Sipping Coffee in a Cocaine Culture

According to Google Images, the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquira makes for the optimal Kodak moment. Erected hundreds of meters below the surface in the tunnels of a Colombian salt mine, the functioning Roman Catholic Church is considered one of the most notable achievements of Colombian architecture. I went to the Zipaquira salt mines and all I got was a picture of the men’s restroom. 5 tiny, white urinals lined up against a white wall.  The epitome of a porcelain cathedral in the eyes of the photographer – a Kodak moment brought to me by my boyfriend, the consummate jester.

Months prior, while my close friend Mindi basked in the Guatemalan sun, her freckled skin connecting the dots, I cursed chapped lips, a third misplaced set of gloves, and the never ending gray skies and traffic delays of Cincinnati in February. The groundhog, of course, had seen his shadow.  Growing up in New Orleans, Mindi couldn’t empathize with the misery of an Ohio winter but her timing was flawless.

“Why don’t you visit me for Easter? I’ll have a week off from teaching.” She read my mind.

Unfortunately, kayak.com, my ticket search engine of choice did not. Airline access to Guatemala City precipitated near $1500 versus $500 to Bogota, Colombia. Mindi loves to travel. I love to travel and my boyfriend Kris, who had yet to meet the effervescent Mindi, especially loves to travel. So let’s meet up in Colombia we decided.

Unfortunately, Mindi’s one-week break from school wound up being long term (Guatemala doesn’t quite have teacher unions like the U.S.), and so the Three Musketeers became 2 – Kris and me. Packing our best Spanglish, to Colombia, we went for a near 3-week foray!

Salento, Colombia was the Google Image for best, quaint-I –wish-we-could’ve-stayed- here- forever village! Save for the progressive recycling bins, it seemed like time stood still here. An ATM machine that only worked part time. A billiards hall where only men trespassed. An ice cream parlor where a carved out cantaloupe overflowed like a volcano with sweet, succulent delights. The nearby Cocora Valley, a hiker’s paradise, where tall wax palm trees begged to touch the sky. The town square bedecked in traditional colonial architecture with the church at the head, the park in the middle, and the sundry shops and restaurants surrounding, a place where one had many tempting options for refuge during the brief afternoon showers. An open village culture where curious locals despite the language barrier chatted through their open windows and encouraged rides on jeeps through the sloping countryside – even if it meant precariously standing on the back bumper, white-knuckled hands holding tight and simultaneously laughing and cringing with each pothole bump in the unpaved road.  A quiescent place that we nearly missed because we fell asleep on the night bus en-route.

Manizales, Colombia was the Google Image for best, are-we-on-an-unstable-volcano-or-the-moon? Everything goes down better with coca leaves we realized whilst summiting the Nevado del Ruiz volcano – embracing the local remedy to avert altitude sickness. (Yes, coca tea is derived from the plant that brought the world cocaine. Only side effect I noticed was the constant attention of my bladder).  My bright pink scarf whipped at me as I stood capturing pictures of the windswept, ashen gray landscape; the volcano peak reminiscent of a disproportionately large anthill. Only seismic instruments could detect the rumbling of the volatile earth beneath my feet. Yet miles below, we could enjoy the soothing warmth of the Manizales hot springs courtesy of the volcano’s fiery personality. Miles surrounding the city, the volcanic ash enriched the soil encouraging Colombia as a hub for damn good coffee.

La Guajira, Colombia was the Google Image for best place to get food poisoning. It was beautiful. And remote. So remote that less than 10% of Colombians have ever step foot on this stunning juxtaposition of ocean meeting dessert. Like lava flowing into a glacier. So remote that it took a flight into Santa Marta, a Caribbean coast city, from there a 6-hour bus ride to Riohacha, the last town of “civilization”, spending the night in a hostel with the appearance of a German fortress (it actually may have been), hiring a native to drive a 4x4 jeep through the desert to Cabo de la Vela, a serene seaside hamlet where we slept in hammocks for the night. Onward we went as the sun emerged the next morning to a simple docking point where we boarded what appeared to be a dinghy. Into the defiant waves, we crawled for 3 hours along rocking waves. The saltwater piercing our eyes and slapping our faces like blows from prizefighters.  At last, we reached our remote destination – Punta Gallinhas on the La Guajira Peninsula, the most northern point of South America. A sparse, arid destination home only to goats and the indigenous people – the Wayuu. A people who have obstinately ruled the land for centuries, removed from Colombian authority. So remote and removed from Colombia that Spanish is minimally spoken and understood here.  So remote that when Kris and I got sick with food poisoning (or something equally unpleasant), we turned to a Red Cross volunteer who shared with us not only his penchant for remote dwellings but also good drugs to make our digestive systems happy again – preparing us for the audacious return route to civilization.

The return. Boat. Bus. Plane. Train. Car. From La Guajira, Colombia’s biggest secret, to Cincinnati, my home. From the gray, cabin fever days of February - to Colombia’s volcanic peaks and valleys of green – to home on a sultry, June morn, Friday 3am. Final Google Image? A visage of smiling exhaustion, strolling into work 4 hours later, a cup of damn good coffee in hand – Colombian.

a return to writing! :)!

I use to be brave. I use to want to save the world.

Now. I just want to be happy. I want to find value in me.

2 weeks ago as I wrapped up a speech therapy session with a little boy, Jeremiah, age 3½ with significant language delays, his mother interrupted me as I explained to her that one of his goals was answering yes/no questions appropriately, interjecting, “He says no because he’s bored. He doesn’t like your books; they’re boring. In fact, I’ve been observing you with him the past couple weeks and I don’t feel like you’re connecting with my son.  I’ve been thinking to call and change therapists. I just want the best for my son, and you’re sweet and all, but these books they ain’t connecting. You ain’t connecting.”

So. Out in the hall. Situated between the parent observation room, the restrooms, the waiting area, the elevators up to the speech pathology floor - the traffic center of the department, I stood, nearly mortified. Ok, I was mortified. Thinking, oh gosh, I hope the clinicians who’ve just met me, who’ve been sorority-girl-like - snubbing me because I’m the “new” girl, my bosses who sort-of know me more by reputation, these parents – parents who may someday have me as therapist, and oh, what about little Jeremiah… hope they don’t hear what this mother is saying to me – about me… oh gosh, I wish this conversation was transpiring in a vacuum…

Face ablaze, voice calm, I responded, “Ok, it sounds like Jeremiah doesn’t respond well to books. (Though defensively my mind is reeling. My books are fun. My books are awesome. Why, last week we read Going on a Bear Hunt and then we actually went on a bear hunt in my therapy room! That. is. fun!) Perhaps we could move away from our more literacy-based approach to a more play-based approach. It sounds like that’s what his previous therapist did and perhaps what he’s more accustomed to and comfortable doing. (Inwardly reflecting – and that is why this 3½ year-old doesn’t know how to hold a book, to look at it from front to back, turn pages left to right…! Not to mention I’ve only been working with him for a couple weeks – can’t expect a child to have the same level of rapport with someone they’ve met 3 times versus someone they saw for a year who played games with them…!) And in the end, if we’re not making progress, then we can certainly look to moving him to another therapist.”

Mom was agreeable to returning for their regularly scheduled appointment in a week. I was agreeable to exchanging my much-loved books for toddler toys.

That was Monday 10am. A couple hours before, I had opened my work email to read congratulatory notes from my colleagues.  Colleagues who had worked with me before I had transitioned to a new site within the department, my present site, a couple weeks prior. Congratulatory remarks for my mentioned name in the company-wide (a company of 11,000 employees) Outpatient Comment Report. Due to positive feedback from families who I worked with, I received the welcomed nod in the report regarding my positive interaction with families.

Yet, despite this high acknowledgment from parents and the hospital, in the course of a couple hours, I was wallowing in self-imposed thoughts of clinical inadequacy. I couldn’t separate my professional thoughts of, “Hmm, I need to educate this family on the value of literacy,” from my personal thoughts, “I have failed. I have failed Jeremiah and his mother.”

These thoughts just kept festering. Festering. Festering. Festering like an unattended fruit fly infestation.

Then yesterday, my mind bluntly said, “I don’t want to save the world.”

Trying to help people backfires. Backfires are painful. It hurts too much to deal with them.

This morning, my soul bluntly said, “This isn’t you. You are brave; you are passionate. Go to church. I don’t care if you have a broken foot and an awkward orthopedic boot, get outside, go for a walk. Think and express with Mother Nature. Sign up for a writing class. ”

Don’t seek validation from others; seek it from within. Write your personal journey.

So here I am. Writing. Hopeful, smiling – happy.

Serendipitously, the Spring writing class with Women Writing for (a) Change commences this Tuesday! :)