Waiting for Spirit alongside
Caribbean jeans
D&G studded sparkles
Handheld PS3s and WiFi waves
Keep the paintbrush stirring
Counter clockwise blacks and whites
Roll into storm clouds unsure of
Where to break
All preconceptions shatter and images
of life styles
muddle until dissolution
Educated caned black woman
Reads her verses and nothing else
New Balance and gold thongs and black Uggs
And Cololmbianos in argyle and silver chains
Adorning wrists and necks not so
Bronzed. Look of disgust
From the chica with those
Stalky black boots sickened by the calf but
Addicted to the toes
Party planner’s face disfigured by
Nights before days as he wheels and deals
Behind the homely woman’s
Uncapped visage and I’m uncorked
And the brute banging his soul against
A distant wall
Isn’t fighting, but all we know is
“Jenny, JENNY, JENNY! I just don’t
Know why you cant live in the now
I am now
And the only way for you, Jenny, to be good
is by being good
And changing. Change Jenny”
And I’m listening for more while he
Re-imagines her late night escapades
In faux concern and stinted sympathy –
Recalling his own
Abilities and tolerance and adaptations
His sacrifices endless over the expanse of
Their time
“Stop Jenny, just stop talking
I’m so far past that stuff of then
And even then I wasn’t there”
The abuse and control and manipulation
and reprimands
“I’m actually going to allow
You to be the woman you want to be
With your children –
It should be up to you Jenny –
They’re your children
HAVE I BEEN MEAN? HAS KENNY BEEN MEAN?
Don’t be sorry, no, not now
Don’t be sorry now
Don’t say it, do it, be it, be the
Now
Be here with Kenny.”
Waiting for Spirit 859 with me –
Be here with me, Kenny, and
Stop your excreting your pathetic self-loathing
Stop reading the text she sent you from his hosue
and be here
With me now – you, she, we could have
Been nice together but no! You wouldn’t
Allow it
so here I am going
To a tropical paradise, not now
But in 25 minutes, not now,
Not just yet.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
No Time
Linger on here a while
No circle numbers
Infinite grains layered
Soaking interminably in give and take
Absorb ‘til full capacity and ring out
Splatter splash sing aloud
You’re here where you never
Thought you’d be
Supine to mid-leap and then
Roll into turquoise
You’re where you once dreamed
Tengo mangos y arroz con coco
Quieres una cosa magnifico?
I’ve got some sun lit poi for ya
Come get it – dive in and refresh
Rinse off and refill
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
First Week on the Coast
A week has passed here on the Caribbean Coast. Every day the sun rises with infernal heat unmitigated by even the occasional passing cloud. 90-95 degrees from sun-up to sun-down and then 75 con una buena breeza a noche. The collective will of both the Colombians and the gringos follows the converse path of the sun, with the days being spent stationary, sitting on a concrete bench or on the curb divinely shaded by some massive tree, and the nights breathing life into the city and its salsa and reggaetone clubs. Some ambitious travelers rise more or less with the sun and hit the streets in short-sleeved button downs and noses painted white by 50spf and cameras hanging from their wrists, but after 10am it seems that even the most dedicated ‘seers of stuff’ slow to a crawl and are forced to drag themselves back to their hotel or hostel, which may or may not be ACd. The locals sipping cervezas on stoops cackle at their ‘amigos’ but won’t consider making the effort to sell coke or herb or any type of merchandise until after a lengthy afternoon siesta.
This pattern of life is what gives the coast its defining feelings of tranquility and slowness. It is also responsible for the widely-held notion among non-coastal Colombians that those hailing from Cartagena, Barranquilla, Santa Marta or Taganga are worthless lazy bastards who do nothing good for the country and only scratch out a living because of their fortunate proximity to the tourist magnet that is the Caribbean.
And tourists certainly are drawn here in droves, from across the continent and across the globe. Last Friday I found myself having a smoke with a Frenchman who had just spent a month traveling the country with an Aussi girl, her Thai companion, and a gringo who according to him was either from Canada or South Africa. My hostel dorm room (bed = 3$ per night) was filled with Canadians, Argentinians, Germans, Australians, and two guys from Idaho who’d never been outside of the States before setting foot in Colombia a few days before. The same international flavor exists at all the hostels and hotels here, as Colombia is very much on the South American tourist circuit after establishing an environment or appearance of relative peace and stability.
On Saturday night I paid 25,000 Colombian Pesos or CPS ($12.50) to take a rum infused, open-air trolley joy ride around Cartagena with a Colombian girl named Rosi, Reinhard from Vienna, and about 40 other Colombians who sang and banged on drums and played accordions and shook maracas with ever increasing enthusiasm until the bus stopped by the stone walls of the Old City 3 hours after departure. That night, on top of the 16th century Spanish built walls that enclose the Colonial architecture of Cartagena, a sloth clung to my shoulder while I finished off the bottles of rum Rosi had gotten from the trolley driver and watched fireworks go off over the sea. We eventually ended up at a salsa club, drinking aguardiente (think ouzo or anisette) until sunrise with a group of 75 year old men and their gorgeous, 20-something dance partners/secret lovers. The most elderly of the senors was also the most elegant and graceful, and his thin palm leaf green linen plants and polished white single buckle shoes created a swirl of motion and color and energy that left me with an impression similar to the one given to me by the documentary Young at Heart.
After a day of recovery en la playa circa Bocagrande, Reinhard and I were ready to check out Playa Blanca, a more or less deserted white sand beach on Isla de Baru, located 40mins from Cartagena via speed boat and some ungodly number of hours away via any number of other sea-bound vessels. We rounded up a great group of fellow travelers which ended-up consisting of myself, Reinhard, 4 Candaian girls from Vancouver Island, a British guy, Australian lady, a dude from Cali and a few other women from various parts of Europe. We found out that to catch a motor boat we’d need to get to the launches behind the biggest market in Cartagena (Market Bazruto?) and haggle with some of the guys there. Caro = expensive, Barato = cheap, and we took it from there. We ended up paying 25,000 CPS for a ride out to the island and in retrospect, if I had to, I would’ve paid twice or three times that for the experience.
Playa Blanca is a paradisiacal stretch of beach, dotted with thatched cabanas covering hammocks and the occasional table/chair set. The calm waters that lap at the shoreline there are a clear turquoise for the first 15 yards and then turn darker shades of blue and purple before turning back into the same turquoise before the horizon dictates your perception. Those colorful layers were the setting for snorkeling, refreshing dips, bartering with local fishermen(boys) and early morning/late night swims beneath the stars. We ate coconut rice, giant crabs and lobsters, shrimp ceviche and fish with lime and onion, and the occasional pollo or carne dish. At night we drank beers and rum around candle lanterns until the rhythm of the waves and the acoustic guitar led our bodies toward our hammocks for restful nights. Three days and two nights here felt like a few weeks and I feel bonded to my Playa Blanca comrades and to our host Isaac. I’ll post some of the writings I did on the beach a bit later.
We took the slow ferry back to civilization which featured a DJ spinning the latest Caribbean hits and a booty shaking contest for the young ladies onboard. My friends and I sat there with glazed smiles as we passed through choppy open waters (where pirates have been hijacking sailboats coming from Panama as of late) and eventually into Cartagena’s serene harbor. I decided to rest for a night in the city instead of heading up the coast with the Canadian girls, but that plan was quickly altered and I found myself dancing on a roof top overlooking the city until late the following morning with some excellent guys from New Zealand.
I woke up the next morning and decided to check out the shuttle up the coast that two Aussi girls I’d eaten dinner with just before the rooftop party were planning on taking to Taganga. It was a good deal (40 CPS for a private shuttle vs. 35CPS for multiple taxis and a public bus), until one of my fellow passengers had his bag stolen out of the back of the van. The police got involved and we were delayed 3 hours. The trip ended up taking a total of 8 and a half hours instead of the standard 4, and we got into the fishing village of Taganga (where I’m writing from now) around 9pm. An American girl named Kerri and I checked into a four bed dorm in Hostel Mayamar, located up the hill from the beach, and as soon as I put my bags down, I projectile vomited. Whether it was something I ate or just too much sun and rum coupled with dehydration, the puking session cleared me out and now, two nights and a day later, I feel 100% again. I felt so good this morning that I finished off my dinner from last night of pumpkin curry with vegetables and rice and then went down the hill to the beach for a papaya, passion fruit and mango juice drink and an iced coffee con leche.
There is so much more to say but I think this will have to suffice for the time being. Much love from this land of beautiful souls!
This pattern of life is what gives the coast its defining feelings of tranquility and slowness. It is also responsible for the widely-held notion among non-coastal Colombians that those hailing from Cartagena, Barranquilla, Santa Marta or Taganga are worthless lazy bastards who do nothing good for the country and only scratch out a living because of their fortunate proximity to the tourist magnet that is the Caribbean.
And tourists certainly are drawn here in droves, from across the continent and across the globe. Last Friday I found myself having a smoke with a Frenchman who had just spent a month traveling the country with an Aussi girl, her Thai companion, and a gringo who according to him was either from Canada or South Africa. My hostel dorm room (bed = 3$ per night) was filled with Canadians, Argentinians, Germans, Australians, and two guys from Idaho who’d never been outside of the States before setting foot in Colombia a few days before. The same international flavor exists at all the hostels and hotels here, as Colombia is very much on the South American tourist circuit after establishing an environment or appearance of relative peace and stability.
On Saturday night I paid 25,000 Colombian Pesos or CPS ($12.50) to take a rum infused, open-air trolley joy ride around Cartagena with a Colombian girl named Rosi, Reinhard from Vienna, and about 40 other Colombians who sang and banged on drums and played accordions and shook maracas with ever increasing enthusiasm until the bus stopped by the stone walls of the Old City 3 hours after departure. That night, on top of the 16th century Spanish built walls that enclose the Colonial architecture of Cartagena, a sloth clung to my shoulder while I finished off the bottles of rum Rosi had gotten from the trolley driver and watched fireworks go off over the sea. We eventually ended up at a salsa club, drinking aguardiente (think ouzo or anisette) until sunrise with a group of 75 year old men and their gorgeous, 20-something dance partners/secret lovers. The most elderly of the senors was also the most elegant and graceful, and his thin palm leaf green linen plants and polished white single buckle shoes created a swirl of motion and color and energy that left me with an impression similar to the one given to me by the documentary Young at Heart.
After a day of recovery en la playa circa Bocagrande, Reinhard and I were ready to check out Playa Blanca, a more or less deserted white sand beach on Isla de Baru, located 40mins from Cartagena via speed boat and some ungodly number of hours away via any number of other sea-bound vessels. We rounded up a great group of fellow travelers which ended-up consisting of myself, Reinhard, 4 Candaian girls from Vancouver Island, a British guy, Australian lady, a dude from Cali and a few other women from various parts of Europe. We found out that to catch a motor boat we’d need to get to the launches behind the biggest market in Cartagena (Market Bazruto?) and haggle with some of the guys there. Caro = expensive, Barato = cheap, and we took it from there. We ended up paying 25,000 CPS for a ride out to the island and in retrospect, if I had to, I would’ve paid twice or three times that for the experience.
Playa Blanca is a paradisiacal stretch of beach, dotted with thatched cabanas covering hammocks and the occasional table/chair set. The calm waters that lap at the shoreline there are a clear turquoise for the first 15 yards and then turn darker shades of blue and purple before turning back into the same turquoise before the horizon dictates your perception. Those colorful layers were the setting for snorkeling, refreshing dips, bartering with local fishermen(boys) and early morning/late night swims beneath the stars. We ate coconut rice, giant crabs and lobsters, shrimp ceviche and fish with lime and onion, and the occasional pollo or carne dish. At night we drank beers and rum around candle lanterns until the rhythm of the waves and the acoustic guitar led our bodies toward our hammocks for restful nights. Three days and two nights here felt like a few weeks and I feel bonded to my Playa Blanca comrades and to our host Isaac. I’ll post some of the writings I did on the beach a bit later.
We took the slow ferry back to civilization which featured a DJ spinning the latest Caribbean hits and a booty shaking contest for the young ladies onboard. My friends and I sat there with glazed smiles as we passed through choppy open waters (where pirates have been hijacking sailboats coming from Panama as of late) and eventually into Cartagena’s serene harbor. I decided to rest for a night in the city instead of heading up the coast with the Canadian girls, but that plan was quickly altered and I found myself dancing on a roof top overlooking the city until late the following morning with some excellent guys from New Zealand.
I woke up the next morning and decided to check out the shuttle up the coast that two Aussi girls I’d eaten dinner with just before the rooftop party were planning on taking to Taganga. It was a good deal (40 CPS for a private shuttle vs. 35CPS for multiple taxis and a public bus), until one of my fellow passengers had his bag stolen out of the back of the van. The police got involved and we were delayed 3 hours. The trip ended up taking a total of 8 and a half hours instead of the standard 4, and we got into the fishing village of Taganga (where I’m writing from now) around 9pm. An American girl named Kerri and I checked into a four bed dorm in Hostel Mayamar, located up the hill from the beach, and as soon as I put my bags down, I projectile vomited. Whether it was something I ate or just too much sun and rum coupled with dehydration, the puking session cleared me out and now, two nights and a day later, I feel 100% again. I felt so good this morning that I finished off my dinner from last night of pumpkin curry with vegetables and rice and then went down the hill to the beach for a papaya, passion fruit and mango juice drink and an iced coffee con leche.
There is so much more to say but I think this will have to suffice for the time being. Much love from this land of beautiful souls!
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