Tropical Flower

Ice Cream ETC

So there we were on the beach when the ice cream dude came up to us and offered us all his versions of ice cream. I was dying of thirst and asked for Coca Cola. He looked at me and with a twist of his head, he asked what? (Most people just order ´gaseosa´and don´t bother ordering the brand name) So I said, Coke, una coca cola. He laughed at me and did a little nose rub with his finger and repeated coca. I started laughing...I couldn´t believe it that this ice cream dude, who kids run up to to get their treats had some secret stash of cocaine that he was trying to sell along the beach. I said no and asked if he had any gaseosa. He said no but assured me that if I gave him time, he could find something.

Anything goes on the beach, anything is sold, anything is bought. But the trouble is you just don´t know who to buy things from.

Massage Girl

Along the beach you can buy just about anything, including massages. Mom gave the massage to my roommate and the girl was merely there to assist but somehow we entertained each other. She giggled at my Spanish and I giggled at her toothless grin and skirt she wore on her head.

Chopper over Covenas

Experiences and opportunities that present themselves never cease to amaze me. Today, December 8th, was one of those days on yet another national holiday—a day to celebrate the conception of Jesus. (Even being mathematically impaired, I know that somewhere along the line someone definitely screwed up those numbers.) Regardless, another school term is approaching an end, and a beach day was in the works. The pilot was back in Covenas and we decided to pay a little visit, and of course sneak in a few hours of baking between his flights. Our plan failed miserably and it was the first time we have returned from the beach without an inch of our bodies showing the tell-tale sign of a beach day.

We arrived at the beach house just before the boys’ second flight of the day, and as per usual they asked us to join them on the tarmac and then lounge in the officer’s club on the leather sofas waiting for their return. But today was different. On the ride to the naval base, the captain asked us if we wanted to join. My roommate translated the question as I was preoccupied with watching the local livestock being paraded up and down the street in the sweltering heat to really catch what conversation was taking place. Her indecisiveness drives me nuts and I couldn’t be bothered for her to pull some princess shit about not wanting to go blah blah blah, so immediately I leaned toward the captain and asked, “Really? Is it possible?” After confirming that he had truly asked us to join and wasn’t goofing around, I instantly said, “Let’s go!” I wasn’t sure if my roommate was coming or not, and at this point I didn’t even care. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by.

Onto the tarmac and a quick rundown of safety procedures in the following order: always enter the chopper from the front, never walk behind; don’t step on the pontoon thingys; machete and pistol under the co-pilot’s seat; if we crash meet at the front of the chopper; seatbelts fasten the same as a plane; life vests in the arm rests; wear the ear muffs, etc. (I loved the fact that knowing the location of the gun and machete was more important than knowing about seatbelts….ahh yes, I forgot for a moment that I was in Colombia.

So off we went, nose down and flew up and above our beach. Then out towards the ocean where the captain decided to see if our guts were made of steal or not. A few dips and drops, cranked turns, ups and downs, another turn which I swear made the horizon disappear. If he could have done loop-de-loops, I am sure he would have.

But then it was business for the boys—checking out the oil refinery and water tanks. Apparently, lids go on the oil tanks while the water tanks are exposed. If perchance there is a lid on the water tanks, it is suspicious and figure that drugs are being stored there…of course this could only be the story told to guest passengers and really they were looking for cocoa fields or what not—but who really knows.

We flew to the southern point of the Bay of Morrosquillo and then towards the north. Over beach houses and resorts, shanty towns on the outskirts, mangrove swamps where the river touches the ocean and turns the shades of green a dirty brown, and thick patches of palm trees and nothingness. Along the coast to see dug out canoes fishing and villagers darting along the shores, an abandoned house and air strip of a drug family which has now been claimed by the government, and a private island with a few ‘cottages’ on it. We had just completed a complete loop of the bay and headed back to the base.

It was an amazing experience to see how our little beach stretched so far and what was beyond. But what amazed me most was the spontaneity of it all.

DECEMBER 8TH laterns

So apparently December 8th marks the day that Mary conceived Jesus...yah, the math is just a bit off, but to celebrate people put out candles and laterns on the street. It is actually quite the sight.

DECEMBER 8TH

CULTURLESS COLOMBIA

Well OK, cultureless Monteria. There is a lot of culture and history in other places around this country, but it just so happens that in this little town, there is nothing, or so I thought. You see, there are no theatres or operas or art galleries of the sort, and I feel deprived. It seems that the only culture people have here is the tribute to the local rum or beer at their local watering holes on any given evening of the week. There is also the culture of cows and farms and other livestock, but not quite the culture I am interested in.

But passing my neighbours late afternoon, I found out there was a poetry festival in the next town over—a festival of female poets from Central and South America. It surprised me, and of course I accepted the invitation. It even surprised me how I could catch a slight gist of the poems and it wasn’t just murmurings of incomprehensible words.

It felt great to be around a crowd interested in more than just rum, cows and beer. It was wonderful to hear the rhythmic flow of Spanish being amplified around a plaza and to see the poets in front of a yellowish colonial style building framed with palms. There was definitely an energy that buzzed through the crowd. At the interlude, a local band played typical music from this area which had poets and audience up and dancing on the make shift dance floor in front of the stage. I sat back and sucked it all in.

It is funny, just when you are about to make a conclusion about something; or in this case about the lack of culture, something comes along to change your mind. I am glad that my mind wasn’t made up, and happy to say that yes, this city isn’t quite as cultureless as I had originally thought.

Milo´s New Friend

So the roommate decided that she needed a distraction in her life and brought home a street cat, which i affectionately call Alley Cat. Regardless Milo seems to be doing fine with her, and although tries to leap and pounce to entice her to play, she just isn´t so sure on his invitation.

Doing the best I can at Playa Blanca

Life is tough on the weekends, I will admit it.

Playa Blanca

PLAYA BLANCA

I got a phone call on Saturday night from UK Rob, the nurse with MSF (Doctors Without Borders) with a quick idea of escaping the city and heading to the beach. Of course I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of salt, sand and sun. We made tentative plans for Sunday to head to Arboletas—a volcanic beach about an hour west of Monteria.

We were to meet at the bus station, also the central place to find a shared taxi going anywhere at 9:30, but I showed up about 10 minutes earlier, to my own demise. As soon as I jumped out of my cab, I was surrounded by drivers, hawking their transportation and boasting about their cars that could take me anywhere I wanted fast-fast. I inquired with a few, but being surrounded by more than 5 all talking at the same time at break-neck speeds in Spanish was too much to handle on a caffeine less stomach. I called Rob to inform him that I would be hanging out at a nearby café to wait for his arrival. We needed to team up on this one.

He arrived and we got our game plan straight. Working with MSF, he is required to follow a few more precautions, and we needed to take a white public service shared taxi, but without the shared passengers. We changed our destination from Arboletas to Playa Blanca due to the wind conditions, and the chop that would no doubt be at Arboletas. He started haggling with a few of the hawkers when one of the taxi drivers had recognized me from before. We started talking and while Rob was haggling with one driver saying that 160,000 pesos was way too much, my ‘friend’ from previous taxi services simply stated 100,000 pesos. We agreed and off we went. Jorge, got into the driver’s seat, buckled up and casually looked over his shoulder to ask, “So where are we going?” We all had a good laugh. We could have been going further away and he would have been screwed at the set price of 100,000 pesos.

Off we went and arrived at Playa Blanca in just over an hour to find white sand, palm trees and little black kids playing in the Caribbean surf. It was a slice of heaven, but an even bigger slice when compared to Monteria. It felt so good to be out of the city—to have sandy feet and salt-kissed lips and feel the cool ocean breeze in the baking sun.

We hung the hammock, spread the sarong and towel, and created our own little camp to settle in for the day. Jorge the driver would be back in 6 hours.

Within a few minutes the beach hypermart started forming. First it was shrimp cocktails and then mangos. Rob turned down both, but I adore the hard mango with salt and lemon and couldn’t pass up the 25 cent gloriousness. I scarfed it down and then decided it was time for a swim. We were bobbing up and down in the sea, feeling the coolness at our feet, and the warm sea around the rest of our bodies when I let out the most horrendous girlish scream followed by a string of profanities. A jelly fish had wrapped its tentacles around my waist and stung me good. I darted out of the water to the mango boy and called him back for some lemon. I rubbed the lemon all over the red welts that formed instantly and was soothed. It also helped that the beer hawker made his impeccably timed approach. It was just before noon and the first very cold ‘cervesita’ was cracked. A cheers to ‘this is the life’ was made and we sucked up the water-like ale with the ambience of the beach. More beers, more conversation, swings in the hammock, dips in the sea, snacks along the beach—you do have to admit it is the life…but if only we didn’t have to go back to Monteria.

The Monday to Friday teaching gig grinds me down and wears me out. I dread Mondays more here than I have ever dreaded Mondays back home or in any other country. But I will be honest, what gets me through the week is the countdown until I am back at the beach. If only there was some way I could permanently stay at the beach…any ideas?