Trust. Trust is the sum of a series of unfounded conclusions made about the trusted. These conclusions are rarely based in anything concrete, but more often derived from the trustee´s personal code of social ethics, personal experience and moral values, projected onto the trusted. If person B hits certain arbitrary chords of sociality in person A, this person will somehow feel a lure to trust person B, in order to invest in their mutual friendship. This can be wonderful, and it can be disastrous. One instance of trust proved to be disastrous to me during my time near coastal northern Colombia. My trust was bought with little labor, and sold for a modest financial fortune.
...
¨What are you up to after the Tayrona beach?¨
- ¨I´m looking to go out tonight too, hang out in Taganga and then go rumbear in Santa Marta.¨
¨You should stay at my place, we can leave the things, shower, eat, and then head out to Taganga.¨
- ¨You´ll have plenty of girls, so many girls in my neighborhood.¨
- ¨Hey I´ll get this bus fare, you get the next one.¨
- ¨My parents are just mad at me for giving my brother the motorcycle keys¨
...
No aca en este barrio no vive ningun Miguel. ¿Que direccion le dieron?
- No se, esque solo tengo el nombre, que vine aqui ayer, y ahora tengo que encontrar la casa pero solo el nombre del chavo me se.
A pues esta dificil.
Aqui ya no camine despues de las 10, esta peligroso, mejor duerma, coma y manana regrese temprano con luz, y asi ya le funciona mejor la memoria.
¿De donde es usted?
¿Ala, y que necesita de el?
Viera que usted no tiene que confiar en nadie, la verdad. No importa lo que le digan.
Mototaxis abound in the small town of Sant Marta. These tenacious drivers apply their experience to being the best at disobeying traffic regulations. On my ten to fifteen rides with them, my partly employed drivers probably amassed a penalty of four thousand dollars in the eyes of a Rhode Island Highway Patrol.
They were confused as I attempted to describe the neighborhood I didn´t know. A place I had visited for under twenty minutes in a rush. A street entrance, a sister, a mom a dad I greeted. A street exit, an intersection and I was gone.
¨Voy a encontrar esta casa aunque me tarde tres dias¨
¿Que dejo en la casa de Miguel? ¿Que tiene Miguel de usted?
Aqui no se debe confiar en nadie.
I noticed the panecitos on the counter just the way I did on Friday evening. It was the same store. Down that callejon to the right. It´s down here. I recognize the adjacent house. I´m here, i found the house. The door doesnt answer, the curtain lets me see the room where my backpack and red miniature pack once were. They aren´t there. The house is empty. I knock, and knock. and knock harder. Where the hell are they? They´re surely out and put my backpack away.
15 minutes later...
Ya no está, vino, me dijo que se llevaba su mochila a Taganga que usted lo estaba esperando alla, y se fue.
Senora, su hijo me robo, me dijo que iba a hacer unas llamadas y comprar ron para la noche, y no volvio. Esto no puede ser. ¿Que va a hacer usted?
iSu hijo es un ladron hijo de puta!
Yo no me voy de aca sin mis cosas.
Voy a denunciar esto y van a aparecer.
...
Don Carlos, the father of Miguel Angel BriseÑo, an undemployed, attempted smooth speaker, machista. The father of a Ana, a 15 year old who wouldn´t listen to the slightest command or plead of her mother to put away the dry laundry. The husband of a soft-spoken, timid seemingly battered wife. The father of the most cold-hearted delinquent I have met in person.
A delinquent, someone who breaks the law. This kid Miguel bursts through the law´s cuffs into something new I haven´t seen before. He cultivates my trust with the most convincing scheme. A scheme fully dependent on my status as an outsider trying to get to know his country and its people; my sheer naive amiability. He puts his family and home at the mercy of a stranger he hopes won´t find his way back to them. He renounces all right to return home without his police record burrying him in problems.
Whatever motivated Miguel Angel´s interaction with me was something far far far from anything beneficial to his existence, and to mine.
The lecture, ¨usted no debe confiar en nadie¨ i received from about twelve Colombian´s has made it deep into my head. The emails from my mother I read two days later advised me about being naive and stupid. ¨No vaya a ponerse en situaciones de riesgo para evitar gastos por favor mijo.¨ It frightens me to see the merit in motherly wisdom. During the phone conversation where I brushed the incident aside as something ¨unfortunate but interesting¨ she told me she had been worried about my faith in people; my trusting people, like I often do, who seem nice but have other intentions. As to how she found out exactly what was most likely to have happened to me is a mystery.
I get it, I got it the moment i uttered to myself ¨ique estupido de mierda!¨ inside the gated house in Concepcion II, Santa Marta. I understand the flexibility of the human mind: How the dignity which upholds beautiful systems of trust, shelter, exchange and love can break down in certain people in the wrong circumstances. Leading to their cunning use of these self-sustaining systems in order to pilage them.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tayrona
Tayrona,
A beach of forest, rock, sand, water and sky is composed by the hands of la Pachamama. Eternally, laid out in front of me. The mist from the crashing clouds rises into mist below clouds in waves that go from above to beyond the horizon. I float on a strip of forest, sand and rocks through the clouds. I dive in to float into the sky, away from land. I´m hit by waves of clouds that cannot do any harm but to harm itself. The water in the sky will wash away what has to go and carve out what will stay. I will stay after these waves have made their mark on me.
A beach of forest, rock, sand, water and sky is composed by the hands of la Pachamama. Eternally, laid out in front of me. The mist from the crashing clouds rises into mist below clouds in waves that go from above to beyond the horizon. I float on a strip of forest, sand and rocks through the clouds. I dive in to float into the sky, away from land. I´m hit by waves of clouds that cannot do any harm but to harm itself. The water in the sky will wash away what has to go and carve out what will stay. I will stay after these waves have made their mark on me.
El Castillo de Cartagena
July 15th, 2009
Cartagena is a sprawling Spanish-fortress. It´s been defeated from within by modern-day Colombian heart, passion and growth. It survived the country´s liberals vs. conservatives wars for centuries of unpleasant history, up to recent drug wars and all that monotonous crap that carved out some of the social, political and economic indedible meat that makes up Colombias power structures today. That´s all here and strong, but in history books and in poli-sci books, what you see on the surface is much different. This is the way Colombia works.
Cartagena is hot, surrounded yet not contained by spanish period fort walls. Overrun by gorgeous women, trade-center activity, tourists, and all sorts of transportation.
Im afraid my narrative posts will start deminishing, as my notebook is empty. Ill be shorter i guess.
North to Barranquilla, cited in Shakira´s song hips dont lie, which for some reason sticks in my mind when i hear that name. North to Santa Marta, where I would spend 4 nights that seemed like 10.
Cartagena is a sprawling Spanish-fortress. It´s been defeated from within by modern-day Colombian heart, passion and growth. It survived the country´s liberals vs. conservatives wars for centuries of unpleasant history, up to recent drug wars and all that monotonous crap that carved out some of the social, political and economic indedible meat that makes up Colombias power structures today. That´s all here and strong, but in history books and in poli-sci books, what you see on the surface is much different. This is the way Colombia works.
Cartagena is hot, surrounded yet not contained by spanish period fort walls. Overrun by gorgeous women, trade-center activity, tourists, and all sorts of transportation.
Im afraid my narrative posts will start deminishing, as my notebook is empty. Ill be shorter i guess.
North to Barranquilla, cited in Shakira´s song hips dont lie, which for some reason sticks in my mind when i hear that name. North to Santa Marta, where I would spend 4 nights that seemed like 10.
Buses, Boats, self-hating seaport-officers and a Beautiful Panamanian family
July 13th, 2009
Made it via hiking, and buses to the main marina, where all the gringos find shelter, Shelter Bay Marina. Talked to Lina, the attendant, who told me that it´d be hard to find anybody going to Colombia at this time of year, its too late in the season, dangerous and boat propeller required. I later emailed her the random romantic muse i had about her name (¨Lina, prestame parte de lo que eres para que seas ¨d¨mi. She thought it was really Lindo, and lamented my absence :p) I was told to post an ad on my attempts to work-accompany- pay to get to Colombia and see what comes of it, to spread the word, and make friends during happy hour. I was down, but i was impatient and had no place to sleep, so I headed back towards panama that evening. A rumored cia employee with a powerboat was headed to cartagena, Colombia, and might be ok with taking me along with him for the 12 hour jump. I scrambled to contact him, but when i finally spoke with him he gave me a blunt ¨no.¨ I did meet a Spaniard who told me it was easy to make friends there and hope to whereever your new friends happen to be sailing if you have the time. From that marina, there were people crossing the canal, going to places along the northern coast of s. america, going north into the carribean, up to central america, even to the US probably. It was the place to be to hitch a sea-ride. Ill be there sometime soon.
On my way to Panama City I met Mayra Stevens, an intelligent, well-informed mother on her way home from Colon to Panama. She had afro-caribbean ancestry. We talked about journalistic sensationalism, safety and unsafety in panama, self-betterment as a choice in panamanian society, the promises of the new government, her family, my hope in human patterns of welcoming strangers naturally, the gift and reciprocation, social problems as part of structure, not human nature and so on.
She sounded like an anthropologist.
She was also a commuter transport whiz who guided me accross the transit system.
She invited me to spend the night with her and her son, Jorge, I told her I had decided to fly to Cartagena that night on a 10pm flight for 200 dollars., ready to get out of panama and on to colombia. I got her number.
At the airport, flying the next day was 100 bucks cheaper, i could find out a final word on the cia powerboat, and not arrive late with no clue on where to stay. I stayed.
What a good choice. The next day, the coolest panamanian lad, 25 year-old Jorge McDonalds would guide me through his city, Panama City from the perspective of a true Panamanian citizen.
Jorge McDonald is 25. His dream is to establish a socially conscious computer systems company that will give him the money to live comfortably, move to Europe and have a well-tended family. His business plan is drawn up in his mind in detail. His plan to start a network of contacts for which he repairs and maintains computer systems is going to work. He´s ïnvested far too much in this plan for it to not work.¨ He has two huge almanacs on business management next to his Linux OS home computer, the internet unplugged for the expensive bills.
He spoke to me with unabated interest in what he said, and what I had to say. With the educated and polite voice of one of the lucky few approaching a college degree, he enquired about my life and interest in anthropology, while giving me his definitive pitch on why Linux Mint kicks ass. (it really does, i think). He´s got a mind as sensible as a 2 day-old father and as structured as a business man.
He drew up a plan for our day touring downtown, our time on the beachwalk and our route back home without a pen. He found out how much credit he had and how much he needed for his college degree at his city University, the time he had cut from it after ¨wasting a lot of time on other things.¨
He spent a whole day on me. And renewed my image of Panama City from the household of one of the hopeful, patriotic, hard-working and optimistic families that somehow cling onto the goodness found while in relative ignorance of how things are in places with historic luck.
The next night, with some love, a cd of linux mint, a panamanian flag and some good home-made food in me i was off to the airport to the awaited land of three colors, colombia red, colombia blue, colombia yellow.
¨Amarrate bien los pantalones, y sal pa´delante.¨Went to muelle coco solo, ¨de aqui no hay lanchas para colombia.¨ Bus back to Colon the northern equivalent of the panama city port ( on the other side of the canal) one of the most grimy, sketchy and self-declared unsafe cities I´ve experienced. No cargo boats with need of foreign labor. ¨we don´t even have jobs for Panamanians, much less for you.¨
Por la gracia de dios nací en Panamá.
Me dio esta mamá quien me apolla de borracho, de fumador, de pierde-tiempo. Panamá me dio este hogar lejos del centro, para que aun haya lugar en el bus en camino al trabajo.
Me dio este mercado, donde la teconologia en computacion es un negocio de sueÑo.
Panamá me llevara a Europa. Europa me reinventará.
Dejare acá un negocio fuerte y una ONG, relegado.
Me llevo mi mujer, si tengo, y dejo mis vicios.
Dejo mi corazón y me llevo mis sueÑos.
Made it via hiking, and buses to the main marina, where all the gringos find shelter, Shelter Bay Marina. Talked to Lina, the attendant, who told me that it´d be hard to find anybody going to Colombia at this time of year, its too late in the season, dangerous and boat propeller required. I later emailed her the random romantic muse i had about her name (¨Lina, prestame parte de lo que eres para que seas ¨d¨mi. She thought it was really Lindo, and lamented my absence :p) I was told to post an ad on my attempts to work-accompany- pay to get to Colombia and see what comes of it, to spread the word, and make friends during happy hour. I was down, but i was impatient and had no place to sleep, so I headed back towards panama that evening. A rumored cia employee with a powerboat was headed to cartagena, Colombia, and might be ok with taking me along with him for the 12 hour jump. I scrambled to contact him, but when i finally spoke with him he gave me a blunt ¨no.¨ I did meet a Spaniard who told me it was easy to make friends there and hope to whereever your new friends happen to be sailing if you have the time. From that marina, there were people crossing the canal, going to places along the northern coast of s. america, going north into the carribean, up to central america, even to the US probably. It was the place to be to hitch a sea-ride. Ill be there sometime soon.
On my way to Panama City I met Mayra Stevens, an intelligent, well-informed mother on her way home from Colon to Panama. She had afro-caribbean ancestry. We talked about journalistic sensationalism, safety and unsafety in panama, self-betterment as a choice in panamanian society, the promises of the new government, her family, my hope in human patterns of welcoming strangers naturally, the gift and reciprocation, social problems as part of structure, not human nature and so on.
She sounded like an anthropologist.
She was also a commuter transport whiz who guided me accross the transit system.
She invited me to spend the night with her and her son, Jorge, I told her I had decided to fly to Cartagena that night on a 10pm flight for 200 dollars., ready to get out of panama and on to colombia. I got her number.
At the airport, flying the next day was 100 bucks cheaper, i could find out a final word on the cia powerboat, and not arrive late with no clue on where to stay. I stayed.
What a good choice. The next day, the coolest panamanian lad, 25 year-old Jorge McDonalds would guide me through his city, Panama City from the perspective of a true Panamanian citizen.
Jorge McDonald is 25. His dream is to establish a socially conscious computer systems company that will give him the money to live comfortably, move to Europe and have a well-tended family. His business plan is drawn up in his mind in detail. His plan to start a network of contacts for which he repairs and maintains computer systems is going to work. He´s ïnvested far too much in this plan for it to not work.¨ He has two huge almanacs on business management next to his Linux OS home computer, the internet unplugged for the expensive bills.
He spoke to me with unabated interest in what he said, and what I had to say. With the educated and polite voice of one of the lucky few approaching a college degree, he enquired about my life and interest in anthropology, while giving me his definitive pitch on why Linux Mint kicks ass. (it really does, i think). He´s got a mind as sensible as a 2 day-old father and as structured as a business man.
He drew up a plan for our day touring downtown, our time on the beachwalk and our route back home without a pen. He found out how much credit he had and how much he needed for his college degree at his city University, the time he had cut from it after ¨wasting a lot of time on other things.¨
He spent a whole day on me. And renewed my image of Panama City from the household of one of the hopeful, patriotic, hard-working and optimistic families that somehow cling onto the goodness found while in relative ignorance of how things are in places with historic luck.
The next night, with some love, a cd of linux mint, a panamanian flag and some good home-made food in me i was off to the airport to the awaited land of three colors, colombia red, colombia blue, colombia yellow.
Flying over my loves
Sunday, July 12th, 2009
Today I hopped on a plane and flew over Santa Elena, where my grandfather Don Paco (Papapaco) lives. I traced the roads my mother and I drove many times to visit el abuelo. I pinpointed the spot where Beti, Mom, Dad, Pedro, Sadie and Carlos had recently arrived la casita de don paco, after seeing me off to the rhythm of a Beti and Madre duet (quite confusing to the taxi driver).
My plane found its way to Panama through the clouds, leaving my loves behind. Panama City was an urban mess. A neo-liberal economics experiment gone wrong. I thought the place was empty. I walked out of the highrise beach strip and found a marching band in practice on July 14th for November 15th. Each and every member of the band played as loud as he or she could and with pride. Monotone trumpets in unison bellowing out the most recent melody of a given school. The sound stuck right into the ear and made its way to the heart. I felt drawn to the pride of whatever school was in front of me, as if I´d studied, played, and marched with them for years.
I saw soccer on my way over, a social lubricant where pride, energy, frustration, practice and skill were put on display for the brief golden-goal matches in the indoor soccer-size, outdoor fields along the beach walk.
Made it drenched in sweat into the hotel ¨rio de Janeiro¨more like a motel without the garage for one night stands. Saw what looked like a satisfied customer walk out with his temporary employee looking empty during check-in. This place is wet, dark, loud, uninviting. I knew it was temporary. The next night would be much much nicer.
At the internet stand, found some news on some kids looking to get cargo boats accross the panama canal. There were a couple of names I jotted down. Id look for them tomorrow to get on a boat to Cartagena, rapidly becoming a legendary promiseland in colombia, compared to this. I´d make it there no problem, somehow.
Today I hopped on a plane and flew over Santa Elena, where my grandfather Don Paco (Papapaco) lives. I traced the roads my mother and I drove many times to visit el abuelo. I pinpointed the spot where Beti, Mom, Dad, Pedro, Sadie and Carlos had recently arrived la casita de don paco, after seeing me off to the rhythm of a Beti and Madre duet (quite confusing to the taxi driver).
My plane found its way to Panama through the clouds, leaving my loves behind. Panama City was an urban mess. A neo-liberal economics experiment gone wrong. I thought the place was empty. I walked out of the highrise beach strip and found a marching band in practice on July 14th for November 15th. Each and every member of the band played as loud as he or she could and with pride. Monotone trumpets in unison bellowing out the most recent melody of a given school. The sound stuck right into the ear and made its way to the heart. I felt drawn to the pride of whatever school was in front of me, as if I´d studied, played, and marched with them for years.
I saw soccer on my way over, a social lubricant where pride, energy, frustration, practice and skill were put on display for the brief golden-goal matches in the indoor soccer-size, outdoor fields along the beach walk.
Made it drenched in sweat into the hotel ¨rio de Janeiro¨more like a motel without the garage for one night stands. Saw what looked like a satisfied customer walk out with his temporary employee looking empty during check-in. This place is wet, dark, loud, uninviting. I knew it was temporary. The next night would be much much nicer.
At the internet stand, found some news on some kids looking to get cargo boats accross the panama canal. There were a couple of names I jotted down. Id look for them tomorrow to get on a boat to Cartagena, rapidly becoming a legendary promiseland in colombia, compared to this. I´d make it there no problem, somehow.
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