon beach four hours away hiking. We must make it a reality. So we take off and hike through the most magical of dream jungles. We hike up ancient indigenous rock formations to a lost city (Bendy at one point is literally a ladder which I climb.), through the thick of the thick of the jungle, through huge spider webs and snake happy vines and shallow parts of rivers. We hike through a jungle that is some mix of Jurrasic Park and Avatar and The Beach- all of those fictional jungles combined to be one real jungle of dreams bliss. Bright blue butterflies with wings the size of my palms guide us. There are eggplant colored mushrooms growing on redwood logs, poisonous dart frogs and millipedes the size of accordions. There are Manaquins and parrots and huge lizards with tongues a foot long. We walk down a nearly dry riverbed because we believe it will take us to the sea. Just as I begin to think we can’t possibly be on any sort of path, we see a building. And a sign. It reads: Welcome to all who are lost. You have reached paradise.
We arrive at Playa Brava to hear that Ed has beat us there by walking a different path in from the highway. Hurrah! That makes three of us and a beach cove and one family to feed us and house us and make us very very happy. Here the waves crash bigger and the current is stronger and when you stand on the beach and look inland all you can see are mountainous jungle peaks. It is unbelievable. I decide that this is probably the prettiest national park I have ever been to. The kids chase their dog with dead poisonous snakes to scare him. They bathe in the freshwater of the river just before it reaches the ocean. Alvero cracks open coconuts for us in a coconut graveyard just inside the tree canopy and when my stomach starts aching Sirai makes me some special tummy tea. Ed and Bendy hike to a waterfall and I succumb to parasites that I’ve been ignoring for a couple weeks. (Not to worry, the bathroom has an ocean view.) We bronze the bronze. We swing in hammocks and sleep under palapas in rainstorms, listening to crashing waves. We have a bonfire on the beach and see stars through silhouetted palm trees. The sand is flecked with gold. The hosts are so good. Alvero comes out of the jungle after having been to town wearing a “se habla espanol” shirt. The sunsets pour over the horizon like foggy honey. The stars twinkle above and the lightening bugs below on a clear night. We laugh and eat well and lounge about.
Then we hike again. A new route through the same mystical jungle. We hike all the way out to the road and we hop on a bus. We walk on waterfalls on our way to the next beach. There the view changes, because the beach in Palamino is long. We walk it and see huge black tires emerging from the waves. We meet hippies and toursits. We meet an American embassy worker with a Che tattoo (because we know Che would be pro- Plan Colombia). We are a hike from town and just go in for dinner. During the day the sun gets HOT and we have our first really hot beach days of the trip. The waves are bigger, some kids surf. We play in waves, we stroll and drink beers. We see a caimen and more big lizards. There are mangroves and white sand and hammocks lining the beach. We wind down our beach vacation and prepare to return to Cartagena.
Cartagena celebrates our return by celebrating its 478th birthday (what luck!). Could things get any better? Probably not. Beth arrives and for a day we all play. We stroll and eat. We see a concert in the park and watch traditional cumbia and all the hip-happy afro-caribe dancing that I will have to learn in some other lifetime. Beth and Ed both leave Colombia this week. This is what happens to long-term ex-pats- slowly but surely your foreign friends leave you. The scene in Cartagena had me thinking… waitress on the beach? Learn cumbia? Juggler on cobbled streets? Permanent vacation? I met a man who teaches at an indigenous school in an Australian rainforest and we decided it is decidedly strange what people do with their lives.
Bendy says our vacation is especially great because we both are doing things that really merit vacation. Bendy and I dance salsa in the plaza and talk about how wonderful we are. And how wonderful life is. And how wonderful Latin America is. We have one more day of strolling happiness pumped with a Panama hat and coco-limonade and cold beer. We have one more sunset on canons and one more slumber party. And then it is time to go home to the lives that merit vacations.
On the 20 hour bus ride back all along the Caribbean coast, I hear nothing but Vallenato. I think all about Los Caminos de la Vida. Now I am back in Apartadó, preparing for my hike back into a similar yet different jungle- the jungle of the war zone.
sábado, 14 de mayo de 2011
April Showers Bring May Flowers
April was a difficult first month. I was happy to flip the calendar to May.
The heat here in La Union this month can only be described as oppressive. Sweaty, humid, scorching and oppressive.
Jon: Where is Sean?
Emily: He went to get the ice cubes.
Jon: (With a ridiculous amount of hope) Ice cubes?
Gina: Yes, for the Slip ‘n’ Slide.
Emily: And to throw at one another.
(Sad Side Note with an optimistic ending: There is no ice here. Or fridge. One of the best parts of getting down to town and/or travelling is that we can eat and drink cold things.)
There is a bag hanging in the office. It is labeled “when shit hits the fan” (side comment lamentation: If only we had a fan!). In the event of an emergency we are to throw all the sensitive material in it and bail according to our emergency exit plan. Emergency exit plans are important for any family. Our house is pretty easy to get out of, but for the sake of making it interesting, we constructed one. In the case of a house fire (our totally relevant example), I would slide through the hole in the wall separating Emily´s and my bedrooms (we are actually room-mates) and then we would both exit through her window via the fire-escape ladder (approximately two feet long to cover the distance from window-ledge to weeds). House fire the least of your worries in the war zone? Try this conundrum on for size:
Q. How should we deal with aggressive armed actors?
A. Raise your arms high above your head to make yourself as large as possible, then slowly back away silently, averting your eyes from the armed actor in question.
I have travelled so much this month I sometimes forget where I am. We have travelled as close as La Hollandita (1.5 hours walking), as far as Bogota (24 hours of walking, jeeping, flying, bussing) and all sorts of distances in between. My dreams are blurred between hammocks and river crossings, bustling urban centers and hawks flying over abandoned canyons. I wake and my life feels a little the same. Like I am a ball bouncing around inside the pinball machine of the Colombian war zone.
Of all our destinations, we have spent the most time in Apartadó. It is our bustling local town hub with a larger than vereda life population of 200,000. There are things there that most people would associate with city life: people, pavement, transport, restaurants, hotels, schools, hospitals, cold things. We get a nice whirlwind of a reminder about how life goes on in the cities, even while war goes on in the countryside. We go to Apartadó to have meetings with other international NGOs, local NGOs as well as the military. We go there anytime we travel anywhere else. We also go there to find food. And with the internet difficulties this month, we have gone there to send e-mails. Apartadó has become like a second home.
Emily, Jon and I found ourselves in Apartadó one fine weekend eve and decided to go out on the town. Jon took us to the tango mistress’ hole in the wall bar (it also serves as a great place to buy most household items, sort of like how you can buy ice-cream at the photocopy place or buy goldfish at the motorcycle shop- so convenient!) where we drank heavily while listening to crescendoing tango music. The tango mistress tends her bar in high heeled shoes that are too small for her feet. She probably can’t feel the pain since she takes nearly as many shots as her customers. She is badass. Jon said he wanted her to take him under her wing. Our neighbor at the next table (aka, two inches away) was a 50 year old travelling orthodontist (don’t they have teeth where you are from?). He tried to keep us entertained with his frat-boy-esque drinking tricks and, in doing so, broke several shot glasses throughout the night. He also invited us to his BBQ the next day. In Medellin. (7-14 hours away by bus). Silliness pumped with tango. I was happy.
One time in Apartadó we went to the spa for a massage. The woman literally had to brush dirt off of my body before she began. We can only imagine what they said about us afterward… how did they get bites there?!?
The tents on the outskirts of town came up over night. Hundreds of tarps on sticks, mapping out new homesteads for displaced people. An invasion of land. A reclaiming of land. On our way down to town these new neighbors were milling about, numbering tents, and hanging signs declaring their new peaceful presence. On our way up from town the tarps were all burning on piles of sticks. 20 bonfires, being stoked by riot police. Hundreds of people gathered in groups on the road, looking over what would have been their new homes. Colombia has one of the highest populations of internal refugees in the world. The displaced are the survivors. Where are the survivors to go?
During Semana Santa we walked the stations of the cross. Each stop was along the road to the community in the exact spot where a community member had been killed. First the priest talked of the biblical station, and then he talked about the assassination of the community member. Community members carried crosses with the names of the fallen, and each one was nailed to a tree with flowers around the bottom. A procession for peace. The stations took us walking seven hours in the sun, but this is nothing for a community whose cross to bear is the repeated murders of its members. After the stations of the cross a young girl came and tugged at the priest:
-“Father, is there mass tonight?”
-“We had mass for seven hours today. Don’t you remember? I think we better rest tonight.”
Every month we get three days off. This month Emily and I took our three days together and headed to the Caribbean town of Sapzurro. On our way out of town, we passed a military checkpoint where everyone was drinking and dancing about with automatic weapons. I couldn’t help but think, “that’s the war zone I’m talking about!” The journey was a two hour hike, one hour on a jeep, .5 hours in a car and 4 hours on a boat. It was worth it. We boated through bluegreen Caribbean waters past small islands, and then smaller ones, and then past one with only one palm tree. We saw young boys fishing with string and waves crashing against black rock. We hiked over a hill and across a border. We sunbathed in a sleepy honey cove in Panama where there was nobody to be found but one sleepy military man. We slept in a jungle cabin and saw monkeys and frogs and butterflies and sand crabs. We composed yet another family band song called, Ode to the Coconut, which goes (over and over): “crack it open, crack it open, crack it open, crack it open.” We cracked open coconuts and collected shells. We slept, we rested, we rejuvenated, and we somehow resisted the urge to join the travelling hippies on their boat toward Central America. Then, we came back to work.
A neighbor with a radio came over to ask Emily and Jon what our President’s name was…
-“Obama.”
-“Yes. He is dead.”
-“WHAT!”
-“They have killed him. It is on the radio.”
We’ll have to give it to him. The radio doesn’t exactly have clear reception. They were talking about America. They probably mentioned the President. We were happy to find out he had not actually been assassinated.
Five minutes into an evening meeting with community members, the rain started coming down hard. We talked about the recent deaths and threats and combats and upcoming issues. Even when the conversation diverged, it still stayed on the topic of justice. We talked about the recent land invasions. We talked about the potential Free Trade Agreement and the effect it would have on the second “development” phase of the Urra multinational dam. (Note: If the death, destruction and misery caused by multinationals is in our country’s “best interest,” I would definitely suggest we re-prioritize.) The rain was comically loud, causing both Sean and I to nearly sit on the laps of the community members as they screamed into our ears. Here are some thoughts I liked from our shouting match:
-How is it that multinationals can displace so many people and displaced Colombian farmers can’t even find a parcel of land big enough to hang a plastic tarp for shelter? How are either of those situations legal?
-In war, you see, people become dispensable.
-If we don’t change capitalism, the world will drown in blood. So much misery and injustice and suffering. Eventually, you know, that very misery will trump all.
-Why did your countrymen cheer and celebrate when Osama was killed? Why do you cheer at the death of a man? What message does that send to the children of your country about death and destruction and murder and war? I think it is a reflection of a very sick society.
We talked for 6 hours. The conversation ebbed and flowed from current events in the community to world wide war. We talked about the weight of the world while it felt like it was literally falling upon us in the form of a thunderstorm on a tin roof.
Guapa (according to Spanish dictionary): Pretty, handsome, good-looking.
Lies. Guapa does not mean good-looking. It means hard-working. This is why I am only “guapa” when sweating like a pig and throwing a broken hoe in the garden. I am only guapa when trying to grow produce that “doesn’t grow here.” (While looking at the photo on the packaging of Emily´s imported watermelon seeds a neighbor said, “Ah, yes. This is what people eat in Bogota.” Not a good sign.) I am also guapa when sweating and sweeping the floor. Or sweating and taking out the trash. I am not guapa while just sweating, which is what I am doing most of the time.
Our garden is coming along nicely. We have had many donations from neighbors: flowers, trees, tomatoes, tobacco, and labor. We are hoping for the best. Now I just need the carpenter to make me a reclining chair for sunbathing.
Just as we are an interesting experiment for the medical workers at the tropical illness clinic (Fresh blood! No resistance!), the CdP would be an intensely interesting case study for a very brave psychologist. How do people keep on keeping on? How do people not break, even when they are broken? So many things that are so disturbing going on all the time. From where do they pull their strength? With so much death and trauma and displacement, it is hard to believe there is so much life and joy and stability here. Sometimes there will be a glimpse into the weight of the grief, or the sadness or the fear that is collectively felt here. And when those glimpses are given, I can’t help but reflect on them. Picture living on the same street where you saw your brother massacred. Your mother. Your husband. Your children. All of the above.
A widow glides from house to house, silently, without being noticed. She is so very quiet in her suffering. An old woman tells me she is “so tired she can barely get out of bed.” Her sadness is so heavy. Her sadness is beyond familiar.
An animal dies under the house and a child comes by and says:
“Someone is dead. It smells like when my uncle was decomposing.”
But the child doesn’t find this statement disturbing. The child just says it because that is the memory associated with that smell.
Feeling like conversation had been really heavy for way too many hours, during a break I asked a member of the internal council to tell me a happy story from his childhood. He looked up at me as though he had already failed and said, “my life is not very full of happy stories.”
People say things that are so loaded with meaning and history and social identity and psychological weight and little by little their actions and their conversations paint the canvass of their past. Little by little they let you know just how real the war is.
The crazy woman talks to herself at me, and for some reason has become attached to my room. She throws rocks out of the second story of her house, which is completely open to the elements, because she herself has teared it down over the years. She steals all of my pens. She steals our precious milk. She carries around a machete and periodically hacks at the ground. She likes to dance when there is music; she bobs about while swinging her machete and looking down. The community as a whole feeds her. They keep her alive and don’t send her away. (Is she better off here?) She didn’t displace with the community and nobody is sure what happened to her while they were away. The only time I have ever seen her calm is one sunny day when she sat and watched Emily and I in the garden. She had a look of peace on her face. She stopped mumbling for a few moments and just watched. They say she is lucid sometimes, like when she kept her granddaughter from falling off of a ledge. Or when she confronted armed actors and prevented a kidnapping. She is a story in and of herself. She haunts me in my dreams.
The clouds part and I see a starry sky for the first time in La Union. It is pitch black. They are so brightly glitterly beautiful. I stand next to a neighbor who says he knew it was me coming, because he can recognize people in the dark.
There are lush flowers and vines growing over an abandon building in San Jose where the community used to have their co-op (before displacing (again)). I went inside because I like abandon things. I think it was the first abandon building I’d ever been in and known the history of. It is so newly abandoned. It is so beautiful. And it is so haunting.Habitat for Humanity would have a heyday with the homes in the community. I can’t help but look around and think about the home improvements that would improve health. It’s hard to not think about ways to aid the community. I drive myself crazy thinking about how many “development” projects come before human rights in the world, when it should be the other way around. I drive myself crazy thinking about how development workers allow that to happen.
Jon left us for the Bogota team. We made arroz con leche. We made arroz con coco. We made him a book of colored pictures and letters from the community. We had a dance. We miss Jon. The dance was in the community hall and the music was vallenato, volume maximum. The crazy woman waved her machete at me (or was she chicken dancing?) and I couldn´t help but tango to the other side of the room with Jon. The kids were there. They danced around like lunatics and they danced around in proper vallenato style. The deaf girl impressively keeps the beat by watching those around her. She was the most enthusiastic of us all. My favorite boy asked me to dance and when we were bored of vallenato, we waltzed to the same rhythm.
Niguas are fun burrowing bugs. The children remove their own. Sean had four removed from one foot the other week. I had one and allowed several people to dig into my toe with clippers, needles and pluckers before it was decided that it wasn’t a nigua after all but rather a false alarm. You can imagine how impressed I was post “removal.” Now there is a hole in my toe, so they should have better luck getting in this time around.
Sapa is pregnant. She did not listen when we told her to make good choices. She is also the inspiration for another family band song entitled: Sapa, get your ass off the table.
There was a pretty little tree frog on the wall in the kitchen. I looked at it closely and decided we should be pals. When he jumped to the next wall, he fell to the ground. In the spilt second between hitting the floor and taking off, Sapa pounced on him. She then ate him. All of him. I no longer make friends with frogs. Sapa continues to be a badass hunter, although as her stomach grows she is getting more and more awkward. She nearly rolled off of Sean’s stomach the other day by accident.
A young mother about to give birth walks down to town to have her baby in the hospital. I can not even begin to imagine doing that walk nine months pregnant.
We had climbed all the way to the gates of La Union before we heard the water. How was the river rushing so hard now when we just crossed it so effortlessly down in the valley? Where is the waterfall that is that close? It took us a second to realize we were hearing the rain. It was pouring across the canyon, and headed right for us. We could see it coming, we could hear it coming. It was so unreal. We ended up running, soaking wet, singing at the top of our lungs and barely hearing or seeing anything over the rain itself. We sang about home.
An old man returning from the community adult education classes tells me it is difficult for him to remember all of the letters.
I left Guatemala one year ago this month. That anniversary gave me closure somehow.
My life in La Union is so sensory; I can’t begin to share it all.
My life here is a pastel sunset after a rainless day
a young hawk awkwardly learning to hunt in the canyon
a teenager schooling me in warzone weaponry (model, make, country of origin) from the sounds behind the hill or photos in a magazine
the screams of a pig being castrated
a jumping red and yellow lizard in the garden
little girls making crowns of flowers on the sidelines of a soccer match
a young mother and her newborn baby carried home from town in a hammock
falling down in a rushing river, flashfloods and walking up waterfalls
Emily crocheting new pot-holders from old volunteer FOR shirts
smokey wood stoked stoves over breakfast coffee
a neighbor strumming his guitar and smoking a cigarette
hummingbirds in the house
moonlight cradling me like a hammock in the kitchen doorway
a horse shaking the house by scratching itself against it
tobacco dipped in panela
a boy so high up in a lime tree he looks like a squirrel
bombs exploding and helicopters hovering
the sun scorching my skin
abandon buildings and flourishing gardens
babies being born and men being beheaded
chomping on sugarcane
a jeep struggling to get through the mud without falling off of the crumbling road
looking at home from across the canyon under a thatch roofed kiosk and catching myself in the thought: it looks so peaceful
It’s hard to adjust to living in a combat zone. So much death. So much defeat. So much misery. So much grief. So much pain. So much suffering. Even on the ground I think... will there ever be change? Will I ever raise my head and open my eyes to a world that is just?
And then I see that there is so much beauty. Beauty growing around and out of that death, grief, misery, pain and suffering.
And then I see that there is so much fear. Fear growing around and out of every living being.
I am looking for the grace to conquer that fear.
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