In Search of Balance

I am not someone that necessarily possesses a lot of natural grace. I am good at a great many things. I speak more than one language. I can read a full size novel in a few hours. I live and breath organization. Kids tend to like me. I run a school. It’s not that I am trying to disparage myself. In fact, I am anything but modest. 

But, for as long as I can remember,  I have lacked eye hand coordination. By one, when I was talking up a storm, but still hadn’t bothered to get up to walk anywhere, my mother took me the doctor. He told her, “Don’t worry, she’ll walk by her wedding.” Considering I am still not married, that may not have been the best advice.  

When I still wasn’t walking months later, she brought me back, convinced there was something wrong with me. First, he told her that maybe I had nowhere to go; then he said maybe my legs were too fat (thanks dad for reminding me), but when that didn't work, he told her to bribe me and bribe me she did – with a new pair of shoes. So, eventually I walked. 

These days, it would take a heck of a lot more than new shoes to get me to go somewhere if I wasn't interested. 

 In kindergarten, the teachers had a serious talk with my mother about whether to repeat me as I could not successfully manage my scissors. Luckily my mother couldn’t manage them either and dismissed that concern, and off I went to first grade. 

My parents believed firmly that my brother, Ross, and I would benefit from a wide variety of sports and extra curricular activities. So off we went to t ball, soccer, tumbling, acrobatics (isn’t that the same thing?), jazz, tap, ballet. You name it – we played it, took it, participated in it. Our Saturdays were a smorgasbord of physical activities on the off chance that one of us was a natural athlete and also to ensure we were getting the most out of our childhood.

What I remember about all of these sports and athletic endeavors (apart from my brother laying down in the outfield in baseball and a crazy mom yelling at her daughter that she wouldn’t get ToysRUs if she didn’t score in soccer) is that I sucked. I know that’s not a nice word. But I call it as I see it. Sure I shuffled off to Buffalo in tap dance and I did the somersault in gymnastics, but I was just short of an embarrassment in pretty much anything physical. 

Of course,  what I lacked in grace and natural ability, I made up for in enthusiasm. I simply didn’t care that I was the worst. I persevered even through and in spite of my peers’ laughter and at times, the instructor’s. I distinctly remember taking tennis lessons with Larry at the JCC – my mother hoping against all odds it would introduce me to a “nice Jewish boy” that I could marry (Yes I was in 5th grade, but Jewish mothers plan – it’s what they do.) Anyway, after my third lesson – we had been learning backhand, Larry took my mom aside and said, “Maybe tennis is not the sport for her. . .” 

My mother was undeterred and later in life so was I. . . 

Sure, I didn’t make the cheerleading squad (thank god in retrospect) even though my two best friends did; I didn’t make the Volleyball team and had trouble marching and playing my cymbals to the beat in band. But still I persevered. I had learned to ride a bike somehow – it must not be that hard, and even though I almost failed home ec in 9th grade with a set of terrible sweatpants, I did become part of the field hockey, lacross and swim team. Yes, it’s true none of them have try outs and I didn’t letter till I was a senior, but details details. 

My elegance has not improved over the years. Passing time has made me less flexible, and increasingly more scared - and despite the fact that I have been a waitress and done marathons, triathlons and open water swims; balance, coordination and grace eludes me. 

I have been voted most likely to trip over my own feet by all of my friends.  David is quick to point out uneven pavement as we walk through the city, knowing that any change could potentially provoke a fall or crash on any given day of the week. 

I am, as my mother would have said, a klutz. And that’s ok with me. 

But sometimes, it stops me. It stops me from riding single track on the mountain bike. It stops me from getting on the scooter or snowboard. Or maybe it’s not the lack of grace. Maybe it’s fear. 

Fear of dying. Fear of falling. Fear of hurting myself. Fear . . .fear of failing. 

So today I took a leap. I went surfing. It’s not that I have never been before. Keith had taken me a few times in New Jersey when we were young and very little  scared me. But it was cold and running was easier. I went once or twice during the two years I lived in San Diego. But it was cold and running was easier. And I think I even went once in Costa Rica – it was not cold then, but I was still terrible. 

I sat on the beach watching all those surfers – men and women – girls and boys sitting on their boards. “Wait for the set, ohmm.”  I could hear  Ross repeating Keith’s mantra. I knew I would regret not doing it. 

"What’s the worst that could happen,” I thought (besides a board knocking me unconscious, the fin ripping open a vein and me drowning to death). So to appease my myriad fears and hiatus of 10 years of not surfing, I took a lesson. I figured that way someone would see my die and be obligated to report back to my family.

Surfing was everything I remembered and imagined. I looked dorky in the rash guard, the board was ginomorous and I felt like an old lady with a bunch of teenagers at a party where they’re like “uh grandma, what are you doing here?” But we practiced standing up on the sand and I remembered doing it like I remember riding a bike even after a few months of not riding. 

And then we paddled out. The waves were small. There was an off shore breeze. I had a board twice my size. I was told this was all in my favor. But paddling a surfboard has nothing to do with swimming. I am a good swimmer. I can swim for hours. But I can not paddle for hours. In less than 10 minutes, my arms were screaming at me, and I was out of breath. We got out the line up and Aka said, “ready or rest?” Before I could get rest out of my mouth, he yelled “READY! Paddle, paddle, paddle!” 

And so I did. I paddled and paddled but apparently not that hard, because then I felt a push from behind and heard him yell, “up!” And so I tried to get up. Right foot first, left foot front, wide stance. But yeah, it was way easier on the sand, and as I attempted to catch my balance, I saw a kid about 11 heading right for my board. He dropped off and I fell backwards. 

And out I went again. Paddle, paddle, paddle, back to the line up and then GO! PLOP. The second time as I popped up, I turned around to see a huge wave breaking right on my head. I ducked under and felt the board pull my ankle sharply. I came up for air to see another one. And then another one. Seven waves later, I climbed back on the board, panting and paddled back out. 

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “but then you caught a wave and it was magical.” Uh, yeah, no. This isn’t Hollywood. 

I stayed out another hour and a half. I tried to catch a dozen or more waves. I almost stood on four of them and my falls were epic. I know – there was a photographer that insisted on showing me the 56 shots he took of me flying off my board with his very telephoto lens. 

I was the antithesis of grace. I was Melissa McCarthy in Tammy. I was a giraffe attempting to dance. 

And after being caught in three more sets of seven waves pummeling me and leaving me breathless, I said to Aka, enough. 

"One more wave Jen.” 

"One more wave.” I repeated back hoping this wasn’t the wave where I became paralyzed from the neck down. 

“Rest first.” He smiled and gestured out to the line up where surfers sat on their boards staring out into the horizons. “It’s not just about catching the waves.” He said and took off to catch the next wave. He stood like it was part of his DNA, all grace and elegance and ran his hand along the inside of the wave. I flopped belly down on my board and rested my head. The sun was warm. The water was warm. I had no grace. 

I caught my last wave like the other twelve, terribly – my feet too close together, my hands flailing above me uselessly and the board shooting out in front of me. I likely would not be invited to Mavericks this year. 

I stumbled out of the water, Aka held out his hand and slapped mine in a high five, “You think too much. You are too scared. You can do it.” “I have always thought too much,”  I thought and “he has known me three seconds.”

I took off the leash and put the giant board back on the rack. Every muscle in my arms and back screamed. My mouth tasted like salt and my eyes stung. “The surfers rinse off here,” Aka pointed to an outdoor shower and I nodded. “Go ahead,” he laughed. “You surfed.” 

I surfed. Grace or not. Fear or not. I paddled out and surfed. (Unless you count that I did’t actually fully stand up and then maybe you want to call it something else.) 

I likely will not now become a surfer, or a mountain biker or a snowboarder, but the next time, Fear comes along to tell me all the reason I can’t, I will look him square in the eyes, and remind him I surfed. 

Slow down

Balangan sits on the Western shore of Bali. South of the touristy section of Jimbaran and Kuta, but still an area known for its surf breaks, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I initially had booked Bali after hearing a few friends rave about it, including writing a song dedicated to how he never wanted to go home.

But then post booking, I had heard that Bali just wasn’t what it used to be. That hard core backpackers had given way to packaged tourism and families seeking something safe yet exotic. This may be true in parts of Bali. There may be parts where it is hard not to find a 5 star hotel high rise with all the amenities that come with that type of vacation.

It is not yet the reality of Balangan. I say yet, because we all know how this goes. Once an area is on someone’s Facebook feed, or becomes part of the suggestions in the Lonely Planet guide, it is bound to change. There is no way to avoid it. Yet, I can’t help but feel that Balangan has years before it becomes a the next Kuta (which I haven’t visited, but hear is quite overrun with 5 star hotels and swarms of tourists.)

Balangan consists of less than a mile long white sandy beach, with two large cliffs on either end. A row of “Warung" or beach bars line the road and look out on to the beach offering small or large beers, coffee, fruit juice and a mix of Western and South East Asian dishes.

Many of the dilapidated shack structures also offer a stark room for rent for about $10-15, complete with a queen size bed and mosquito net, a fan and either a private or shared bathroom with a cold water drip coming out of a bamboo pipe serving as a shower.

There is not much to do except join the 20 or so surfers on the line up, drink a beer overlooking the sandy beach or lounge in the sand or for a buck or two on one of the chaise lounges and umbrellas set in front of each restaurant. There are as many restaurant workers as travelers and even the ambulatory beach sales guys seem to know that you won’t really buy anything. They offer their DVDs or bracelets, but are already walking on before you have declined.

Last night I decided to join a group of expats on the hillside for some sunset beachside yoga and "ohmmed" my way into the evening, watching the surfers on horizon. On my way back to my "hotel," my feet sunk deep into the damp sand, and stray dogs trotted on either side of me in the fading light.

I am still working on slowing down. I woke up this morning ready to jump ship and head out to see the next place. But then I told myself that I should stay.  To just sit and listen to the ocean, thatched roofs and palm leaves waving in the breeze, watch  a local boy slink up the trunk of the palm tree to retrieve the last remaining coconut, his bare feet propelling him up the tree 50 feet above, fearless and concentrated on his coconut prize. To rent a surf board and hope I don't die. Maybe I'll even rent those motor scooters, though I lack all the coordination necessary to make that successful.

This morning on my run, I watched a woman put tiny little boxes made out of palm leaves down around the houses near her. Inside were flowers, some candy and a stick of incense. Offerings to god she explained. I ran up the road off the beach and saw the more "fancy" places Balangan has to offer. The place my dad would stay if he ever came to this side of the world. (Though this morning he was just mad about the fact that I had flown AirAsia - apparently they are known for crashing into the sea in  the same way the US is known for eating hamburgers.)

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived. I was told it was rainy season. That Bali was overrun with tourists. My volunteer stint had fallen through and I felt rushed after leaving California before I was ready. But as always, you can only read so much about a place. You can only listen to so many other travelers’ stories and recommendations. You can only google search so many times, before you go and see it for yourself. And while teaching English to orphans will have to be another trip, Balangan Beach is teaching me something else about myself.

Where the River Meets the Sea

There is a magical place about half way between Santa Marta and Riohacha. 

From the highway it doesn’t look like much – just a few local restaurants, tiendas selling Aquila and detergent to wash your clothes, and puestos de comidas rápidas. But have some patience. 

Walk down the dirt road toward the beach. Veer around the puddles and the frogs the size of small rodents. Say "Buenas" to the young woman washing her clothes in the bucket in her yard. She'll return your greeting.

When you arrive at the beach take a left and head northwest. The waves pound the slanted shore. Your feet sink into the wet sand. 

To your right, there is nothing but ocean and sky. To your left, hundreds of palm trees. Keep going.

After about 20 minutes, your body covered head to toe in a salty sweat, you will find where the river meets the sea.

The Sierra Nevada Mountain Range of Santa Marta juts upwards, lush and green. Low river plants grow along the riverbed. The ocean’s waves crash over the small stretch of sand that is left and into the river. Saltwater mixes with freshwater.

 

The river is a muddy brown, but the water is cool. Wade in and cool off.

You have arrived to where the river meets the sea. 

Where the Desert Meets the Sea

She wipes the sleep out of her eyes and shakes her head once to free the strand of hair that has stuck to her cheek. It is just barely becoming morning, the last two stars still bright in the sky next to the crescent moon as she makes her way down the steep set of rock stairs to the small dinghy that awaits them. The sky’s clouds are a pinkish orange and she takes her sunglasses out of the case as she waits for the others because soon the sun will be bright on the horizon and once on the boat, there will be nothing but holding on for dear life. She is not looking forward to the journey ahead, but feels content about the last three days.

What an adventure to journey to the most remote section of Colombia, la Guajira. To stand on the northern tip of South America and look out toward the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba. Beaches so solitary that they seem to go on for miles and miles without interruption. And the sand dunes that reached so high up that they seem to meet the sky. Impossible to guess that the ocean was just on the other side, but when she reached the top, there it was in all it’s greenish blue glory, waiting for her and the others to slide down the soft dune sand into the Atlantic ocean.

She hands her backpack to the slight man on the boat standing barefoot. “¿Y los otros?” he asks his hands held up in a questioning matter, He taps his empty wrist where a watch might have been and looks at her, his face a question mark.

She shrugs. “I told them that it was after 5 am and that they should hurry. I guess they’re coming.” She asks him where to sit so that she won’t be completely soaked and he tells her that this boat ride will be easier than the one coming to Punta Gallinas. She smiles thinking that worse it couldn’t be and remembers being tossed around in the small boat, drenched by every wave as the boat’s front hit them hard and soaked everyone on the right side of the boat for two long, painful hours. That after a bumpy ride in the back of a pick up truck on two wooden benches bolted to the bottom of the flatbed. Travel to la Guajira was not to be undertaken lightly.

She climbs aboard and chooses a seat toward the front and watches as the sky continued to lighten from a deep twilight to a lighter blue, slowly becoming day.

She wonders if they will pass by the mangroves one more time, those strange plants that grew in marshy salt water mixed with fresh, their roots taking hold in the mud and growing every which way; or past goat island, a small mound in the middle of the ocean covered in cactus, rocks and sea shells, it’s only inhabitants twenty goats, left there by the natives. She reminisces how those pink flamingos were just all standing there - in knee high water just 500 feet from them before taking off like a flight of cotton candy in the blue sky, and muses that she couldn’t have invented a better adventure.

She had to give it to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, la Guajira was a region worth exploring… made all that much more worthwhile by the pains needed to arrive.

She thinks about the reverse journey ahead of her and sighs: first the two hours boat ride on choppy waters, followed by the harrowing ride through the desert on dusty, rocky roads in the back of the pick up. 

Followed by a stop in Cabo de la Vela to drop off some of the passengers before continuing on for another hour in the same transportation through the desert to Uribia. What was it that the Mexican boys were calling it, “¿horriblia?” Mean but funny and kind of true. Though to be fair to Uribia, she hadn’t spend much time there, just enough to catch a ride out to Cabo four days earlier.  

Then an hour-long car ride back to Riohacha where finally there would be the typical bus transport out of town to wherever one wanted to travel along the coast. She pictures what Palomino might look like, a small beach town at the beginning of la Guajira, just outside of the department of Magdalena. She smirks thinking about a real bed instead of a hammock and the possibility of washing her clothes and accessing wifi to get back in touch with the rest of the world. Just 7 to 8 hours from now.

Her boyfriend and dad must be worried by now.

More of the others have joined her by now and the Mexican boys sit with her in the second row, one on either side. The French Canadians decide to try their hand at the front row, since the back row had drenched them so badly it looked like that had jumped directly into the ocean with all their belongings and clothes.

The two French girls pile on next, the German girl and the American siblings board the boat and we are ready. The morning is quiet and the travelers are too spent for small talk. La Guajira has been more than anyone had dared to imagine– solitary and desolate with low shrubs and turquoise lizards darting across the dusty roads. With strange rock formations and isolated lighthouses at the tip of Cabo and Punta Gallinas. As promised the boat ride back is less wet and heads nodd, as the sun peaks out from behind the clouds that hugged the horizon, heating up the November morning.

Her face hurts from smiling. Her cheeks are crispy from almost a week in the desert sun. She can feel her back aching from the various transportations and sleeping so many nights in a row in a hammock. Sand has made it’s home in every possible location in her body.

But her mind is still . . . still like the desert had been as she walked through it alone two days earlier. The only sound, the whistle of the wind in the air. 

Silencio total.

Paradaise Found . . . Buscando el paraíso

Picture a tropical paradise. 

The sand: soft and white, the water: a turquoise blue-ish green that darkens as it approaches the horizon. The waves lap the shore rhythmically and ambulant vendors offer a plate of fresh mango, guava and watermelon, a coconut opened in front of you with your choice of alcohol or a hat to shade you from the sun. Some offer massage or brightly colored dresses or necklace made out of local coral or pearls.

The beach is deserted with the exception of two or three other beach goers. Small huts line the beach with thatched roofs offering a bed in a cabaña or a hammock and mosquito net to spend the night. Tranquility at it’s finest. This is Playa Blanca on the island of Barú in the region of Cartagena de las indias, Colombia.

Have a little extra cash to spend and want to get there or back quickly? Pay 20-30,000 pesos (about $10) and take a boat 45 minutes directly there.

Feeling like you need to save a little money? Take the route I did – arrive a la locale. Of course, be prepared, because as you know when traveling, what can go wrong, likely will.

I leave the house early to take advantage of the day and head down la avenida del pedregal to the national police tent at the intersection. I have been told that there is where I can flag the bus going to Pasacaballos. I stand on the curb for what seems like an eternity straining to see the signs in the windows of the passing microbuses, Listening as the “helper” hangs out the back door screaming out locations like an auctioneer in one long word, “CentroTerminalMangla”

¿Pasacaballo? I inquire as the bus slows down in front of me and the man shakes his head. “Ya viene,” he assures me and I go back to waiting wondering if he meant that it was right before him or that eventually it would be coming. Colectivo after colectivo passes me by screaming out destinations. Hundreds of taxis give a short honk, slowing as they pass. Every solo moto seems also to be a transportation option with each driver holding a second helmet and giving a short honk as they round the corner. But still no bus for Pasacaballo. I ask the police standing uneer the tent. They too assure me that the bus “Ya viene.” I wait some more and wonder about their definition of “it’s coming” and I remember the day before and how I was not in a hurry. I am not in a hurry now I tell myself and go back to waiting.

Dark clouds swirl above me threatening rain, but I remember that José had been confident that it wouldn’t rain that even if it did, it would be 10 or 20 minutes at best. “It never rains.” He had said and I thought about how many times I had heard that on my trips before.

Finally, after I had begun to feel the hurry in my American self, a busy slows on the other side of the median, the helper motioning for me to come aboard. “¿Pasacaballos? I yell across the two lanes of traffic. The man gestures for me to board and take that as an affirmative. I play frogger across the street to board the bus with three other passengers on board. The bus has green trim around the windshield and bright green seats. Jesus is protecting us according to a sign on the dash. We race through the streets into a section of smaller roads leading out of the city. We miss a pedestrian by inches and pass a moto with three grown men, a cooler and a 2 by 4. We pass a long series of small make shift houses with three sides selling fruit, meat, clothing and other household items. Soon we enter the pueblos of Cartagena, houses haphazardly built seemingly with whatever material was available that day - houses with brick, then stone, then cement, topped with sheet metal roofs. Large potholes pockmark the highways and I pay the helper. The fare on the window reads 1900 pesos. I only have 20,000 and I wonder if I will eventually get change. I check the map. 6.2 miles left to my destination. I practice how I will ask for the change if he doesn’t offer, knowing that if he tells me I gave him 2000, I will never see the other 18,000 pesos again.

After the second toll, the helper leans against my seat between the standing passengers and collects money from everyone around me. I wait for my change. He gives each of them change as they pay. “Ahorita te doy tu cambio.” He says as if reading my mind and I feel momentarily bad for doubting his character until I wonder if Ahorita is much like Ya viene.

The bus stops every 100 feet collecting the passengers on the side of the road who flag down the bus with a wave of their hand. “Parada,” the passengers on board say as they decide that exactly here is where they want to get off. We inch forward between the passengers getting on and off the bus.

Finally we arrive at a corner with a handwritten sign that reads, “Motos para Santa Ana o Isla Barú, Playa Blanca.” The helper motions for me to get off the bus and a lone cyclist approaches me and hands me a helmet. “¿8,000? I offer and he nods his head. I ask him about the clouds above and he responds, “parece que tiene gana de llover.” And I wonder what if that means it will rain or if it will just continue to look like rain. I don’t have to wait long for my answer.

I mount the moto and don the helmet and we take off down an unpaved road past ramshackle huts and small clusters of people crouched by fires on the side of the road. Ruben, my driver, chats amicabally with me as we drive telling me about his four children and how I remind him of a Polish woman he once dated. We stop so he can answer the phone but he tells his son he is “muy lejos del pueblo” and we make a right back onto a paved road and over the bridge to the island of Barú. He offers to take me to a hostel on the beach he knows that’s un poco lejillo and I tell him that sounds fine as I had heard it was good to go further down the beach for accommodations.

I feel the first drops, but hope that that’s all the rain will amount to. It’s not really raining. But after a minute or two we can deny the obvious anymore. It’s not raining – it’s pouring with huge gusts of wind blowing the moto to the far left of the lane and then back toward the center line. We pull over to a group of motos parked on the side of the road and run down to join fifteen or so other men and two women on a porch. Pools of mud form in the front of the patio as the rain pours down. Inside the one room house, two young boys about 5 and 3 wrestle on the bed, the three year old crying for help every so often. Behind them sits a couple on two plastic chairs sharing a bowl of rice, the father intermittently curses for the love of Jesus that the boys calm down.

I stand among the others until the mother insists I sit. I politely refuse but soon find a chair at my back and see the little boy race back to the bed to fight once more with his brother. We watch the rain. I watch the people. They watch me. And we sit and wait.

Soon the rain seems lighter and one mother grabs her young son, his arms still wet from the rain, his mouth sticky from the bag of orange liquid he has just drank. They run back out into the rain and they are off. Soon others follow suit. Ruben looks at me and nods and we don our helmets. He wipes the seat off with a towel and I close the front of my helmet before we leave. We pass through the small town of Santa Ana before arriving at the parquedero in Playa Blanca. The road is once again dirt and rocks and Ruben tells me to hold on tightly as he maneuvers around various people, their coolers, a bus and a fence to head straight down a hill on what appears to be a mountain bike trail hill covered in roots, ruts, rocks and large puddles at least 6-12 inches deep. My father would definitely not approve I think. I can hear him the back of my head as I hold the handles on the back of the moto. We make it through the first section of the flooded road and we head into the second I see the the moto ahead of us lose their balance and the passenger finally dismount and go walking while the moto continues on without her. I ask if I too should get off but Ruben is confident and uses alternate booted legs to  balance and push his way through the standing water and mud. The mosquitoes are out in full force and I look down as we inch forward through the puddle to see my entire left leg black with mosquitoes. I slap them off careful not to lose my balance, hearing my father’s warning of dengue fever and malaria in my head. Finally we round a corner, pass a river and park next to a fence. We have arrived.

We enter “El Paraiso de Mama Ruth” from the back past the bathrooms where one needs to drop water in the toilet to flush, past the showers that are a changing room with a bucket and ladle filled with fresh water.

Don Luis first shows me a cabaña right no the beach. A stilted mini room with a thatched roof, a bed and fan. For just 120,000 pesos or about $40 it can be mine – complete with fresh water, breakfast and a little thatched kiosk to shade me from the sun and sun chair. For half that price I can take the cabaña behind it, but without the amenities. 

I shake my head at both. I am on a budget. “Ahh.” He says with a smile. “Then what you want is the hammock.” He shows me the three hammocks swinging underneath a shade structure, complete with a bed sheet, mosquito net and locker to store my belongings for the low low price of 10,000 pesos or $3.50 after a bit of bargaining. I tell him I don’t have a lock and make a mental note to buy one when back in Cartagena and he hands me a rusty key lock that’s top comes completely out when you unlock it, but when locked it seems to work and I thank him, ready to enjoy the day.

The rain has mostly subsided by now and the sun strains against the cloudy sky making scarce appearances for the rest of the day. The beach is about 5 km long and I run or walk along the beach, bathe in the crystalline waters, sleep in the sand, read and entire book and settle into paradise. I feel a fleeting sensation of guilt and responsibility and shoo it away along with a fly that has landed on my knee.

Don Luis invites me out to look for “tesoros” in the water, but we find only a discarded can of Aguila. 

The sun makes an appearance so the day wanes and lights up the water and the sky. Melissa and her aunt from Cali applaud the sun’s appearance and I like the immediately. “¡Delicioso! ¡Exquisito!” they exclaim running over to their new friend Alejo from Bucaramango.

Later that night we sit at the pizzeria next door where Don Luis makes pizza in an outdoor oven in the sand and serves them on the one table he has at his make shift restaurant.

In the morning, Melissa and her aunt, have gone with Don Luis and another man from the cabaña a Pasacaballos to take a taxi to catch their flight back home. He takes them after their scheduled ride does not show up and refuses payment.

Alejo and I spend the day on his cabaña’s chair, sharing his water, his cold beers and our stories of travels and his studies in Bogatá. Every person that works at the hostel endears themselves to you as their bestfriend, “Corozón, ¿tienes todo?” They catch your eye if they see someone trying to take advantage and call you over as if they need you for a quick second to help you out of a bind.

The days move slowly in paradise but soon it is 3:00 in the afternoon and Alejo leaves to catch a boat back to Cartagena and his own flight back to Bogotá. The hostel is empty save a couple from Medellín that has arrived today. The sun’s rays dance lightly on the crystal blue water.

Don Luis pulls up on his moto, “¿Estás lista mi reina?” he says offering me a helmet. He is headed to Cartagena today to see his children and is only to happy to give me a ride – no he won’t think of taking my money.

It is his pleasure.

No One Seems to Be in a Hurry

Traveling, like life, is filled with choices. Do you want to eat in the hostel or house where you are staying or eat out at a restaurant? Do you want to stay in a hotel, hostel, camping or in a private house? Do you want to go to ______ on your own or with a tour? A full day or half a day or multiple days? Do you want to take the recommendation of Joe traveler or continue down the path you had planned? Do you want to have a plan

One of the aspects of travels I have most come to love is the unexpected nature of the beast. You wake up after having decided that sure you would accompany José, Sabine, the German in the house and Jorge, the Argentinean to the beach instead of going to Playa Blanca only to find the house dark and asleep at 8 am. José off handedly mentions you will all go, “pero más tardecito.” You are not sure if that means later in the morning, later in the day as in the afternoon or not at all. You decide to go for a run to a part of the city you do not yet know. You come back an hour later and now everyone is up, but they are all seated at the table eating breakfast; no one seems in any hurry to go to the beach. 

Ronald, José’s friend from the night before stops by for a beer and then José leaves, saying he has to vote. You are now sure the beach is not happening. You regret momentarily having changed your plans to stay in Cartagena, but recover quickly and begin to research beaches you can get to on your own. Jorge asks what you are doing and says he too wants to go to a beach, as does Sabine. But Jorge needs to go out to change some money. You agree to wait – no one seems to be in a hurry and the day is young.

Jorge comes back at noon and it seems like the time to leave for the beach, only now Sabine needs to wait 40 minutes to call her boyfriend in Germany that she hasn’t spoken to in 3 or 7 weeks and needs to wifi. Jorge decides to cook lunch to take to the beach. No one seems to be in a hurry.

You decide to post an album of your photos on facebook and the phone rings. It’s José wondering if we’re ready to go to the beach. He talks to Jorge – no less than four times – before it is finally time to go to José’s sister’s house in Marbella. We will eat there with some friends of his from Medellín and then go to the beach. Sabine agrees to call her boyfriend from her house and we go outside to get a taxi. José has not given us an exact address so we spend the next 20 minutes driving up and down streets in Marbella until Jorge recognizes the house. No one seems to be in a hurry.

We arrive at the house and are greeted by José, his sister and her son and they proceed to show us around a house they are redecorating before we go upstairs to in theory eat lunch. But the girls from Medellín ya viene and they are bringing chicken. Sabine asks about the internet, but it’s out in the building and she will have to wait another 3 or 7 weeks before she is able to talk to her boyfriend. She shrugs and laughs. Someone is making pasta before we realize we have forgotten the pesto at home. José’s sister says she will go out for bread and soda and does anyone need anything. We sit on the couch and José offers us cookies and asks Sabine to make a salad. No one seems to be in a hurry.

Ruby and Laura from Medellín show up with a chicken and a half and soon the table is full of chicken, rice, fried eggs, toritlla española, bread, salad and both Coca-Cola and a local soda that is red and sweet in taste. It might be strawberry.  José insists on a group photos before we begin. We eat and eat and eat until we can’t eat any more and then José tells us to eat more, so of course we do. Afterwards, coffee is offered and Ruby and José want coffee. It is 2:30 in the afternoon. Absolutely no one is in a hurry.

We get to the beach across the street from José’s sister’s house no earlier than 3:30 in the afternoon and rent 3 chairs for the 8 of us at 1000 pesos a chair. José insists on at least four group photos before we can go into the bath water that is the Caribbean Ocean. The waves are small and we float on the water. We make a starfish with our hands interlaced and one foot touching one another and water goes up our nose and we laugh. It’s impossible to want to hurry.

The sun dips low in the sky and the full moon rises in the distance. We take turns snapping photos of the group jumping into the sky – all of sillohuettes against the dusk sky. We are covered in sunblock, salt and sand.

We leave the beach, the sky a fiery pink and decide to cook milanesas all together back at José’s house. First we have to go back to his sister’s to pick something up; then we have help Ruby and Laura get settled into the apartment they are fixing up since they hadn’t reserved a place to stay; then we go to the store to buy what we need before hailing a taxi back to José’s place. 

It is election day so there in no alcohol for sale but José says he knows a place and disappears with Ruby to find beer while Jorge cooks enough Milanesa to feed a small army. The house is hot with the heat of the day mixed with the heat from the kitchen and I chop lettuce and tomatoes for the salad, while Laura chops guava for dessert. Preparing dinner takes hours, but hurry is not even a word in my vocabulary anymore as the music floats through the house and we chat about Laura’s major and Jorge’s daughter and beautiful it is to meet new people.

José and Ruby arrive with cases of small green bottles of costanita and they are immediately stored in the freezer where they will come out so cold that you will drink them in three sips. A friend of José calls. He has seen him on the street just now and “¿quién fue esta hermosura que estaba con él?” José tells him to come over and meet Ruby if he thinks she is so pretty, but hurry, the table is set and the milanesas are hot.  José insists on a group photos and then we eat and eat and eat until we can’t eat anymore. But somehow we do.

There are more dishes than space on José’s counter and I wash and wash and wash through two costanitas and an entire conversation about a farm reserve that we all must visit. They are still watching the video about it when I come back. “Let’s go to the plaza! It’s Jorge’s last night!” Sabine must get up early and decides not to go, but Nicholas has returned from his day of studying. José calls Maye who is angry that she wasn’t invited to come to the beach and tries to convince her to join us. But she is still offended and cannot be convinced.

We stroll to the plaza taking up the street and sidewalk and jump to one side when a car honks to get by. The plaza is filled with young people juggling and couples kissing and vendors pushing carts selling manzanilla and other infusiones. There is no alcohol because of the ley seca. We sit people watching. Jose’s friend who is enamored with Ruby points out a guy with magnifying glass and a light who is pointing out women who are sitting indecently. “Miramiramira el puntero.” He says mira over and over again as if it were one long word.

Everyone is tired and we meander back to Jose’s house after an hour or two. It is close to midnight when we arrive home and the doorbell rings. It is Maye. She has reconsidered and would like a milanesa and some of the arroz con pesto after all. José is happy to see her and since no one is in a hurry, midnight is the perfect time to share a meal. I am so tired my eyelids feel like weights on my eyes and I say my goodnights and goodbyes.

In bed, the air is heavy and the breeze non existent even though the only thing dividing me from the outside is a bedsheet. Sleep is not in a hurry and neither am I.

Mi Tierra Querida

When I was 21 years old I had many jobs. I taught high school; I waited tables; I taught a Spanish class at the local college. One of my jobs was as an ESL teacher for adults. It was a free class held at one of the local high schools in Newark, Delaware.  

It was there I met Maritza. Maritza was a Colmbian woman from Medellín, Colombia, a place I had not really heard of when I met her. She was a bit older than me, but looked young and had a young spirit. She asked if I would be willing to do an intercambio and practice my Spanish with her while she practiced her English with me. I agreed. To be honest, I was not a very good ESL teacher and the exchange was a bit more lopsided to my advantage. So in the end we became friends.

Over the years, life happened. Martiza lived in the states longer. I moved to San Diego. She came out to visit – thinking maybe she’d stay. She went back to Delaware. She married to a sweet American man and they had a child. I moved to San Francisco. She became a teacher’s aide. Her child started school. But she always talked about her querida tierra, Medellín.

For me, till I met Maritza, Colombia had been on the no fly zone. I could hear my father’s voice reverberating in my head, “Colombia Jennifah? Are you kidding me? What are you going to do – join a drug cartel?” And while my adventurous spirit often called me to the very places that made my father’s blood pressure rise, I too was cautious of Colombia, especially Medillín – home to Pablo Escobar, the famous drug lord of my youth.

When I traveled for the better part of the year in 2005, my boyfriend at the time was still wary of Colombia and Venezuela and didn’t speak Spanish and my father was ready to have a heart attack, so we forwent the northern most countries in South America for the much “safer” Ecuador and Bolivia. In the end, we fear what we don’t know.

So last month, when thinking about where I wanted to spend time during my next trip, my mind wandered to Martiza. It’s been years since we’ve been able to connect in person. Life happens as I mentioned earlier and I no longer spend the kind of time in Delaware that lets me visit all of my friends each time I go. But when I decided to book my trip to Colombia, I knew that my first trip had to be to su querida tierra, Medellín.

I arrived last night at almost 11pm after a 12-hour layover in For Lauderdale. Luckily the beach was close to the airport and I made the most of my day, but by the time I landed, I was exhausted and could barely keep my eyes open as the taxi driver wove his way from the Medellin airport the 45 minutes down, down, down into the city of Medellín, which despite the seemingly constant downhill, still sits at 4,921 feet above sea level.

I opted for a hostel in Medellín and upon entering immediately remembered why I have steered clear of them in recent years when possible. It’s not that I don’t like hostels. I do, or at least I think I did at some point in my life. But for those of you that don’t know me that well, let me explain. I am a paradox embodied. My family, friends and colleagues, if asked, will all tell you that I am, for all intents and purposes, an extrovert. I love to run into people I know on the street. I over plan my days – though I am getting better at that and I love to talk. That said, I also hate crowds and have always despised the swapping of battle stories that happens at the expo of every marathon or triathlon in regard to how many each person has done, their worst training story, their worst injury etc.

The same holds true for travel. I love to travel. I love go out on my own, find my way, off the beaten path when I can travel. I like to get dirty. I love to learn whatever I can of the language. Eat what I can of the local food (considering I am vegetarian – this can be challenging). Meet the local people. Try – despite my big, bushy, blonde curls to blend in and not just be yet another American. That said, I see the irony in this. It does not escape me that to go to these places I have always had to look in said  Lonely Planet or Rough Guide and that even though know those guides are online, there isn’t much in the way of pioneering and discovery happening these days. That is unless you are really willing to put yourself into a situation where you are going to a place that has never seen a tourist. And finding those places can be a bit of a challenge.

my little room in the hostel

But I digress. . . I had been avoiding hostels. Avoiding the ubiquitous, “how long are traveling? Don’t you hate having to go back? Oh, I am doing at least 6 months, maybe longer. I could never go back.” “You absolutely must try ____. You haven’t been to ______ if you haven’t tried ______.” Yeah, I know I am terrible. I am likely going to you know where for being a terrible, judgmental hypocrite. But there you go. That’s why I avoid other travelers – not always of course – there are those that you meet that you know that you’ll know forever and I have those in my life too.

Today I began my exploration of Medellín with a short run around the neighborhood where I am staying, el poblado. What I didn’t know about el poblado, which was recommended by another friend who had lived in Colombia was that it’s a relatively “posh” neighborhood. It doesn’t scream wealthy as you walk – or in my case – ran around the streets, but it is a very hilly place. Actually, everywhere I went today made San Francisco’s hills seem like a joke. So after 35 minutes of huffing and puffing around the few small parks in this area and some main thoroughfares, I gave up on the run and the strange looks I was getting from the commuters en route to work.

Here are some things I didn’t know about Medellín until I got here – there are over 2 million people living in the city which is divided into 6 zones and 16 communes, which are then divided into 249 neighborhoods. So one aspect of visiting Medellin that surprised me was the sheer size of the city. After my run, I headed down to the Poblado metro station and took the metro north to Acevedo. The metro is unbelievable. It runs above ground so you can see your surroundings and for less than $.75, you can get all over the 147 square miles of the city.

Once in Acevedo, I transferred to a metrocable – which was part of the 75 cent ticket and took a gondola up the mountainside past many of the comunas and barrios of the city. It was interesting to watch the metropolitan city fade into fewer paved streets, more humble dwellings til they became what looked like squatters homes on the hillside. The L line lets me off in Santo Domingo where I paid an additional fee to get on a second cable car up the mountain into a lush forest, leaving Medellín a dot on the horizon.

The metro cable leaves you at the entrance to Parque Arvi which has over 50 nature trails. I was told it was good to go with a guide, but the last guide of the day had just left and I would have had to run to catch up with them. The woman at the tourist desk waved her hand toward a group of people and my skin prickled. “Do you have anything you can do on your own?” I asked.

“Well you can go to this area called the picnic. It’s not recommended many of the trails since they are not well marked and you could get lost easily.”

I briefly heard my dad in my head, shook it off and asked for directions.

“Just head right at the restaurant and then walk on the road for some time. You’ll see the trail. There is a river and some nice water falls.”

“Perfect.” I thought.

While I am sure that the guided tours would have been more spectacular, my few hours of exploration of the park on my own did not disappoint. I headed right at the restaurant and walked up (yes this too was all hills!) an isolated country road. After about 15 minutes, I saw a large building with some armed guards and ignoring the cones on the road, I walked past them toward the men. One of the men, police as it turned out, directed me to the trail I had just missed and I thanked them and headed down a dirt path. I walked down for a while, butterflies crossing my path and yellow birds wishing me good luck. The trail was empty. After about 15 minutes, I came to a fork in the road. I didn’t see a trail marker, but there was a wooden board with no sign on it.

My gut told me to go right, but a small scrawled note on the bottom of the sign in white out read “this way” with an arrow pointing to the left. “Left it is!”

I headed left and saw a few more similar wooden boards and decided that these people were either very kind to guide me to the river and water falls, or they wanted to kill me. Either way I was going to find out. I walked for a few miles, seeing only birds, trees and butterflies The sun snuck in and out of a thundercloud and sent strange rays down into the forest that reminded me of a horror movie. I laughed at the irony of the fact that hiking alone in the states always scared me, but for some reason in Colombia, what made me nervous was my father giving me an “I told you so” lecture should something not fatal happen to me.

Ahhh, so it is true that you can grow up and become an adult, but you never stop being your parents’ children.

Here’s the spoiler alert – I didn’t die. And actually nothing terrible happened at all. I did eventually find the river and the very small waterfalls after hitting a section of paved road and asking a traveler walking up in the opposite direction. Parque Arvi has these great areas for family picnics complete with what looks like metal beds to rest in from all the walking. 

 

And after 10 miles of walking, I was ready for a beer, so I wandered into a little hut restaurant and met Gloria, owner and cook by the side of the road. She recommended an apostle, a local beer, which tasted like malt but refreshed the palate in the way only a beer after a long hike could. 

She recommended I go back to Medellin via bus through Santa Elena to get a different, more local experience, rather than returning on the metro cable. “Plus it will save you 2000 pesos1” she smiled as she told me this (This is essentially 67 cents so yeah, probably not the reason to do it).

The ride back to Medellin made my earlier cable car experience feel like a kiddy ride, as we hurtled through the mountains at breakneck speed around curves designed to go 15 miles tops. Passengers – seemingly all local – held on for dear life and I resisted getting out my camera to photograph the countryside and small villages in favor of holding on so that I could stay mostly in my seat.

One thing that I love about places outside of the US is that people live in the street. The sun had dipped low in the horizon as we came out of Santa Elena and made our way back to the beginnings of Medellin and the streets were full of children, men, women alike. People were everywhere – they ate outside, kicked balls around, rode bikes, held hands, laughed and walked everywhere. Everywhere I looked there were motos, cars, buses, bicycles and laughter.

We ended our bus ride on a street I had not seen before, but from my estimates I could walk back to el poblado. Night had fallen, but it was only 6:00 in the evening and the streets in this neighborhood, that I later found out was Bombona, were full as well. I made my safety checks on the wallet and the phone having just recently learned my lesson and headed down calle 40. Every street seemed to be named calle 40 or 41, so I hoped that my map skills and my sense of direction would serve me well to get to the metro station at Parque Berrío. Part of me just wanted to stop for another beer, an arepa or join a group eating together at one of the street vendors, but I had had a full day and I figured better to end on a safe and positive note.

As I came off the metro in el poblado, I knew just which way to head to get “home” to my hostel. Indeed la tierra querida de mi amiga Maritza had treated me just like one would have expected a querida to do.