writing – Diario de una Aventurera

El discurso de la lluvia / Translating Félix Molina Flórez

¨Los cuerpos son definiciones perdidas…¨

Los cuerpos son definiciones perdidas
en los diccionarios
Sin brazos
sin piernas
sin ojos
sin memoria
tratan de recobrar su rumbo

Los cuerpos que transitan este paraíso
han perdido su significado
como una tilde dibujada en el vacío

Somos esas piedras
que lavadas por la creciente
han perdido su piel

My Translation:

Our bodies are lost definitions
in dictionaries
No arms
no legs
no eyes
no memory
trying to recover their path

Our bodies that move through this paradise
have lost their meaning
like an accent drawn in the abyss

We are those stones
washed by the tide
that have lost their skin

This poem speaks to me in a way that transcends words. My own attachment to words and metaphor coalesce with this fascinating image drawn out by Félix. Everything that we are and the language we use over time loses its meaning. There is a sense of inevitable decay, a divorce from the tongues that gave words their meaning. I like how this concept of words losing their meaning, and our own bodies becoming words without meaning, formless anomalies — it is such a powerful visual. I hope I did it some justice.

Translating poetry is unique in that you have to take the music of the words into account, as well as the meaning and metaphor. Translating music takes this to another level. But I like the challenge. Translating a full book would be even harder because you have to live inside those pages and words well enough to capture what the author wanted to convey through a different linguistic lens.

I’ll be continuing with this project and translating the full book of poetry, The Discourse of the Rain, during this week. As always, I’m happy to hear any feedback, especially from my bilingual writers/poets.

Entre Comillas: Chapter 2, Dreamer’s Disease

Millennial naivety. Dreamer’s disease.

I never was set up for low expectations. With my marketing degree and my 4 years working at Kohl’s, I was sure setting up shop would be easy. The real struggle would be establishing myself.

Since I was young, I fancied myself a writer. An artist. All that was missing from my wave of whimsy was the “starving” epithet in front of the “artist.”

Some might call me aimless. I would just say young and stupid. But regardless, I felt myself stagnate with every passing day in Fayetteville. The heat of summer passed and the mild cold of winter would turn to frosted leaves. I wanted the eternal sun of the West. I wanted to live in someone else’s skin – someone smarter and happier and better. And isn’t that the dream most people seek?

El camión olía a tierra y perspiración. Una sensación de estar inundado en un pantano me bañaba como mi propio sudor. Trataba de no mirar hacia nada, ni al hombre medio parado frente a mí contra la otra pared del camión, ni a la niña y su madre enganchadas a la mano derecha. La vista se me hizo borrosa a los periferales. El ojo se enfocaba en el centro, en el corazón. Pensaba en nada más que mi propia respiración, centrándome en las horas que pasaba con mi celular, escuchando y viendo a medias los videos de meditación y yoga. Yo tenía (y siempre he tenido) un deseo insaciable de ser invencible, de encontrarme en un mundo más allá de la realidad. Y nunca antes alcancé esta meta hasta aquel día en el camión. Y las noches después, también bañadas en sudor, que se me hacían eternas. Y creo que jamás viviré tal delirio nuevamente. O, al menos, eso espero.

Of course, for all my semi-privilege, I couldn’t just pick up and move to the City of Angels. I had a savings account that had barely made it past the $1,000 marker. I had blown most of my money on art kits and dance classes and improvised trips. Oh, and college, which I had not gotten a free ride to afford. Much to the chagrin of my working class parents, I was neither talented enough to earn some sort of fancy art’s scholarship or sport’s scholarship – god forbid – and not bright enough to get a full ride on my academic merits either. I was just good enough to cover the bare minimum.

Regardless, I had never been the sort of person to listen to reason or bar myself. I knew how to work the retail world, sure, I was not the most social of people (although I could lie and say the experience overall changed my essence, I would say it was more of a necessity to adapt that changed me). Retail is relevant everywhere though.

I started by looking at my budget. Where could I live with just enough scraped together to pay a security deposit and rent and still be able to buy a few groceries?

Craig’s List became my best friend. Some ads were sketchier than others. Some seemed normal until you looked at them hard enough and began to ask yourself “Where is the lie?” My budget was pencil slim – no more than $500 a month until I became established. I sent out so many job applications on monster and indeed and, yes, Craig’s List, too, that I thought for sure I would be in a bind once all of the calls started rolling in.

The phone was unnervingly silent. I waited as long as I could before resigning. I had nothing, nowhere to start.

So I began to look for alternatives. Some Craigslist ads advertised what to my naive 22 year old mind was unthinkable – a strange sex trade for free living situation. I stumbled upon a few links that unambiguously read “Free Housing for Live-in Companion.” Companion, I thought, scrunching my brow and biting my lip as if that euphemism was not painfully clear enough. A smile cracked my lips in spite of my disgust as I read on. “Looking for a lovely young lady to share a queen sized bed with me. I will treat you like a queen. Open-mindedness a must.” My lips folded back in a cringe. Pass. As tempting as paying nothing for rent was, my dignity was worth so much more. Although, with each passing day, I could feel myself becoming restless, and with restlessness came the inevitable shifting of my moral compass, what I felt was absolutely oh-hell-no and negotiable – the two formerly isolated concepts were beginning to blur and merge.

One day, a friend reminded me casually of the possibility of couchsurfing. “Why don’t you try it, Claire?” she asked as she sipped her pumpkin spice latte. “I mean, what do you have to lose? You keep saying you can’t spend more than $400 upfront, what could be better than free? You get on your feet, you might get asked on some weird dates or proposed some awkward cuddle sessions, but hey, why not?”

I knew she was being sarcastic, and I shrugged and shook my head. “How even does that work?” As she sipped, I played with my long dark hair. For some reason, splitting my own ends where they were most damaged was calming to me. Also, I loathe pumpkin spice lattes.

My friend, Amber (yes, the most typical of all white girl names), took an extra long sip of her latte. “Well,” she said, “it’s simple. You stay with someone and exchange company for free room and board.”

“Ugh, lame!” I cried, thinking of the unsavory mix of craigslist ads I had waded through for the past week. “When does the actual, um, couch-surfing thing happen?”

“Chill, it’s not, like, prostitution or anything, girly. It’s perfectly legit, the hosts have profiles and everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had a few hookups on there, but you know, it was like totally unplanned and not awkward at all!”

I felt like my eyes rolled so far back in my head I had found the gap within the space-time continuum.

“Okay, let me back up and reexplain.” She knew the face I was making all too well. She took one last noisy sip of her decimated drink, her lips slurping hard with a desperation that ignored how annoying most people found slurping to be. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Basically, the host can offer you a place on their couch. Sometimes they have spare beds. Sometimes people make agreements to sleep in the same bed. But that’s, like, totally up to the individual.”

Sometimes I wondered how Amber and I had managed to be friends for so long. I thought of myself as being so deep, and sometimes I saw her depth as barely reaching my ankles. I pursed my lips, trying to hide a grin that would inevitably turn into a sneer.

Amber paused, tilting her head at me before bursting out into an uncomfortable cackle. The laugh shook her whole body, and she pushed her dyed red hair back behind an ear so as to avoid it covering her perfectly symmetrical face. “So, you check it out. I mean, it’s free. And really what you trade is just like, cooking and stuff. Going out on hikes. Watching movies. It’s fun. I’ve done it loads of time when I’ve went traveling. Trust me.” Her eyes pleaded with me to take her seriously, but her habitually humorous tone gave her away as insincere.

“Alright, alright,” I said finally. “I’ll take a look tonight and see what I think. Anything to avoid homelessness!”

We had a running joke about me ending up on skid row. It wasn’t the pleasantest or most PC of our jokes, but lately it was looking more and more likely.

After a bit of perusing, I realized that Couch surfing wasn’t the harlotry I had taken it for. The people seemed cool. It was just a matter of finding shared interests and going from there. I sifted for hours through pages that ranged from brief but succinct bullet lists of the person’s interests to a fully detailed novelesque description of their hobbies, goals, and various experiences with couchsurfing. Some claimed to be free spirits that always were hoping to learn something new. The majority were sociable and had likewise expectations of fully getting to know their guest. I figured that could only be expected, to avoid awkwardness. After all, this was not an airbnb you-paid-for-it experience. This was a social experiment, putting two people from different parts of the world into the same living space and seeing what would happen, what they could learn, what they could share…

In the end I was convinced, in spite of Amber’s horrible and somewhat facetious explanation. She never was good for that sort of serious stuff. Now the only issue was finding a host I might be “compatible” with, comfortable with sharing new things and exploring my new home, and yes, kind of freeloading until I got a job.

The more I thought of it in this light, the more I was reminded of my brief but impactful stints on okcupid and tinder. More so on okcupid. There was very little to gain from an app that based your preferences on impulse based on physical appearance alone. I couldn’t be bothered. But the bullet lists and walls of text were very reminiscent to okcupid’s profiles. The only difference was, okcupid didn’t come with warning labels in the form of reviews. So that aspect was much appreciated.

I became mildly obsessed. After getting home from Kohl’s, after waking up, I would begin scanning. I bookmarked different profiles. I mainly gravitated towards the film and book nerds, the ones I knew I would not be stuck grasping at straws for conversation. I tried to avoid the male profiles because my mind inevitably wandered to the idea of some form of relationship. Perhaps it was Amber’s influence, or the fact that I was still trying to move on completely from my last relationship, but I naively dreamed that perhaps my host could become something more. Without the awkward creepiness implied in those craigslist ads. But I suppose on some level I should give credit where credit is due — at least those ads were upfront.

Many conversations began the same way. “Hello! I’m a 23 year old Southern girl looking to get out of Arkansas and move to a land of sunshine and opportunities. Unfortunately, money is an issue at this time. Would you be willing to host me until I get a job (possibly indefinitely)? I swear I make a mean cup of coffee!” Most of these basic messages went through the same revision process repeatedly. Take out a word here, add a smiley face there, swear to myself I did not sound as desperate as I felt.

Everyday the cold dark of winter pushed closer and closer over the horizon. Time was ticking. I promised myself to be gone by the winter so I could hibernate the way the Monarch butterflies do, in search of a warmer climate to live…and die. I still had a lot of life to live, though, so the death part would need to wait. Which was part of why I insisted on avoiding craigslist like the plague. All that I needed was for someone to bite. Until then, I had to keep on dreaming.

En realidad el sueño americano no era para mí tan grandioso. Fue necesidad que me empujó, la adaptación a unas circunstancias imposibles.

Ya no tuve a quien más para apoyarme o para yo apoyar. Mi abue se murió hace 5 años. Mi familia fue dividida por líneas rayadas por el dinero. Había primos y tíos pero no quisieran que yo me vendiera así, y al saberlo, algunos se pusieron distantes. Sí, lo de la familia fue complicado, un empujón, pero tanto para cumplir como para salir de la situación en sí. Y a la vez, había tantas dudas.

Ya no era un niño. Cuando me veía en el espejo, lo primero que me llamaba la atención eran mis ojeras. No dañaron la vista de mis ojos verde-cafés, pero me hicieron sentir mucho más viejo.

En el camino, sabía que crecían cada vez más, cada vez mis ojeras se ponían más oscuras. Era un viaje corto pero se sintía como una eternidad. Como el paso del tiempo en una nave espacial.

Cruzar la frontera no es lo más emocionante. Es lo que te espera allá. Y en algún momento ya tenía claro que me iba a bajar y nadar y encontrarme en una tierra que no conocía. Oaxaca se volvería un recuerdo colorido y otro punto en el mapa.

Se escuchan las toses retenidas de los otros pasajeros. La soledad. A pesar de que sus cuerpos quedan cerca, yo me siento lejos. Me imagino caminando por esas calles doradas y me pierdo otra vez, otra vez el conocimiento me invade y se va…

One of the things that makes writing these sorts of passages enjoyable is the sense of melding the self with a person very distinctive and separate from oneself and creating narratives that are both familiar and distant from my own lived experiences. I started writing based on this concept after a conversation with my younger brother about points of view and what could make a love story like this more than a cliché. But I peppered tons of cliches into my character’s thoughts and perceptions of the world, mainly to provoke a sense of realism as well as one of hyperbole and satire.

I don’t know if this story is worth pursuing and writing more. But it was fun rereading something I wrote years ago. As a writer, exercises in point of view shifts really interest me, especially when incorporating the use of different languages.

I’ve been blocked in some ways from writing, although I have been honing my discipline in other areas. So that’s why I’m back here on wordpress, hoping to make posting a habit again.

Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running” has been my inspiration. I swear, I’ve had this book for the past 5 years, and that’s how slowly I have been reading it. There are moments when I don’t appreciate Murakami’s voice, his understating and candid way of casually discussing his successes. It makes me think, “If only it were that easy!” But I think it just might be, and he might have a point. Because in no way is he really implying that writing award-winning novels is “easy” but rather that it doesn’t just come out of some happy accident, some inborn, innate skill. It takes discipline. We in the West give too much credit to “talent.” So as time goes on, I’m starting to read his words differently and see the wisdom suddenly mixed in in his self-deprecating style.

Also, sidebar, I’m reading the version translated into Spanish. The title is De Qué Hablo Cuando Hablo de Escribir and — wow. I didn’t even realize the original title was way better and less redundant until googling the English title just now. For writers, I would highly recommend this book.

To honing our bodies, to sharpening our minds.

From the Archives: Poesía de Resistencia

Vida Desértica – El Desierto de la Tatacoa, el Gris

Esperanzas Caídas: la Flor Transplante

Puedo embrujar con mi belleza,
Una mirada coqueta, un vistazo de miel
Y carne y hueso y sangre
Pero eso no me completa
No me define.
Mis venas se convierten en raíces
Buscando tierra fértil en la que
Se puedan sentir en casa
Pero sólo encuentran huecos,
Lugares donde se pueden quedar
Sin angustia, sin molestia, sin pena,
Pero pronto se ponen a morir.
Sus hojas se marchitan y
Se vuelven marrón, gris, negro y
La flor se cae al suelo,
Descuidada, olvidada
En tierra extranjera
Y distante, los recuerdos de
Su belleza encantadora
Se van olvidando, esfumando
Aunque la transplante pidió lo contrario,
Que la cuidara bien la tierra,
Pero está envenenada en cada rincón
Y no había forma de evitarlo
Ni prevenirlo ni siquiera darse cuenta
Antes de que desaparezca todo
Y no queda nada mas que tierra yerma.

Perfect Circle – Montaña el Gigante, Huila

La Lucha Ajena

We cannot fight injustice
In isolation.
That’s what they want–
Each of us struggling from
Our own separate little islands,
Fighting like we’re alone.
Only if we band together
As people, as humanity,
Can true change come.
Why do you think so many
Marxist revolutions ended
In dissolution and confusion,
Corrupted by global capitalism
And elitism and the Vanguard–
Fuck the Vanguard.

Only if we come together as one,
Organize, empathize,
Will we end injustice,
End the bloodshed in the streets
And the mindless fury–
The greed of the rich,
The survivalism of the poor,
All hustling for themselves or
A dream deterred;
Langston Hughes knew:
If we can feel
For a poem or feel
Pain for some character
Whose heart never felt,
Who never existed,
Then why not fight
For our fellow flesh-
And-blood.

We’re always saying:
“The struggle is real,”
But what are we struggling
If not the struggle of others:
The women in the sweatshops,
In the brothels of the so-called
Third world, a broken model,
The obrero and the aspiring
Rapper, painter, entrepreneur,
Survivor, whatever you are,
Wherever you come from–
Compton, Harlem, Honduras,
Martinique, Korea, the Congo,
The slums, the suburbs,
‘Cause who are we?
Are we our hoods
And gentrified oases,
Segregated from one another
As if our flesh were
Sliced in pieces and flayed
From our bodies?
Who are we
To struggle at all,
The struggle of others–
But if we aren’t,
Moving, fighting, bleeding,
Breathing the struggle
Then we are dust on the wind
Of history,
We are soon forgotten,
Negatable, silent,
Better off dead–
Nothing.

‘Cause who the fuck am I?
White girl, middle class girl,
Ignoring the fact that middle class
Is code for upper class aspiring,
‘Cause I never wanted the lies
They were selling, like high-
Priced cosmetics, all fluff
That I don’t need anyway–
I’d rather cut my legs off
Fighting someone else’s
Battle than waste a few hours
Deciding if my skin is too white
To care or if the bags under my
Eyes are too offensive to the eye.
‘Cause I believe if it’s hurting you,
It’s hurting me.
We’re all part of the same body,
And if I let them sever you,
Why not sever myself
And give into the depression
Eating me alive without meaning–
Better with meaning,
To scream till my lungs
Explode, to know
What it feels like
To have a reason
To suffer
And in doing so
Lessen the suffering
Of others.

La Ceiba, Gigante – símbolo nacional de la libertad de Colombia

Adaptación

Tengo el don de la adaptación.
El mundo siempre está cambiando y
yo también.

Cambio de piel
Cambio de voz
Cambio de opinión
Cambio de perspectiva
Cambio de tema
Cambio de camino
Pero a la vez

No cambio por nadie–
Y nunca lo haré.

A Resting Place: Tunja to Villa de Leyva (Semana Santa Weekend)

When I asked about Tunja, I got lots of “there’s nothing there” and “What on earth are you staying there for?” I just shrugged and explained it was a resting place before arriving to Villa de Leyva for the weekend. I knew I would be getting there after a week of trekking and a day of spelunking, so I didn’t mind staying in a less touristy place for the night just to rest if it meant waking up and heading to my weekend destination just an hour or so away.

Well, let me be the first to say, that I left with a feeling of complete disagreement with all the nay-sayers that had told me Tunja wasn’t worth it. As the capital of the department of Boyaca, this city has a lot to offer in the way of history and architecture. In fact, I learned that at least 3 or 4 Colombian presidents had their origins in Tunja, Boyaca.

After a restful night’s sleep, I woke up in my hotel room, enjoyed another hot shower (what a luxury!) before having breakfast. I chose the pancakes option over the arepas, and was mildly disappointed — they were served with honey and were utterly flavorless, like a softer, corn-flour-free arepa. But meh, again, a full stomach supersedes all gripes about the quality of the meal when I travel on a budget. I’ve went hungry enough times to know that I am living a life of luxury, whether it seems that way or not.

I enjoyed getting to bundle up before heading out to explore the square of Tunja. The hotel itself was quite lovely, in an old shopping center with colonial architecture and old world charm. Since it was only about half a block from the central square, I could see what it had gotten “Fabulous Location” on Booking.

Many had complained about the cold in this city. After being in Colorado and even New Mexico in winter, I couldn’t help but muse at how little context many Colombians have when it comes to judging if a place is cold or not. Yes, I wore a light jacket in Tunja, but I would’ve been comfortable without it. As a contrast to the suffocating heat of Valledupar’s draught and the relative heat of Santander, I was loving the chilly breezes and chuckling at what I considered the exaggerative bundling up that people did in the city — not for the last time during this trip. You would think they would have adapted to the temperatures, right?

Well, some of those people were actually tourists. I was walking along with my camera, taking pictures and videos of the plaza, minding my own business, when a small group saw me trying to avoid ruining their picture as I absentmindedly wandered around near the main cathedral, statues of important religious figures that came out of the city, and finally approached the “I (heart) Tunja” letters where they were taking pictures.

Taken off guard, I didn’t realize that they were motioning for me to stop and take a picture of them. Turns out they were taking the picture, not in front of the sign but with their camera propped near the lettering facing towards the square. Abashedly, I realized where the camera was and that they weren’t suggesting I take a picture of them in front of the name as I had assumed. They wanted me to take a picture with them.

Turns out, they were a friendly group of paisas from Medellin who had been staying in Villa de Leyva and had made their way to Tunja for a day visit. They spoke highly of Valledupar when I mentioned where I was living in Colombia, as people generally do, but I of course couldn’t resist mentioning how much lovelier Tunja seemed to me in comparison. We parted ways after a brief conversation, claiming that perhaps we’d see each other later. It is a small world, after all.

I made a few blocks, taking in the colonial style of the city, the dark cobblestones, the clean streets, and the beautiful statues, including the center piece of the Plaza, a triumphant statue of Simon Bolivar on a horse. It reminded me of the famous statue of George Washington in the Commons in Boston.

Once I’d had my fill, I returned to the hotel, ready to head to the Terminal de Transporte. I checked out, and unable to get a cab on inDriver (the price bargaining app I’ve only ever used in Colombia – like Uber but way cheaper and more competitive), I resorted to walking out to the curb. I got picked up by an older man who was quick to start gathering information about me. I prefer when cabbies don’t do this, but he seemed nice enough, if a bit astute. He started telling me about how he had family in the US and how he wanted to get his visa. We both agreed that it was more likely to work out with Biden as president. Most Colombians are painfully aware of how anti-immigrant/latino/etc. Trump was as president, and most share my relief about him no longer being in office.

He gave me a tip. He would take me to a closer point where cars (colectivos) usually pass by to pick up passengers heading to Villa de Leyva. He told me he’d rather not leave the city to get to the bus terminal. I felt a little dubious, because this was Good Friday. Transportation was a bit more fickle. But I took him at his word. When we got there, a guy was waiting for transportation — but not to Villa de Leyva. He said he hadn’t seen any cars heading that way, but it was possible that they might pass at some point. I took his word for it, mainly because this taxi driver had promised to charge me a lot to take me to the terminal…and he still charged me 6k to go a very short distance.

Let’s just say, it’s not always good to talk about where you’re from with taxi drivers. He had made a few comments about how the dollar was more valuable and insinuating that I must have money. So the fact that he’d charged me this when I’d been only charged 4k the night before for a longer ride spoke volumes. “Me jodio,” I proclaimed to the guy waiting there. Both of us realized pretty quickly that there was no transport going to Villa de Leyva at that stop on that day. The rolo (guy from Bogota – I could tell by his accent) was unwilling to blame the old taxi driver, but it was undeniable that he charged me more than necessary. So yes, effectively, he fucked me over.

I quickly decided to catch another cab and got charged the same amount to go much further, in the same direction I came until I reached the Terminal.

Foreigners in Colombia, be ware. Some people might seem nice, but many do think with their wallets. If they ask you about how much money you make within the first few minutes of picking you up, they will probably try screwing you out of money. I knew this, but it wasn’t that he took much money from me. When I called him out that he was overcharging, he did charge mil pesos less, but that pretty much confirmed that he knew what he was doing. Just a life experience, and one that I’ve realized for a while.

There was wifi at the terminal. I got a 20k ticket to Villa de Leyva, ate something resembling a donut, a pastel (meat pie), and drank down a carton of Milo. I was a little apprehensive about not getting on the right van, but it all worked out.

By noon, the hottest hour of the day, I made it to Villa de Leyva. It was a mountainous, gorgeous ride, one of many I’ve experienced during this trip. I was impressed by this town, practically down in a valley surrounded by breathtaking mountains. But as usual, I had been napping and was groggy and had to get off the bus with my hands totally filled. What a pain, I thought. I couldn’t wait to be free of the responsibility of delivering my friend Liz’s package. Luckily, this was its final destination. The couple that founded Nibiru, the hostel in Villa de Leyva — one of many, I soon discovered — were to be the recipients of this gift.

So to make a long story longer, I ended up stepping off the bus, approaching a vendor at a market across the street from the transport square and getting sent in the wrong direction. The guy that helped me admitted he wasn’t from there. What should I expect, right? Well, he googled the hostel, and I assumed he could at least use a map and point me in the right direction.

Wrong.

So I made several blocks, the sun beating down on me. I was still dressed for cool weather after walking around Tunja. Spoiler: Villa de Leyva ain’t all that cold, not during the middle of the day. Not until it rains in the mid-to-late afternoon.

I stopped and asked someone in a carpark (parqueadero). They knew the city but — they had no clue where I needed to go.

Ugh. Okay. Turn around, I told myself. I had seen an “oficina de turismo” on the main street I had been dropped off on by the bus. So I huffed and puffed my way to the tourism office. I explained where I needed to go, by name and address (what I knew of the address – I didn’t have wifi or data). They helped me identify the direction I needed to go to and gave me a map. However, there was no clear indication of how many blocks I would be walking. The only landmark mentioned was the bus terminal and “La Media Torta.”

I had to overwalk, again. I stopped in a drug store and asked for more details to see if I was close. They gave me more vague directions after studying my map, marking dots near where my destination was. In theory, I should’ve been able to show a local the map and receive turn-by-turn instructions until I got at least to the street where my hostel was.

I would be wrong for thinking that. And that was the source of my irritation. No one knew how to give directions in the town. Everything was vague, and no one seemed to know which street was which or if I needed to go up or down a block.

A guy stopped me as I angrily trudged along, muttering to myself. He tried to offer me a room at his hotel. I had to explain hurriedly that I already had a reservation. There was just one problem — I’d been going in circles for a good half hour unable to find the place based on the address. He let me connect to the internet after ushering me up the stairs of his hotel. No doubt, he still hoped to convince me to stay there. I was annoyed that he wasn’t able to give me a quick confirmation of if I was going the right direction or not — even with maps and gps as a guide. He still needed to orient himself by hanging off the balcony and studying the map, his phone, and the streets ahead of him. I wrote the lady from Nibiru and asked for explicit instructions.

Suffice it to say, the hostel had been super close the whole time, only a couple of blocks from the bus stop. That didn’t stop me double confirming the street at D1 to avoid wasting more time and getting more grumpy and tired. As soon as I named the hostel, the grocer’s face went blank and he nearly withdrew his confirmation that the street I was pointing to was in fact the carrera I had asked about.

‘Nough said, I had the right street. I walked and looked to my right at the first intersection, and there it was. Nibiru. A big house remade into a hostel. I couldn’t feel frustrated once I met Ana’s husband, the other half of the pair that own Nibiru. He welcomed me and was happy to receive Liz’s gift, a unique sign with a map pointing out where Nibiru was located. Aw, how that would’ve helped me get there if I had seen it a bit sooner.

Live and learn. These things are bound to happen. I went out after a bit of rest, took lots of photos and videos of the cobblestone and rock-paved streets I had been hopelessly turned around on before. There were so many people — and live music, everywhere. Walking on the rock-paved streets with tiny, sometimes non-existent sidewalks wasn’t my favorite. If you didn’t watch your step and are clumsy like me, you could easily twist your ankle or worse on those uneven rocks in the path. Still, the old world charm and street musicians reminded me of New Orleans.

That night, my legs exhausted from so much adventure, I settled to see the town by Chiva (brightly lit tour buses that blast music as they take tourists around the city). I absorbed some of the history of the famous patrimonial town. I learned it had once been covered by water, leaving behind a wealth of primordial fossils belonging to an assortment of fish and reptiles. How different this place is from New Orleans, a land fighting to avoiding being submerged compared to a town where rivers and seas eventually dried up. Incredible.

I also learned that it was another city from which many a famous Colombian had descended. There are tons of museums in the relatively small city. Everything was bursting with life in spite of these Covid-restricted times. I almost felt as if I were in a bubble untouched by outside worries, a sort of lost city of Atlantis — only instead of being covered by water, it was the product of evaporation of that water. Perhaps at one time, it had been an Atlantis covered by the sea before reemerging later and retaking its former splendor.

The connections my friend Liz gave me were indispensable. I owe the success of this almost month-long trek to the advice of many friends who have offered contacts that have helped me throughout the journey.

The main tour company contact she gave me ended up being the only one I signed up with during my stay. They’re called Gaia Adventure. Their cozy office is located about half a block from the plaza of Villa de Leyva, the biggest plaza per square meter in Colombia. And not a fun one to cross when your legs are sore, I must confess. But the stones paving it, although an obstacle, are quite nice and add to that colonial town charm and authenticity.

That night, they set me up on an hour-long 35k tour on Chiva. We were taken up to the lookout point (Mirador) above the city. My pictures did not do the view much justice, but thanks to this tour, I was able to schedule a horseriding tour for the next morning. We were given our Canelazo (a warm cinnamon-spiced drink with aguardiente (alcohol) very typical in the colder parts of Colombia, and my main motive for taking the tour) at the end, and I headed back to my hostel to rest.

This was the beginning of the decline of my health during this trip. I love to push myself to the limits, and unfortunately, my body hates it. I’ve always been a bit sensitive to allergies, altitude, changes in temperature, etc. And I experienced all of this during the first week. So by that Saturday and Sunday when I left Villa de Leyva, I had a sore throat and a runny nose *cue hello darkness my old friend*.

I tried not to let that hold me back, though, mixing rest with play to the best of my ability. Always a struggle to follow my own advice.

From My Notes: Days 4-5: Adventures in San Gil and surrounding towns

It’s 10 am. I’m headed to Curiti. From there I’m going to hike to the pozos, some natural pools that are perfect for dirty humans to swim in. I meant to head out an hour ago — I left my hostel at about 9 when I meant to leave at 8. So here we are.

The bus from the Terminalito to Curiti cost just 3.500.

We got there in 20 minutes.

The 7 pozos are probably better when you’re swimming with friends, and not on your period, but I enjoyed the peace. The walk seemed unending, especially alone. I enjoyed the views, the goats and sheep off in the distance and the rolling mountains reminding me of some warmer Switzerland (or what I can imagine the Swiss countryside might be like; pure speculation). I thought I was going to burn for sure. It’s been humid, warm, but overcast. I guess I got lucky. My skin is still peeling from my adventures snorkeling and laying out on the beach in Santa Marta. Otherwise I’m in tact.

I think I made it to 6 of the 7 pozos. After confirming that they all had people in them in some capacity, I picked the one that was the most ample with the fewest people. I think it was two groups, a family, and some couples. I waded around and enjoyed the water cascading from the top to the bottom where I sat. Being in water always refreshes me. I had to do some light rock scaling to get in and out, but I managed the take a dip and put back on my shoes and dress without soaking them.

I ran into a lady I met at the hostel with her partner and child. She was surprised I was alone and figured I must have been bored. In reality I needed a quiet hike and swim like that. I had seen water far clearer and more aqua but it was still worth the experience. She had rented a small tube for 2 mil. She told me there were bigger ones for 4-6 mil. Next time, I said. I wonder when that will be.

I took lots of pictures and videos before heading back to Curiti to enjoy a brownie con helado and a bebida santadereana (it was really good). Then it was back to the hostel to rest for a bit before waiting a solid hour to take a bus up to Páramo.

The bus to Páramo was just 6 mil ($2). The town was tiny and not so far away.

I checked into Posada San Luis, an inn just up the road from the central park and church at 5:33 pm. I immediately got met with a few obstacles I vented about in my notes:

Though nice, the lady working at the front desk couldn’t offer recommendations.

There were no restaurants to eat at, so I had to settle for a very basic hotdog at a small resto-tienda in the main square.

For the first several hours the WiFi wouldn’t work.

When I went to ask someone, there was no one at reception to help me (And likewise when I returned from eating, I had to let myself in).

Help seemed nonexistent. But you get what you pay for, and while $50 mil has gotten me more in Colombia, it still wasn’t so bad.

Day 5: Páramo

Páramo is a town that bases its tourism almost solely on extreme sports and outdoor activities. There are next to no restaurants around the square. Even though it was not so late when I got there, like 6 pm, everything was dead. I checked in where I found to my further dismay that the WiFi wasn’t working. I guess I needed to disconnect, but why did it have to be when I had a private class scheduled?

Gloria, an ex teacher and now the person I presume running the hotel Posada San Luis told me I could find Fastfood near the park. In reality there was only one place open, half pharmacy half tienda/restaurant. I was dodging bugs while waiting for my lulo and hotdog. I like eating alone, but there’s something uncomfortable about being the only person sitting in silence with nothing to look at. Am I the only one that feels that way? The jugo de lulo was good, the hotdog had too much salsa de piña, but I went back to my hotel with a full stomach, which was the important thing.

Eventually the WiFi randomly connected, but I still took the chance to go to bed before 10 pm. I woke up several times during the night, not because I was uncomfortable, but just because my body wasn’t prepared to rest as much as it was. That and the fan eventually was too cold. Good problems, in my opinion.

I got up before 7, got ready, had a complimentary tinto and ate one of the apples I brought from home. I got in touch with the tour company, Camine Mano. They opened at 8, so I was among the first people to show. The inn is a block from the main square, and this tour company is located right next to the police station. I was set, changed into my hiking shoes, leggings, a tshirt with my swim suit underneath. I struck up conversation with one of the guides, a nice guy by the name of Juan Camilo. We discussed language learning, a topic that comes up a lot in my travels. Usually after they realize where I’m from and what I do. And show surprise that I’m from the states but speak Spanish well. I’m cautious to take this as a compliment, wholesale, but it’s still a nicer comment than what this one taxi driver said to me the other day in Valledupar: “Wow just goes to show! Four years and you still have an accent!” Not one of my happiest moments. But bless the man for his honesty. The only thing worse is when they praise you and you know it’s pure bullshit. So it is what it is.

Two of the first women to arrive ended up scooping me and including me in their pictures for the tour. I suppose because it would be a cheaper deal to split the cost with a third person, but still, like the group I met in San Gil, they were very open and friendly. They were both a bit older than me and super nice. I’ve encountered more people from Bogota during this trip than from anywhere else. Sincerely all the encounters have been positive. They’ve included me in their groups and asked genuine and insightful questions. It’s refreshing after so much of the same in Valledupar, even after 4 years of living there. This is why I like traveling. It’s easy to forget that people and culture is not the same everywhere. Even in the same country, there are so many types of people, accents, and cultures. It’s reminded me of why I love to travel so much.

There are definitely fewer foreigners in these parts, I’ve noticed. I’ve yet to encounter an American. Our trip to the cave (la Cueva del Indio) was pretty much all people from the interior — Bogota, Cucuta, and the surrounding areas. We made fast friends as we waited around to enter the cave and speculated about what we might see and just how scary it might be. It was a relief to know I wasn’t the only one a little apprehensive about the famous “Salto al Vacio” at the end of the trek. There were 3 or 4 children with us on the tour, so that frankly put me at ease. It really wasn’t nearly as terrifying as my imagination could conjure.

At the end of the tour, soaked, the girls bought me an ice cream before it was time to go our separate ways. I went to the hotel, quickly changed out of my damp clothes, and ran to catch the next bus leaving Paramo and heading one-way to San Gil. That was not something I had anticipated, as I had originally chosen to stay outside of San Gil in order to save time between traveling to my next destination, Tunja, Boyaca.

I realized while taking the bus from San Gil to Tunja that Socorro is much bigger than Páramo. I should’ve stayed there. It even had its own terminal. But hindsight is 20/20, and all worked out anyway.

The bus from San Gil to Tunja left at 2:45. I got there around 10 pm, my phone dead, in the middle of a cold highway in the same dress I had changed into after my spelunking. Once again, all the credit to a kind taxi driver that happened to be sitting right down the road (I wasn’t dropped at a terminal this time, because the Tunja terminal is located a bit outside of the city). I told him the name of my hotel and suggested he google it when he couldn’t recall where it was located. Before I knew it I was taking a hot shower before bedding down in my singlet hotel room a mere block from the main Plaza Simon Bolivar.

Writing Project: Entre Comillas

I’ve been stumbling upon and rereading some writing projects that are (yes) mostly unfinished, but I’d like to take the time to share some of them and see if getting some feedback might motivate me to finish.

I feel like prefacing this project might be a good idea so that you get what I was going for.

A couple of years ago, my brother and I were talking about love stories and clichés. He gave me a unique challenge that I began to build upon and have added to here and there whenever I stumble across this piece of writing. It’s interesting, because I am a classic example of a writer that takes their own experiences and morphs them to try to tell a story of something (I hope) someone else might have experienced but that, naturally, does not 100% align with my own thoughts or experiences. It offers me a bit of perspective on my own experiences, while making my own writing feel more concrete without simply and narcissistically copy/pasting experiences from my own life — I have other mediums for that (*glares pointedly at Part 2 of my roadtrip post sitting in my draft folder*).

This project I decided would be bilingual. A love story of a different kind. The idea of two people meeting, not being able to understand each other, yet falling in love anyway. This hasn’t actually happened to me, but it has happened to a family member of mine, and I found the whole idea rather fascinating. I mean, how does one fall in love without understanding the other person? Seems like a pretty big stretch to me.

And so, naturally, writing about it would be the perfect avenue for exploring this concept which people apparently experience, but I have not.

However, as I said, this sort of project does borrow influences and experiences from my own life, allusions that people who know me well might recognize.

And it’s bilingual. I realized that it would cause an interesting marketing issue if I ever wrote a full book — because yes, there are a lot of bilingual readers out there (especially people that can read Spanish and English – yes, huge market win?) — but I would want people that don’t speak or read Spanish or English to find it accessible somehow as well (aside from reading the translations with mere context). (still not sure how I would accomplish this) But the whole idea is that, just as these two people could not fully understand one another, the pieces that they shared would be enough to craft this bigger picture. Yay, literary elements and whatnot.

While I catch up with other projects, I’m going to upload what I’ve written of this story in installments, since I’ve already completed around 4 chapters of the story. If it receives any response, maybe I’ll continue? Or if I get useful feedback, that could serve a source of inspiration.

I’m just curious, and I want to start sharing more of my fiction pursuits for peer review. Looking forward to seeing the response (if any!).

Cuando se acabó la gran noche, solo me quedé pensando. ¿Qué tal que fuera toda una gran casualidad? ¿Que tal que me quedara con ella? ¿Tendríamos una familia ahora en aquel apartamento tan moderno en aquella ciudad tan fría?

“Stay,” me dijo. Como de costumbre, me quedé mirándole los labios. Tan finos, hasta pintados de rojo. Pensé que al fin le entendía.

“Ya no. No se pudo,” le repliqué, y sus ojos no dejaban de mirarme a los míos.

Me prometía todo, sí, como no. Se dice que solo sabes lo que tienes cuando te toca perderlo. En mi caso, podría decir que eso es sólo la mitad del cuento. Y qué cuento más largo. Pero al final, la cama vacía habló por sí misma. Primero la suya. Después la mía.

Me marché.

Pero ¿cómo fue que empezó todo? ¿qué momentos tan pequeños se convirtieron en los que sé que me marcarán para el resto de mi vida?

Just like that, he was gone. I knew I would have to adjust again, to the quiet spaces in between. To the haunted melodies of the sad songs for lonely lovers we used to enjoy together. You see, I didn’t realize how much one could understand in spite of a language barrier. So much of what we communicate we do not say in words alone.

I never really knew what I wanted – to be. I could be one thing one day and a thousand things another. I wanted to be a writer. An actress. A politician. A teacher. A chef. Whatever it was in the moment, regardless of what the profession or fancy might be, I at least knew that I wanted to be great, by whatever definition of greatness I was willing to apply.

I knew I wanted to leave Arkansas. The endless fields of agriculture and livestock had nothing for me. I don’t even have a green thumb. Naturally, there was no better option for a young, indecisive dreamer than to pick up and move to Los Angeles and live a cliche like so many before me. Behind me, there were the winding country roads and broad plains, a life I was sure I would never miss.

Yo siempre me he sentido como una persona decidida, cuando no había camino, me lo abría, o sí o sí. Igual, nunca me imaginé que me iba a marchar de mi familia, de mi comunidad. Aún no supero el eco de su llanto, y los suplicos de mi niña: no se vaya, no se vaya, con Dios todo se puede.

Pero al final, me dejaron ir. Soltaron la correa. Porque su bien también depende del mio, y si uno no tiene milpa y no tiene palanca, conexiones para que uno salga adelante, pues se estanca. El peso de mis pasos fue como si me amarraran hierro a los zapatos. Pero seguía hacia adelante, hacia esa ciudad rodeada de montañas y la esperanza de una estatua verde, una mujer que abraza a cualquiera que aguante hambre, frío, desolación… El sueño americano.

Now you might think because I was raised in Fayetteville, Arkansas–big for a southern city with the same small town feel that seems ubiquitous in the Southern USA–that I had never seen things that could make any normal person’s skin crawl. That I wasn’t ready for skid row.

In reality, Arkansas is far from a idyllic paradise. For me it was more like a swamp hidden among old town charm. Kissing cousins were actual cases of incest and child molestation. A man resembling Pennywise the Clown sans makeup actually lived on my block and had a known reputation for watching and perhaps even trading child porn on the Dark Net. A known sex offender, he had the most uncanny way of looking through any person he met with his unworldly steel gaze. Most people were repelled, but nobody could deny a morbid curiosity. Nobody had ever tried to bust him, in spite of this common townsfolk knowledge of the things he must do in the dark confines of his brick prison. Whenever his sickly grey gaze landed on me as I waited for the school bus in the morning, I felt a convulsive shiver pass through me. I began to feel my heartbeat in my feet, and I suddenly forgot the layers of clothing I would wear on cold mornings as my limbs began to tremble. Still, he was also the little league coach’s assistant, and most people would never talk bad about him to his face.

Then there were the Mason’s. They had changed the face of Fayetteville. All of the small mom and pop shops they owned by the end of the first decade of the 2000’s. They stunk of old money and racism, slavery and lynchings. Few would admit it, but Mr. John Frederick Mason Jr. had been known to don the white hood and go out on night prowls. Again, everyone kept quiet, especially when he gave big donations at all of the ten or more main Christian churches in the town, each claiming to be the first or the closest to God. In reality, I was fairly certain God had shifted his gaze away from Fayetteville long ago.

And yet, you would think when I announced that I was moving to Los Angeles that I had just said I was going to have public orgies with a group of demonic familiars – while getting high and overdosing no less. Most would never dare to leave, for fear of what could be worse. But still, I have to admit that they were right to be skeptical about my rushed decision to take off. I was a lost sheep, free to wander until I got myself eaten by the first wolf I encountered. Sheep’s clothing not required.

Me lo propuse en un día de calor ardiente y persistente. Miraba por las tierras que ya no eran mías, que ya se adueñó de ellas el cartel, mientras plantaba la mano en la frente. Tanto sudor, todo para que me llegaran y me quitaran mi hogar. La frustración se sentía en cada rincón, susurros de qué pasaría con el nuevo presidente de Gringolandia, hechizos de las brujas y los brujos de la comunidad, que se colocaban siempre en la orilla de toda maldad.

Y me decidí. A pesar de todo, no me quedaba de otra.

I could keep living there, I admit. I had my college degree from the University of Arkansas, conveniently located in my hometown. I had a little bit of sway in the community, but not Mason level sway. Still, there was some hope for upward mobility, what with both of my parents being productive members of society. My mom worked in one of the local high schools and even had a position in the school board. My father, though not as noteworthy as he would like, had a financial firm and one of the most easily hated professions on earth. They both set the bar for a life of potential security, if not the old school power play of more influential families.

All the same, the day I left was an act of pure rebellion from a young woman that had never stopped being an adolescent. I felt a sort of pit in my stomach as I threw the majority of what I needed in the one big suitcase I had had for years and had never used. I left at midnight, thinking idealistically that if I drove all night, I might just see my first California sunrise peak over the mountains the next day. What I didn’t realize was that the road from Fayetteville to Los Angeles is over two days long, and the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. I had enough savings to sleep in my car that night and regret every decision I had made up to that point. Still, I convinced myself, rationalizing and reasoning all in one contradictory step, I was living the adventure of my dreams. Nobody could stop me. I was going home, where I belonged.