Dispatch Number 60 -The Children of Camarones

With the Sage behind us, it was our first night on the road as a newly formed travel family with backpacks, food and water jammed into the truck. We were on our way for what promised to be an off the beaten path adventure in the dry arid region of Colombia's Atlantic coast, a region given little coverage in the guidebooks. Our group was made up of a diverse cast of characters: a drunk Swiss man prone to nightly rants when he would misplace something; a Canadian woman with a camera that never stopped and neither did her questions of the local people; a Swiss woman who was at her happiest in dry dusty countryside towns; and a Colombian film student from Cali who quietly watched everything, then would drop very funny comments.

Our first stop was in a poor fishing community outside the small pueblo of Camarones where the children outnumbered the goats and adults. Their specialty was shrimp and fish; the backdrop was a flamenco reserve and I watched them fly every morning. When they took flight by the hundreds they looked like ribbons of exploded pink paper from Chinese firecrackers.

Here at the edge of the Guijira Desert the air became hot, the land was barren, dry and hard pan. The father of the family we stayed with fetched water everyday from a local spring carting it back in buckets so his family could bathe and cook. The goats had eaten all vegetation from the ground up to three feet. Children ran about everywhere and the truck, the only vehicle in this poor community was a play set for the barefoot children. We passed much of the time sitting on the tailgate while they clamored on the roof and engine hood.

A little more on the travel family:
Kathrine was a great travel partner, active, quick, unhesitating, and with a sense of purpose. It was very supportive to have this kind of traveler in our group, as a couple of the others seemed incapable of making their own decisions. She spoke excellent Spanish. Katherine made plans within the first hour we arrived in Camarones to spend the following day with a local fisherman.

She was also prone to asking a lot of questions of the country people who are soft spoken; a continuous barrage of probing questions asked with persistence and finality that the Western mind so craves. In the end she had learned the most and had some of the best pictures.

Sandra looks to be in mild bliss sitting on the ground surrounded by soiled barefoot girls with black hair and dark Indian skin. They sit with her as she plays guitar. She is curious, interactive and speaks very good Spanish; the children adore her. Sandra looks at her happiest when far from the comforts of the city. Not shy, although admits to a dislike of making decisions.

Andreas is linguistically removed from much of what is happening as he learns Spanish one word at a time from the children. He laughs a lot while finishing my bottle of rum. Unable to speak Spanish he has let himself become too dependent on us. In the morning the children prod Andreas with a stick as he sleeps in the tent. Giggling children and growling Andreas...they prevail.

Juan-Pablo plays the role of soft overweight city dweller accustomed to working very little for what he wants. At times he looks stunned, but especially so, when we set up camp in the fishing village amongst the goats and children. He is Colombian and these are his people. My intuition tells me he will be the one who is affected most by this journey into the desert.

As a long term traveller I enjoy the newness of ever changing landscapes, while perpetually seeking routine. It is the travelers dichotomy: dynamic change contrasted with static routine. At this stop we are surrounded by curious and beautiful indigenous children ages two to ten. Children are special at this age, they communicate through their eyes and this provides a sense of community that my life lacks. It feels like a dose of routine.

Even though Andreas spent most of his time drunk he managed to put it best while I struggled through pages of my journal to understand what I saw. As we discussed how the West has more than Third World countries do by way of stuff, money, and opportunities we arrived at a point where we thought it may be the other way around. Beauty and friendship meant something here. Life in North America and Europe was easy but empty.
He went on to say, They have nothing, but they have more.

After two nights and days with this family who opened their home and lives up to us it was time to go. The goodbyes were slow and visibly painful for Kathrine as she confronted her attachment to the children of Camarones. We depart this fantastical camp of joyous children and welcoming parents. The children have showered us with pure love. A day earlier the children began to ask when we were leaving and they tried to persuade us to stay longer and when that didn't work they resorted to extracting promises to return another time.

We pile into the truck to go to another place and no one talks. The experience of Camarones is silently felt between us, tears flow in some and invisibly in others. We wonder why we are going, why leave this special place?
Secretly, each of us wonders, Can it be like this every stop?
Never is and never can be, I thought to myself.

Each stop and each day is different and is why it is so important to live in the present and enjoy the moment. For this traveller it is not about chasing past experiences, it is about being open to them as they present themselves. We always move on, so why pretend? How many ways to say goodbye in a nomad's life?

It was rare. It was beautiful. The children and their ever playful expressive brown eyes always spoke to me. When it became clear we were leaving the eyes turned flat and piercing in a way that conveyed betrayal. It was one of the more difficult goodbyes.
We drove on and I thought, They have nothing, but they have more.

David
Cartagena, Colombia