Mi Boquilla, September 14th 2011

Mi Boquilla

La Boquilla, from my comfy homemade king size bed in France I thought of you, dreamt of you, imagined you. Listening to Bomba Estereo, I heard your voice, watching video clips I saw your face and reading Boca Azul’s newsletter I learned about you, I felt that I knew you. I dug deep into my “cajita de recuerdos” of my different Colombian chapters and found memories of you that made me eager to get to know you better. I would see you from the road going to Barranquilla and had seen you once or twice on lazy beach days on your grey sand. I remembered your people, fishing, cooking, listening to loud music and children playing with us on the beach. I remembered driving through your streets and that I  had had an uneasy  feeling.  The idea of relaxing and eating out on your beach made me feel distressed and embittered. A feeling I couldn’t quite understand then. A feeling I understand a little more now after spending a month on your grey sandy beach, walking on your ran down streets, flooded tracks, litter filled paths and meeting face to face with your many pigs.

A feeling of rage and amazement.

Raging to see so little respect towards your own environment, pollution in all its forms, slowly entering the water and the ocean and often pollution coming out of the ocean staying on the beach…Raging to hear children talk freely about the “gringos” or the “extranjeros” coming to enjoy your ladies charms and often robbing your children’s innocence.

Amazed at your happy spirited people, sat outside their houses, playing cards, dominos, drinking “litro”, occasionally selling a couple of homemade “fritos” kept under a light bulb in small  boxes, giving the impression that it’s all fine, this is fine. Amazed at seeing bright items of clothing drying out in the burning sun every Thursdays. Clothes hung up on everything possible, lamp posts, fences, hedges, chairs, windows, roofs, like a colourful parade that moves with the gentle breeze. Amazed at your grey skies and grey water that can quickly turn into the most blissful nuances of blue, amazed at the light and the crazy rain clouds before the storms. Unique clouds that lose all their fluffiness and resemble huge soft water-soaked cotton balls, blocking and reflecting the sun making them look like cut out clouds stuck in the sky.

La Boquilla and your “viejitos” going to the beach early in the morning and sit on makeshift seats, contemplating the horizon, leaning against their sticks. Your youth, men on motorbikes with helmets sat  on the top of their heads, women with babies sat on their laps, busy cooking, washing and making do with what there is. Your kids, playing out, running on the beach, flying kites, playing footie, fighting and laughing.

A month with your kids at Boca Azul.

Kids going to school, but only if it hasn’t rained too much, if they don't have to look after their siblings or have to work, if their uniform is clean enough, if they have shoes and if they have their school equipment.

Alongside them and through their culture, I learned about my own culture. I’m not only talking about Colombian vs French culture but one person’s own personal culture, one's tolerance threshold, what one accepts without questioning because one grew up with it. I learned that I can’t stand being shouted out rather than being talked to, I can’t stand being touched or flicked to get my attention, I can’t stand seeing rubbish thrown on the ground. Through different activities, some learned to talk, they learned that words are more powerful than their fists, they learned to reach attention through words and gestures and used bins.

A frustrating success.

I ask  myself to which extend this is useful? What are they really going to do about this and most importantly, do they feel a need for change? Do their really need a “mona” like me to sensibilise them to these issues, I mean they’ve been doing allright so far. And if someone says they haven’t been doing fine, to which standards? Who is there to measure this?

Can we blame someone for throwing rubbish on the ground when we know that in this area rubbish is used as a filler for the many holes on the tarmac-free tracks . Tracks that have never seen a rubbish truck because there is no rubbish collection…Can we ask people to change their tone of voice and manners where everybody else is used to shout and use their hands and feet to win a discussion?

They gave me smiles, hugs, shared tears and sweat, I felt rage and amazement in their eyes and in myself…I offered entertainment and sometimes comfort, they gave me entertainment and comfort.

I’m leaving La Boquilla and will remember “Mi Boquilla”, the one that I experienced with my own culture as my basis and their culture as a reference.

 Feeling like a grain of sand, undiscovered by a wave, I shall disappear again and come back with the next wave to La Boquilla…

Love and comfort to all!