Wednesday, November
25, 2015
There Lies My Heart
This day, a party, celebrating the birthdays of the children
who attend this camp…especially Louis.
We decorated with balloons, made goody bags, played musical hula hoops
and enjoyed Robin and Alan strumming their guitars, singing “memememe...me?…you…Happy birthday to
You” Such fun; laughter and love and
tears.
The road construction is well on its way, the men have
cleared away a lot of brush and a few large beautiful trees...as one of them
toppled to the ground, Obdulio sighs, “There lies my heart.” Girlaca agrees and Colleen hasn’t yet dared to
look. We notice the red tinges of the
bark peeling, bleeding. A few steps down
from this new clearing, the old stairway winds down the slope to the camp yard
where the new road will take us back up. As I take each step down I bend low to pick up
the grapefruits that have fallen from this broken heart and shaken from the others around it; yellow,
round fruit lining the crevices along the old broken stairs, some split and
ruined but some whole and ripe, lying amongst the small tufts of flowers and
fallen leaves. Around all this that lay on the ground, big blue butterflies flitted in and out through the rays of sunshine that filtered through this bit of jungle...beauty among the remnants.
At the top of the hill, Einer and Girlaca had shown us
through their old Spanish villa; into the rooms she had painted with shades of
yellow and green, through her open kitchen and up the stairs to the room with the
hammock, where the clean laundry hung from the window guards and where Einer stored the lathe machine
that he has been using to sand small pieces of wood into pens. The wood is called Kobo, it initially sells
for $75 per foot, he uses the scrap pieces…small squares of a hard wood that
once oiled expose the grains and color; shades of browns, golden tans and a
rich purple. The Wounaan people are Artisans and it is Einer’s plan to introduce
them to this new craft of pen making, adding it to the basket weaving that they
have been doing forever.
Wanting to see the Port, we walk up the road to
Yaviza, the town at the end of the road. Past the cemetary of white crosses and tombs, past the high school where the students were celebrating their last day, and up to the Port entry; a grand covered walkway, stretched long
with a wide front stairway up, guarded on each side by large iron rails, painted
red and on the inside by a short white crossed iron fence; floor tiled and flags
waving in the breeze, red, white and blue.
Beyond the rails, below, the muddy river, lined with piraguas, men
loading and unloading, people waiting and us watching. From here we take the road to the walking
bridge past the bars, that were so filled with music and people that first night we were here...now silent; the colorful homes, rich old and faded; shops
filled with colorful goods, clothing, shoes, food of all sorts; pickup trucks full of papayas, coconuts and other produce; meat cooking on open BBQ’s; people watching after us, children playing and following along. All of this making colorful layers of a multi
cultured, Latino, Black, Wounaan and Gringo shaped life.
This night, we meet with Obdulio, Ricardo and Americo, these
men who have been so generous to share their country, this small part of their
world, their dreams and prayers with us.
It has been an honor to hear the words they say back to us; the answers,
reflecting the questions that were asked at the beginning of this journey. Americo, sharing the hidden concern he had
about us travelling through the Red Zone…he stood amazed each time our papers were handed over at the check points and we were allowed through. He said in awe, this is no longer the Roho Zona, it is the Verde Zona.
Amazing grace…
