The heat has exhausted me and I slide under the shade of a
palm-thatched hut on the beachfront. Small, tanned, naked children roll
around on the sand floor absorbed in their individual imaginations. I
smile, again admire the world that those under seven live in, and
wonder if I’ll ever be able to find that door again. Two older boys
play chess with soda bottle caps on a hand painted log stump in the
corner of the hut and a man and his wife recline in the table next to
mine. The woman is nursing a new child. Every few minutes someone from
the community stops by the hut and tries to steal the baby for a toss,
coo or cuddle. A group of men return from the sea and take seats at the
table and a round of cold beers are immediately placed before them.
Fingers and feet naturally tap along to the salsa streaming out from
the radio as if the beat can never quite escape their bodies. I am
always awed by this natural relationship with rhythm that those of
lighter skin seem always to struggle so much with.
Someone
whistles from the back and one of the young men disappears and returns
with the pitcher of fresh lemonade that I have requested. He puts it on
the table and stares at me without reserve or embarrassment. Then he
asks me where I’m from.
"The United States," I slowly reply. I
always say the name of my country as gently and softly as possible,
perhaps in silent hopes that this grace will also soften the sharp and
cutting edge of the controversial conversations that usually follow.
He plops down soundly into the chair next to mine and crosses his arms across his chest.
Noting
his body posture, I appropriately brace myself for the Question. What
will it be today? The election? The war in Iraq? Bush’s recent visit to
Colombia? The Free Trade Agreement the US is trying to push on some of
the poorest countries in S. America in order to guarantee its freedom
to exploit their precious resources? "Plan Colombia" and infamous drug
war? What will be the Question today?
"Como hago?" he says.
I’m confused by his coastal slang and look at him blankly.
He
puts both his hands on the table and clarifies, "How do I get there?
Why can’t I go there? You can come here, right? Why can’t I go to your
country?"
Ah. The immigration question. An exhausting discussion
that I’ve had on islands around the world. And one of my least
favorite. Because not only do I not have any answers for why people are
constantly denied visas or even visiting rights to the US, but I also
have to battle bitterly with the "dream" that Hollywood has not only
painted on the "life ideal" billboards of America, but also broadcast
across continents to make citizens of otherwise perfectly content
communities question if they actually are happy without a car, two
story house, vacuum cleaner and wall mounting television.
I shake my head and sigh.
"Why
do you want to go to the United States? Do you know that what you see
on television is not true? Do you know that Americans work 50 weeks a
year in hopes of finding the time and money to spend only a few days in
a pardise like this?"
I throw my arm out and spread it over the
tropical beach, the sea, the children playing in the sand and the
family laughing behind me…
"Look what you have here! You live on
an island in the Caribbean with everyone you love! You have warmth, and
beauty, and music and community and family, and comfort and long, lazy
and sunny days to enjoy it all."
He looks around for a second and acknowledges, but swipes aside, what I see.
He
squints his eyes and says, "I hear you can make $20 dollars a day just
washing windows of the cars in the street. Tell me. Is that true?"
I
press my fingers to my temples and sigh. I, as of late, have been
feeling particularly overwhelmed by qualities of life and humanity.
Earlier this same day, I found out that Playa Blanca (see pictures
below) was recently bought by a huge international 5-star chain resort
that is making the island private and is now in the process of kicking
off its inhabitants. No longer will people be able to rent a hammock on
the beach for a night (4000 pesos, US $1.80) and enjoy a fresh fish and
coconut rice meal (7000 pesos, US $3.18) prepared by Mama Ruth. Via
exuberant prices, only the elite will have access to the island. And
Mama Ruth and family, may themselves have to relocate in order to
oblige.
"Is that what life is about? Money?"
He rubs his
fingers together and says, "Not just money; but the Dollar." He
contines, "If I can get to the States, I can get myself some dollars.
And then I can find myself a nice American wife and..."
I don’t
have to listen. I know how the sentence and story ends. I’ve seen it in
music videos, magazines, movies, soap operas, and TV enough times to
have the script memorized on all kinds of conscious and subconscious
levels.
I look at the sea and watch a small naked child taking
chase after a retreating wave and then turn, shrieking with joy, as the
chase suddenly turns on him.
The children see so easily. If
there’s anything we should watch, it should be them. When did we forget
those innate secrets of living and loving? When did the simple recipe
for joy become so cluttered, complicated and confused? And what must we
unlearn to reveal and realize them again?
*****
Playa Blanca ("White Beach")
Morning...
Noon...
and Night...
