Café

The village of Minca is the definition of sleepy. Casas laze along both sides of the

mountain road high above the coastal valley that cradles Santa Marta. Here the mountain air

dries the skin rather than sticks to it. The heat rises in the afternoons; still the village is cooler by

fifteen degrees than below. Along the river that parallels the road, it is even cooler, pleasant but

for the companionship of chiggers, mosquitoes, flies, and other long-term residents. Choking the

water with massive granite boulders, the river scoops out deep pools. A haze colored by

microscopic life creates a green and gold backdrop to peering at schools of minnows.

One road bumps in and out of Minca. The severely pocked asphalt crosses a hopeful

bridge that glares down at the river as it plunges. A Catholic Church, white-washed with an

inviting open door faces a small park of sand and struggling flowers. This is the village center.

An attractive middle-aged woman beckons the taxi. She and the driver talk. She turns to

the backseat and offers English directions to the pools. Behind her against the wall of her home,

a poster in English announces, “Organic Colombian Coffee.” She answers the query, “ No, it is

not a restaurante, a café. “Great”, enthuses the reply, “A café.” Si, Senor, café.” As the taxi

slowly pulls away, the woman continues her directions to the driver walking faster into a jog.

Very helpful. The conversation in the backseat confirms that after the pools, the couple will

enjoy a cup of organic Colombian coffee with their lunch.

The driver is convinced to wait for them. They traipse down a dirt road to the sound of

the river growing closer. A young boy, expert on his bicycle, joins them. Gestures suffice for

words. He fastens to them as guide. Sometimes he thinks they understand Spanish and he

jabbers for a few minutes. He stops when she says, “Lo siento.” A fifteen minutes scramble over

boulders and sandy rocks, Jairo strips off his shirt and leaps from a tall boulder into a pool

shadowy deep pool. The man strips to his underwear, wades into the cool green, and plunges

headfirst. The lady begins to pull down her khaki shorts to join the fun, when an older boy joins

the Jairo in the pool with an exuberant splash. She ducks and buttons.

Many times the young boy climbs the boulders that surround the depth of water. He is

fearless up and down the speckled granite chunks. He never hints at slip; his bare feet are like

climbing boots. The older one is more cautious. But they only jump, never dive, because the

bottom isn’t visible. Between two boulders the water rushes. Jairo dips deep and swim against

the current. Uncertain, the man gives it a try. You have to look and the blocks of stone litter the

bottom with fish grazing. The waters are less a force in the depth.

On the way back up to the village, Jairo is paid 2,000 pesos for his service. His smile

shows surprise. He hops on his bike and disappears of the steep road. Near the church, we see

him with a foil wrapped empanada and a Coke. He smiles and balancing his treats, he peddles

down a grassy path.

Across from the café, the driver nurses a Coke in the blaze of the afternoon sun. He sits

on a low wall facing the colorful coffee poster. The wife sits down next to him. Only the man

ventures to the café, bold to try new food and a fresh cup of coffee.

As he knocks on the screen, he makes out a sofa occupied by an older woman. The

furniture is tasteful, arranged with care. The English-speaking woman appears. It dawns on him

that this is not a restaurante; it isn’t a café either. She explains that the poster is a product of her

graphic design work for a coffee company headquartered in Bogota. I glimpse mama slipping

into another room. He is invited to sit down on iron bench outside. The gracious woman

disappears into the house. His wife and the driver across the way are smiling, and not in support

of his adventure.

It dawns on all of them that is not even a café, but a home. They howled, he flushed and

yelled for them to shut up while whispering his plight, “I’m so embarrassed.” They catcalled.

They hooted.

Presently, the woman taps at the screen door with her foot to open it. She carries a

silver tray with a silver sugar bowl and a porcelain cup of café. He apologizes profusely. She

assured him that it is no trouble. He wants to gulp it down and get out of there. The coffee is hot,

he can’t gulp, and he is sweating under the sun.

After a gracious interval, the woman returns to collect the service. Apologies and more

apologies are uttered. The woman smiles and explains her work and clients like the Colombian

Organic Coffee Association. He pays her despite her protests.

Finally, in haste he retreats down the street. The taxi follows; it’s occupants, merciless.

1

Hills Baked Brown

Out the classroom window, a soft brown hill rises like fresh baked bread. Cacti

emerge from the undulating folds like raisins. A moment ago, from the southeast

sunshine cracked a mountaintop, split it. My eyes wander a wide dirt road a hundred

yards distant beneath the hill. The s-curved road disappears into scrub brush around a

stiff bend in the distance.

In half-an hour, close to 7:00, the road fills. Schoolgirls dressed in plaid green

skirts walk toward the Troncal. Sometimes alongside them, boys scuffle reluctantly to

prison in dark pants and white shirts. The will catch the bus to school, a building without

running water, devoid of equipment, but optimistic.

And women and some men travel this way too with lunches in plastic bags,

apples and a slice of bread wrapped in napkins. At the highway, they will taste the warm

goodness of empanadas cooked roadside. Their barrio lies behind a mountain curve

where I cannot see.

No travelers plod the quiet. Then, I notice a figure. His hair is a bundle of smoke,

but for the valley through the crown. He shuffles. Like the schoolboys perhaps he

scuffles for different reasons, perhaps the same. A walking stick steadies a fragile frame.

It’s a blue walking stick, bright blue, likely scavenged from a construction site that

borders the barrio.

I watch him patiently, he patiently walking. I’ll lose sight of him when he

disappears around the curve. He makes an abrupt right turn onto a steep rutted track.

The shuffle slows. He barely moves up and forward. He moves toward a line of five

houses that my first glance ignored. They lean together. Tentatively they rise with

concrete block walls. Corrugated metal thatches the roof. Some sides are nailed with

wood or cardboard. I judge them uninhabitable. But of the world’s dwellings would

denounce my silly judgment. It dawns on me, these are homes.

I squint to follow the old man to his home. I find him barefoot. He leans the blue

walking stick against the threshold. He turns toward me and looks up. I step away from

the window in the fear he’s looking at me. Silly. I step back to the window. The old man

has turns and surveys the Hill Backed Brown as he has for many mornings. With his

bare hand he wipes sweat from his head. And then vanished inside his home.

Juan Valdez

Juan Valdez doesn’t own this coffee shop. But is face is pictured here as it is all

over Colombia. His emblematic figure complete with blanket across his chest,

Colombiano sombrero, and manicured mustache adorns the better neighborhoods. The

sturdy burro by his side remains nameless.

From the humble years of leading his burro up the treacherous mountain trail to

tend eleven coffee bushes, to today’s thousands working the fields. It is unlikely that

Valdez strolls that path anymore. Perhaps coffee’s icon is decrepit from back bending

labor, or ensconced penthouse style in Sun Valley. Burro-buddy is likely stuffed bending

toward eternal grass on a lane that leads to corporate headquarters.

In tropical Juan Valdez-Santa Marta, a panoramic photo sits in the counter

revealing a crowd of Juan Valdez look-alikes with shoulder blankets, broad mustaches,

colorful hats, and running shoes. Their only encounter with field -work involves monthly

inspections of Juan Valdez stores in Colombia.

The Juan Valdez place of café looks out on an esplanade under re-construction.

Only the granite Simon Bolivar remains. The brick and stone walkway has been turned

under and carted away by men melted in the tropical sun. Backbreaking doesn’t quite

cover it. As with many workers in Colombia, they wear uniforms. These are royal blue

pants and long-sleeved shirts. Gloves keep their skin from wooden handles; dark glasses

from glare, and around their forehead tied rags slow the sweat. From cardboard, each

man has fashioned cutouts for their heads. Once placed, above the sweatband there are

exceedingly long brims that jut far forward and far backward. Hardhats crown them. A

woman adorned with a white hardhat supervises with impressive authority, evidently

proud of extensive belly,

Weathering the heat and wind, and occasional rain, like Bolivar, the Juan Valdez

spot is all outdoors. Meandering trees, ferns, flowers, and short palms provide more than

shade. Coffee shop isn’t the right moniker. Coffee Garden? Caribe Café? Oasis? In the

center, a fountain appears refreshing, more so if it functioned. Bare feet enjoy the cool of

dark read tiles. Several square and rectangular retaining walls stable the green growing

plants and splashes of color. Tables and chairs are situated on three levels of patio. The

breeze up from the sea rarely reaches the garden because it is blocked by the walls of two

building at right angles to the open streets. The wind is stymied.

Café calor sweats. Café frio refreshes.

Momentary stillness occurs, but all is not peaceful near Juan Valdez’s. The

backhoe across the way accelerates with diesel blares. Unceasing taxis and moto-taxis ply

the streets with staccato blares from their horns. This is the accepted mode of

communication: potential fares are hailed; polite warnings are issued to donkey carts,

bicycles, motorcycles, other taxis, to be aware of a quicker presence; and certainly not

least, a token toot in admiration of a pretty Colombian woman. A block a way, the noisy

market that is San Andreas offers whatever one needs or doesn’t need at bargained prices.

There the sidewalks fill with vendors along skinny broken sidewalks; they swell with

walkers and hawkers alike. The din rises with the swarm.

Suddenly, a half-a-block a way a striking figure stands and looks up and down the

crossing streets. No one pays attention. If he’s lost no one cares. Loose fitting pants are

covered to his thigh with a smock. They are of purest white. The man’s hair is wavy and

the purest black to his shoulders. His sandals are handcrafted. The cochila, made in his

mountain village, hangs across his shoulder. His people are indigenous to Colombia.

Some conjecture these native Colombian’s (the majority population calls them “Indians)

stretch back to the Inca’s. They are not the synergy of Spanish, African, Caribbean, and

Middle-Eastern of Latin America. They are their own, mysterious. They’re people

cupped in mountains of the Sierra Nevada.

Barely perceptible, a passer-by’s glimpse admits curiosity.

The Juan Valdez Garden Café begins to stir, not with sea breeze, but with the

passionate lovers of café and conversation. The long shadows of afternoon bring an

illusion of cool.

Juan, you planted one hell of a bean and look what happened.

Opening

After the sun glows into the Caribbean, the heat piles into heaps. The evening

cools slightly. Humidity licks at forearms, throat, waistband, and the back of the neck.

Sleep arrives slowly kindly helped by the false breeze from a fan. In early morning, the

wind blows into the apartment with the sand. On the outdoor steps of Cristimar, the

apartment, the wind stiffens from the north and thrashes my gray hair. I grit my teeth and

whirl my back against windward.

The taxi to Bureche is stop and go, go, go. The cab driver makes a breathsucking pass around the truck toward an oncoming bus. I grip the handle above the

door.

Alive and alone I stand on the balcony of the second floor of the high school. I

lean against the railing. Mornings are perpetual summer in the tropic. Overhead,

blackbirds join a chorus of green parrots. A fat iguana muscles up the trunk of the tree

next to me, close enough to enter my space. But, I’m no longer startled. They are shy as

deer even though they look like dragons. It is soon arriving students that raise my

anxiety. Unlocking the classroom door, I review the morning plan for the fourteenth time.

I fuss with the chairs, and return to the refuge of the balcony.

At the far end, a tree grows twisted toward the sky, and then veers almost

horizontally eastward. Its leaves appear withered and sparse. The tree survives the lack

of water through a massive trunk supported by miles of roots. In fall, monsoons arrive to

fill the roots.

My attention rises to a blue mountain as the sun finds a notch and spills gold

down the broad Santa Marta Valley, and on to the coastal panorama from Tagnanga to

El Rodadero. The light slides from the mountain to my companionable tree. I am

comforted by sunrise. Some sunrises are remembered in frosty alpine glades, or seen

through the pineapple rain of Maui’s diffused light. Many sunrises are caught in my soul

as life preservers. I imbibe sweet calm.

Stare

Disarmed but for her stare, the old woman with skin dark, taut from too many Caribbean

years sits frozen, her head turned. Frozen but for eyes that stare. Brown eyes so dark as to be

as to shine black at a distance. Unmoving, they bore. No commentary from her body, her voice

is silent. No telltale sign betrays her. Just the stare as the wheel chair breezes through the cool

and spacious indoor mall that is Buena Vista. Entering midlife, her granddaughter pushes with

one hand, her voice loud in the cell phone, ignoring her sour grandmother.

The younger woman throws back her head, strides with energy, and attends to the

window dressings willing for the seduction of fashion shops while at the same time providing

detailed descriptions to the girl friend listening and strolling in the midst of other crowds. “How

would that dress look on me,” she asks her absent confidant, “I’m not that fat?” The seduction

will consummate when she snaps the credit card on to the glass display when they pass this

way again to catch a taxi. The wonder is her ability to attend to the decrepitude below her, the

talk in her ear, and the dresses beckoning from the window of Coach.

But grandma attends to one task. Her back is as stiff as if were fused by ancients. But even that

does not distract her.

Before 11:00 the mall is still spotless and nearly empty. By lunch it fills. Moms chase

little ones. Fathers scowl. Teenagers slink with fashions from Bogota or Cali that originated in

London or Paris, or U.S. Who knows from where they originate, China? Girls carry fat purses

and flaunt flat exposed bellies. No tattoos initiate their arms, only a few piercings. Their ell

phones either remain cemented to their palms or slide into sleek pockets. Either way, though,

they are consulted often. One ponders, how many texts or calls could have arrived from the

moment they entered the mall to the thirty giggling steps they have taken before they check

again. They are no different from their peers around the world.

Exito is the hub in Buena Vista--an if-they-don’t-have-it you-don’t-need-it kind of place.

Groceries, eye glasses, vitamins, medications, groceries, clothing, cosmetics, kitchenware,

boogie boards, bicycles, computers, washing machines, liquor, and, of course, motorcycles.

Many of these items are gathered in discrete cubicles that line the wall in front of the checkout

stands. Their proprietors are kind and quietly helpful.

Grandma ignores Exito. For moments she is riveted a girl of not more three-years. She

stands on a two-foot high granite retaining wall that encloses a display of fake flowers, fake fica

trees, and real small tones. He throws them into themselves with infinite repetition. The kid

aims, throws, giggles, and turns to her toward her dad with a wry smile before another toss, and

another.

Does grandma dimly recall the sailor dress, blue and white? Only that dress would adorn

Sunday mornings. She accepted no alternative even when her mother tempted her with a new

outfit. Inside the Cathedral, the hard wooden pew squeezed with mama, and her ten siblings,

but not papa. He religiously absented himself. His Sunday’s were devoted to cosmic

contemplation with fellow pilgrims and cerveza. So disciplined was papa’s ritual, that even when

his mother visited Santa Marta from Cartegena, he continued steadfast in his ritual.

Or does she see the baby, her granddaughter’s mother, swaddled in stiff hand-washed

diapers asleep in a wooden crate beside a loveless bed. Night after night, with a bamboo fan,

she defended her baby from the invasion of mosquitoes. And she suckled her until her milk

dried up when Juan Carlos ventured to Peru. He returned the next year, but not really.

But nothing can be discerned from her blank face.

The girl continues in her world of laughing pebbles. People pass unseeing. Grandma

sees. The intensity of her stare diminishes not a degree. Maybe she’s stuck like a brittle Bing

Crosby 78, “… bye-bye, blackbird.”

No word greets the girl, not a smile.

Surgery

Like fish on ice they laid flat and motionless on aluminum gurneys. The room

was bone white. A single unadorned bulb glowed their tucked coarse sheets. Face up,

with eyes closed against the white, or the pain, or the fear, the gathering ignored one

another. When their eyes flutter open the view rivets into a shelf fastened three feet above

their heads into a cement wall with angle iron. Oxygen masks peer over each fish hold.

Two wrists receive the drip, drip, drip into their veins.

The patient in the corner began a second round of hiccupping with the same result

as the first—increased frequency and strength, and then vomiting in an elliptical stainless

steel container, and finally sobbing. One mustached middle-aged man with skin like

chocolate moaned a one-note tedious melody.

In time, the room emptied except for one unclaimed patient. He perceived his

future without anxiety. A mild sedative injected into his IV port didn’t bring sleep, but

bliss. Suddenly, the bed rolled with a start. He must have slept. A young nurse in dark

blue scrubs and a white hair net whisked him into the operating room. Only one wall was

scraped.

The relative sanctuary of the operating room was a relief from the pounding.

Down the main hallway three workmen took turns with a heavy hammer and steel chisels

to punish a section of concrete floor. At first, he thought it must be outside on the street.

But a glimpse down the hall revealed the source. The crack of cement was unabated until

5:00, the scheduled surgery appointment.

In the operating room, an electric air-conditioner hung on the wall near the

ceiling. It blasted cold. He was uncovered except for the backless green gown. He helped

as he was lifted on to the table while holding together the meek covering of his back

parts. A second nurse had joined the first and she wagged her finger at him, the

ubiquitous sign for “no” and pointed. He understood immediately, take off the

underwear. The briefs slid from his nakedness as he tried, without success, to cover-up

with the useless gown.

They smiled. He smiled, sheepishly.

The swinging door banged open. A young man sprouting jokes for the enjoyment

of the nurses pushed a grand machine next to the operating table. It appeared like

sophisticated warp speed device from Star Trek. The jokester fiddled and fussed, plugged

and unplugged, looked at the monitor, looked at the nurses and parleyed another joke. All

was lost on the patient who a smidgeon of survival Spanish. Suddenly, the apparatus

with a monitor on top was rolled out of the room. Maybe the surgery was canceled due to

the machinations of the machine. It had been six-months from injury to this moment of

healing. Not another delay?

No. The nurses asked him, in sign language, to hop on to the gurney and he was

careened toward the second operating room and larger by two. And here was Groucho,

doing his deadpan to the shameful giggles of nurse #1 and nurse #2. With agility of a

vaudevillian, the plugging and unplugging, switching, adjusting, the entertainment

continued to flow.

One of the gowned nurses gestured. He correctly guessed, “Roll over on your left

side.” A group of firm hands with a lift and a push fulfilled the command. Here’s where

the bait-and-switch occurred. The sign language nurse flicked the air out of a full syringe.

This is cake, he thought, I’m sporting the IV port the anesthetic will be a breeze. She

tapped a few drips more and bent down to jab the rubber port; he felt a cold liquid swipe

along his backbone. Oh crap. This surgery requires a regional anesthetic; the kind that a

delivering woman receives with gratitude. He sweats. The numbing entered the body

through a needle in his spine. The jolt was momentary and then his toes, feet, and finally

is legs evaporated. Bliss returned. He was rolled on to his back; he couldn’t possibly do

that himself. He was legless.

Dr. del Gordo’s magical face appeared. He and the unseen anesthesiologist had

words together and both laughed. It must be a fund place to work. Paranoia steeped aside

as another sedative dripped. Anesthetic. Who cares if they are bemused at his underwearless torso?

He smiled like a drunk without stumbling, no legs. Then the nurses giggled

politely, maybe four or five. A crowd. Who cares? He supposed his leg was raised and

the foot placed on a steel foot brace that he had noticed when he helped lift himself on the

table. It looked like a shoeshine step, only complicated. He attended to the monitor above

the “machine.” It seemed to be working but the picture revealed only albino whales

attacked by a metallic shark. Dozens of white flakes floated from the whale. He raised his

head for a closer look. The surgeon with two joysticks in his hands was likewise was

gazing at the monitor and moving the sticks accordingly. Fascinating. These must be the

camera and the thingy that scrapes, shaves, and cuts, could it stitch?

The surgeon quietly commanded, “Mr. please it good to you be down. It will hurt

the anesthetic.” Don’t want that. The inflicted patient could barely notice the procedure if

he tilted his head to the side. Now and then he’d sag and snooze.

The doc startled him conscious with an “Oh!” The sterile room hushed. The naked

mackerel logically concluded the fun was over. Maybe a tendon was busted, or a cracked

patella, but more than likely a sea of bone cancer. It seemed it was a secretive albino

whale, missed by sonar. The event concluded with a warm smile, the doc leaned in with

assurances. The patient smiled. H thought, why do does this man with whom I cannot talk

about baseball or the fate of the world evoke such teary emotions—father or god-like,

worthy of adoration, I wonder if he as a spare room. The euphoria wears off when the

painkillers cease, or at the final office exam when all is healed and life lead away from

scalpels, but for the moment, dependency.

Back on the gurney, a grind along the wall due to a miscalculated launch, he is

returned to the hold of comatose fishes. The room was still. Out of the solitude, hiccups

began and the inevitable. At least the concrete blasters were home for supper.

Yellow

Yellow. Expected of course, all the taxis in Santa Marta are yellow. El conductors wears

an unusual cap. It reminds you of a tam ‘o shanter except is as yellow as his beloved vehicle,

yellow, solid yellow. Moreover, the sports shirt is yellow as well as the matching pants—even

shoes, polished leather, perhaps tango shoes you see our man tangos.

Our man’s regalia was striking, not only the consistency of yellow but the contrast with

his dark brown skin. Colombian culture reveals citizens from Nordic features to the African and

Middle-eastern ancestors. This canary conductor expressed the cool color against the vividly

illuminated yellow.

However this is only the appetizer to this banquet. He is a musician without an

instrument but with an internal rhythm and back up voice as tango, samba, rumba, a variety of

Latin rhythms play the taxi’s CD stereo. Recorded at the Copa Cabana in New York City, yellow

man assists the gusto with voice and percussion on the steering wheel. The dashboard provides

just the right sound for counter rhythm.

It’s the voice that carries the across Santa Marta journey. No Italian crooner this

firebrand, or bossa stylist, pure Latin, pure joy sings from his mustached mouth. He booms, he

softens; he energizes each syllable. Throughout his performance, a broad smile peers through

the rear-mirror at the two passengers smiling back at him.

Taxi cabs in Santa Marta a tacit protocol. Initially, chaos is the only description. Two-lane

roads often and immediately widen to three and four or more lanes as buses, eighteen

wheelers, mini-fans, taxis, bicycles, and donkey carts vie for speed or nonchalance as the case

may be. The neophyte experiences fear of life and limb, often with eyes closed. The literal right

of passage finds ultimate expression in the horn. Horns blast ubiquitously to pass a bus by

crossing a yellow line, pulling out in traffic, or a passing inquiry, or acknowledging a pretty girl.

But the system works, it really does. And the fear factor among aliens to Colombia

dissipates, though it does not disappear. This complex system works. For example, the horn is

a critical aspect of safety. Unless you jump at the jolt of a horn near you backside, the quick

blast of a horn makes sense in Santa Marta.

Senor Yellow shows a conservative flair with horn use. He’s rather more ambitious with

the steering wheel and the techniques of weaving a darting. Of course, his forte is music,

singing and beating out the rhythm. This swallows his attention and more often than not dictates

a sudden swerve. At drives end, his smile broadens with discernible English, “Go dance me?”

Candy Bag

Against the yellow wall festooned with what faux columns, an imitation of

colonial days, the sun declines toward the sea. The color burnishes as the bank building

nears the anonymity of night, but not yet. In the clarity of ocean and sunset, soldiers

emerge from a side street and talk casually in front of yellow. They wear fatigues. Their

pants tuck into polished boots. The smell of steel from their automatic rifles tinges the

mix of Caribbean air. A less than youthful soldier with a big belly and a machine gun

slung over his shoulder commands a group of boys. The clean-shaven (if shaven at all)

privates wield their automatic rifles like broom handles, or novice baton twirlers at

tryouts for the marching band. Are they loaded?

These sixty-day veterans loiter between the columns.

A slender man crosses the street and walks toward them. He smells of dust and of

age. His legs, arms, neck, and belly are taut, a man practiced in labor by back and arm.

His leathery skin is smooth and dark covered at the chin and the side of his face with the

bristle of white whiskers. As he moves toward the soldiers, his yellow baseball hat

vanishes into the hue of the building. His stride is even, purposeful, unencumbered by

Army presence.

He has purpose, and she perched snugly in the crook of his left arm—a bobhaired young girl

who couldn’t have known her fourth year. Her yellow baseball hat is worn catcher style. There is

no talk between. But there is the touch of mutual affection, his protection.

They turn the corner at the far end of the building. The soldiers, unaware of the

girl and her papa, stroll from the portico toward the new esplanade presided over by

Simon Bolivar and his nameless horse. They gather in the unkempt order of two files and

with the authority of their smiling sergeant, they gangle west toward the sea. A crow flies

above them squawking.

Soldiers and police cover Colombia, as numerous as small stores in every

neighborhood. Randomly, buses are pulled over and searched, sometimes their

passengers. Identity cards are checked; moto-taxi licenses are checked. During Carnival

and holy days, armed boys in uniform stand watch over each corner wherever people

gather.

The sun’s near the sizzle of the sea. He returns, this grizzled figure with beauty on

his arm. In his free hand, he holds a small sack. Candy for his love.

Surprise

Red, though not exactly red, or pink, or maroon, still a warm glow blossoms like

early roses. If they provided an odor it would be a fictitious rosy lavender. But they are

not for smell or touch. The eyes apprehend them clearly. And this sight provokes other

senses into a stream of emotions.

We will return.

Hours before, the brain-thump begins with a stomach drumming like a dirge.

Along the vacant lot of a highway, the airport, a luminous many pointed tent beckons, or

warns, “Stand clear!” Initial anxiety began with packing too much in too small. Now it

intensifies with the regular thud of tires on pavement. Tarmac? Overactive thoughts cased

in a weary body wonder, “Where’s my passport?” “Tickets?” Check again, once more.

The cranky worry intensifies when the ease of an e-ticket from a euphemistic

kiosk fails to show.

False assurance arrives at the gate, then evaporates: first a frantic search for

tickets, the ambiguity, “Will they have enough seats?” A peruse of passengers brings a

kind of assurance. Who enjoys flying, this inhuman process of cattle searched and

stamped and sent, maybe. A few do, surrounded by friends, or family. They laugh, nibble

through pretzels then McChicken then granola bars. All the while they chatter on about

stuff, stuff of camping trips, the last trip to Aruba, the not-to-serious worries about

connections in Miami. They look and sound happy. No bleary eyes or helpless gut. How

joyful to join their happy band.

The rest grouse with internal grumble, it helps.

What the hell is, “Flight attendants prepare for cross-check!” They’ve been

checking continuously. The welcome to, “United Airlines Flight 234 with direct service

to Atlanta,” by the less than enthusiastic Belinda, Someone might miss the various

repetitions, though, while memorizing the fabric pattern of the seat just ahead of one’s

nose.

The door seals. They can’t eject us now (horrible word choice). Buckle. The

assurance of John Wayne sitting the cockpit’s left seat rasps with confidence: sit back

folks; this flight could be done with eyes closed. Please God! Even though we are thirty

minutes past departure, he assures—we’ll make it up.

When the tractor meant to push us away from the gate blows a tire, the god of the

controls, in a manner of therapeutic calm, reassures that we will touch down at Atlanta

nine minutes ahead of schedule, “… the scheduling protocol.

Nearby, a woman grips and counts to one-hundred twice from engine thrust to the

hint of aircraft leveling. No sound utters through the slow motion of her lips. Three more

launches and touch downs before the destination time, first Atlanta.

Two hours of fidgeting, the first with hope for sleep, then, with hope abandoned,

skimming through Sky Store. Head bumping stares out the aquarium oval windows

reveal a change from empty skies to cheesecloth illuminated by glaring white wing lights.

Mr. J.W. off-handedly orders the attendants to take their seats for the imminent air

meeting ground. They never do. We descend. The wing lights dim and glare through the

white gauze. Flaps extend downward. Suddenly the engines scream. The decline instantly

reverses to incline near the attitude of a NASA rocket. No landing. Silence. Once again

knowingly acknowledges what is known, there’s fog in Atlanta, lots of fog. We’ll give it

another go. Yep, those flight traffic controllers have their rules about the space between

fog and ground. Will give it another go.

Several minutes pass, abruptly a swan dive through opaque white. Pull up. The

voice is unflappable, “Well, folks, Cincinnati is a lovely destination. It’s only 42-minutes

away. Our ground folks there will take a look at all the connecting flights and I think

they'll be able to help most of you out. Why, you might get a flight out of there sooner

than you think. So, I’m gonna give the gate agent a call and see what he can do for us.”

The onboard rumbling intensifies.

Miami, then out over the Caribbean, and gratefully, the asphalt appears and upon

it, one of dozens of yellow taxi to negotiate the thunderous cacophony of Barranquilla

and two-hours, thereabouts, to Santa Marta. But the season is festival, the cab slows, and

two-hours devolves to four. Victor, the driver and articulate instructor in Spanish and

speeds to a stop at one of thousands of roadside stands. He totes de-haired coconuts with

straws through their opened top. Not bad. The crawl proceeds, but barely. At midnight,

the streets are brimming. Bicycle passes us, sometimes people afoot.

At last, number 703, she bids, “Wait, and shut your eyes.” The temptation

involves a protest in rank terms. “Now you can come in,” a scratchy voice welcomes.

All is dusk in the room the space that surrounds kitchen, couch and chairs, and a

long glass-top table. In one corner, the red glow. Homecoming through the luminance of

love from a woman who dressed-up Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.

Over the Ocean Blue

He read in the manner of his sleeping supported by a hammock stretched

diagonally across the bedroom. His sturdy height ended in cropped black hair; a haircut,

he performed intermittently aided by a mirror. His snipped here and there until all was

even, mostly. His name added a middle-eastern spice to his native Colombian ancestry

He fancied the guitarra, played with care, and sang with tenderness. Until this morning,

he had never ventured offshore from his native Santa Marta.

The craft was on loan from a friend. The red gel coat showed dappled pink, a

vintage kayak. The Colombian and his Australian friend, a sailor of some experience

wrenched the boat out of a small storage room and banged it up three flights of stairs. The

crumbling concrete stairs outside the apartment building led from beach to lobby. The

temptation to cast the kayak from the stairs to the water was countered by the likelihood

of missing the water altogether.

They heaved the boat up the switchback rise to the lobby of the apartment

building. The building stood at the top of a steep hill. The prospect of lugging the boat

down the street and then to the beach felt daunting. The porter spoke of a wheeled carrier.

They returned to the storage room and foraged for the trailer. Following some

adjustments, the boat balanced its way to the edge of the Caribbean. One man guided the

bow; the other anchored the stern with his weight.

The launch was uneventful. With inelegancy, the boatman synchronized

paddling, banged their paddles, and tried again. They set a course for El Morro a tiny

block of rock island. A single house gripped the yellow rock at various levels. The

Colombian couldn’t say who lived there; mystery with white caps pounding Yesterday

the wind had blown fierce from the north. Gusts pushed people sideways on the street.

Grit brushed their teeth. Sand, newspapers, plastic bags, and shore birds flew together

restless. The two men agreed to give the day a try. The sky and the sea mirrored restless

blue.

With the breeze astern, they gained El Morro in forty minutes. They decided to try

for Playa Blanca. This beach is reachable only by boat and they were past the half-way

point. The turn toward Playa Blanca exposed them to the strength of the wind. Spray

struck the boat with regularity of a morning shower. They smelled of the sea. The

paddling took their breath. After twenty-minutes, El Morro remained in exactly the same

position on the port side. No headway. They laughed and tried harder, “put your back into

it lad,” the Australian commanded.

Still the island remained in the same position. In a growing weariness, the downunder sailor

counseled it best to steer the kayak off the wind and toward the western point

of Rodadero beach where they had begun. Paddling would be easy with the wind at their

backs.

Without looking anywhere but in down, they were surprised when a worn power

boat drew alongside and circled the kayak. The wind made it hard to hear. The gist was,

“We’ll give you a tow otherwise you’ll end up in Barranquilla.” Barranquilla was two

hours south by car. The Aussie’s, “No,” expressed confidence and was exclaimed without

hesitation. “No, we’re fine, gracias.”

Seafaring folk know the wind is fickle. On the other hand, a landlubber would

conclude that if the wind was blowing in your face turning a 180 degree would bring the

wind against your back. Not so here. The wind thunders down various arroyos in the

foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Thus, the kayakers paddled against the breeze, and now,

against the current. They paddled hard with concern about synchronization abandoned.

There was progress. But then almost imperceptivly the Aussie in the after seat felt a

curious sensation. The kayak seemed sort of tippy. That thought was dismissed, after all,

these boats are extremely buoyant, and they have self-draining scuppers. He assumed

they must be sideways to the current with the wind dead astern. Minutes later the weird

play of the boat was getting worse or his imagination was getting better. Then he put his

legs over each side trying to balance the growing awkwardness. The kayak was definitely

tippy. But that cannot be, he reasoned. The boat drains automatically—water flows in,

water flows out.

The draining part was less clear. Why was the boat so loopy? Why indeed. The

drain holes were now underwater; there was less and less control. “Paddle! Paddle hard!”

The kayak began to yaw and roll. Then, in slow motion, the boat reversed itself,

top became bottom, and bottom became top. When the worst happens fear rests. The

sailors laughed as they clung to the red log. The Colombian bobbed in his yellow

lifejacket as he gripped the stern. There was some sputtering from both. The horizon appears

the near when the eyes is three inches from sea level. They estimated the crumbling

concrete pier two futbol fields distant. They had launched from the beach near the pier.

They considered swimming to shore in the life-jackets and let the boat fend for

itself. Unfortunately, the kayak belonged to a friend. They should try to return it. They

attempted to swim the boat shoreward—one hand for the swim, one for the boat—

without success.

After various strategies to bring the boat to sand, they hit upon one that looked a

failure from the beach. The Colombian, a less than confident swimmer, clung to the stern

and kicked. The Aussie flipped a paddle lengthwise on the upturned bottom, moved

forward, and wrapped each leg around the bow. Trying to retrieve the paddle proved

several failures, but last he had it hand. He lay belly up in the water and stroked

backwards. The indignity of their return was exceeded only by the un-wisdom of their

launch. It occurred more than once to the Australian as he paddled on his back that

seaman must assess the seaworthiness of an unfamiliar boat while on shore and not on the

sea.

So it was that from the beach two old men, sun-dyed, and skinny as boys followed

these proceedings without comment. The kicking and paddling continued with increasing

periods of rests. Twice the Australian lost his leg grip and let the paddle go. As he began

again he called out, “Hey, mi amigo, can you touch the bottom?” “No,” occurred five

times. The estimated distance to shore lengthened. At last, feet felt sand. They rested

secure in the warm inshore water. Now they pushed and pulled the waterlog of a boat.

Finally they reached the beach.

They paused. They looked at each other. “The boat is full of water—very, very

heavy.” They waited until a wave might aid their efforts and lift the water-swollen kayak

ashore. No such gift was offered inches of surf. They wiggled the bow and stern back and

forth all the while pulling to get the boat out. Little progress. Both looked helplessly at

the gathering of observers, no takers. Now dried and sweating, they continued the wiggle

and heave of the bow and stern of the kayak until it cleared the water and squashed down

on the wet angle of beach. They bent over their knees for breath. The Colombian felt

dizzy and steadied himself with a hand on the kayak and stared back toward the stern.

And there rose a fountain. Actually, several fountains flowed upward through

nine exceedingly poor attempts at fiber-glass patching. He stared and both began to

laugh.

The View from Here

by Rick Scheideman (Primavera, 2010)

To the northeast, the eye caught a glint like a star as the sun rose above a distant

summit, the Sierra Nevada. I leaned against the concrete retaining wall of the balcony. A

classroom door was unlocked behind me. In ten minutes, 15 high schoolers would ascend

the stairs, open and slam the door numerous times, and then I would turn toward English.

On that early spring morning, gazing at the sunlight emerging from a mountain, a

transformation began its measured pace. In light is hope.

Kimberly and I desired adventure. We got it. Our journey began with

conversations on Skype with friend Kim O’Hagan, and an introduction to his wife Sylvia.

Our “yes” to an invitation meant paperwork, excitement, and fear, and more paperwork.

Then came the touchdown in Barranquilla, a subsequent a jolt of heat and humidity, lines

of worn travelers at Immigration Control, baggage inspection, and a language we knew

about and knew nothing.

Santa Marta drew me the first day. Through the switchback pass from

Rodadero to downtown Santa Marta, I marked the vista. From my youthful tramping the

Colorado mountains, I felt the value of height distance. Santa Marta blankets from the

harbor toward the Sierras on the floor of a coastal valley that branches northeast toward

Parque Tayrona and southwest back to the beaches of Rodadero.

That was my first view. Then there were days, weeks, littered with bumpy

emotions, tears leaked. Slightly and slowly I gained balance in an unsteady world and

leaned against the willing care of a community called Bureche.

After more than two years, I still mark that vista each time. Daily I rediscover the

privilege of being part of Santa Marta. I live in a city whose name I hadn’t known until

three years ago. This name has marked my life indelibly.

Yes, there are mosquitoes and wasps in a variety of shapes and sizes. Motos,

taxis, and trucks behave like mosquitoes. One is never sure about the mental state of

one’s taxi driver. If there are baby booties hanging from the rear view mirror, chances

favor relative tranquility. If not, well then you take your chances. Now and then a taxi

accelerates and swerves at the whim of a want-to-be NASCAR driver—best to look out

the side window and whisper for your planned destination.

When the breezes fade, the heat warms as a topic for conversation, or the rain

created rivers in Guira—weather, of course, the world-wide topic.

Samarios’ value what all people desire: care for their children; love and

friendship; the telling of a joke and a bask in the laughter; to feel the warmth of an arm

around the shoulder, to belong. The differences between all of us are only in the

expressions of those desires in cultural practice. Examples: I try to figure out at the

check-stand how much money I owe (initially I avoided this by giving the clerk more

pesos than I figured the cost—my figuring often erred on the side of not enough); or,

smiling clueless at the portero who explains directions to the ferreteria: or stuttering

symptoms in irreparable Spanish to a sympathetic doctor equally challenged by English.

The beauty of Santa Marta resides only partially in her Sierra Nevada, the village

of Taganga, or stretches of white and blue along Parque Tayrona’s coast. Mostly, the

beauty of Santa Marta is her people. The resplendence that is Santa Marta occurs in an

unexpected smile in the elevator, the patient explanation of directions from here to there,

a handshake—all and all it is the willingness of your people, Santa Marta, to open your

hearts to a blundering stranger who butchers your gracious language and offends your

sensibilities in unthoughtful ways.

The family away from my family is Bureche, a grace of love—and those eager,

unforgettable faces that laugh, and yell, and weep, and wonder, and stumble, and now

and then say, “Ah hah!”

My, oh my, how we have all grown.