“Collage of Colors”
4-25-12
Red
The air rushing past my ears is deafening, the sun blinding. This one-speed bike carries me effortlessly downhill, but labors uphill. It is a rental from town. Dad and I are going to the beach, about ten miles away. Dry-dirt hills and trees spread out on both sides of the road. We pass a man pushing a bike, wearing leather sandals and chewing on a half-smoked cigar. He stops to watch us pass and waves us on, flashing a set of crooked, yellow teeth. I take a deep breath of warm wind and use the back of my hand to wipe sweat from my upper lip. Dad is ahead of me, now standing on his pedals, pushing them down with his weight to get over the peak of this next hill. We stop now and Dad gets out the sunscreen from the pack.
“Slather it on,” he warns. Though we put some on two hours ago back in town, I can feel my thighs and shoulders burning. My hands are worst, bubbling with pus and then peeling, revealing new, sensitive skin that burns instantly and blisters more – the result of thirty minutes’ exposure, of forgetting their vulnerability as I used my palms and fingertips to rub the chemicals onto the rest of my body. We couldn’t bring aloe on the plane and haven’t found any in the scarce pharmacies here. The rules regarding liquids were not what we had expected. So much for the 3 ounce bottles I had bought specifically for this trip and filled with shampoo, soap, lotion, and aloe. The sunscreen soothes my blistering skin.
White
There are no Americans here. We know because when they ask where we are from, they are surprised by our answer. They tell us about the last time they saw an American and ask how we were able to get here. We explain that we used a third country – Mexico – and that they didn’t stamp our passports at the airport. They are fascinated and offer us cigars, beer, and juice. Other lighter-skinned people we pass are speaking English with different European accents, French, and German.
Right now, I am sitting on a pew in a church that is decorated with white drapes, candles, and shrines with black icons of the Virgin of Regla dressed in a billowing white and blue dress. She looks like an African version of the Virgin of Guadalupe icons I’ve seen in Mexico. She even holds an infant. I admire with wonder the piles of rusted chains and anchors symbolizing that she is the deity of the ocean, the cages full of pigeons used for sacrifice, the sea shells decorating the Virgin’s altar. I stand out in my brown skirt and green shirt amongst the Santeros and Santeras who walk tall and lean in their white clothes and shoes to the statues to touch their feet and pray.
Blue
I put some coins on the counter, smile at the man in his thatch-roof bar and pick up my lemon-lime soda. I walk carefully on shoeless feet over tiny white shell fragments. I reach a bench and sit, opening the can and swallowing its coldness. My head tilts back further as the very last sip drips through the aluminum hole and down my eager throat. The sun is red through my eyelids. When I bring my head forward again and open my eyes, my head cleared of the overwhelming nag of thirst, I see the ocean as I did the first time it came into view earlier this week. My breath leaves me, joins the air around me, and my body eases into my surroundings. The color is close to that of my mother’s eyes, but more fluid, crystalline, and never-ending. The tourists don’t come here.
Down the road, there is a “nicer” beach with a fancy hotel and plenty of room for hundreds of people to lay out in the sun, undisturbed by “hustling” locals. Dad and I went there once out of curiosity. The few extra miles on our bikes made our mouths dry and our bodies yearn for shade. We sat under a thatch roof. Dad drank a beer and I drank lemon-lime soda. We stayed there only long enough to quench our thirst. We were relieved to ride back away from those thong bikinis and speedos. Back at the locals’ beach, I watch the waves crash on the white sand. Out farther, two little afro-Cuban boys splash each other and laugh. Dad says, once again, “This is heaven – if there is one.”
Orange
I am sitting at the table outside the room of the house where we’re staying, watching a Siamese cat walk along the tiles of a roof below. This house stands taller than the others, which have cascading, sloping, tiled roofs that seem to fold over and into each other. The cat whines and stands tall, distracting me from my journal. Behind me is our room. Two beds and a bathroom. The beds are easy to make, just pull up the sheet. The flat, cement roof of the rooms below became the floor of our room when the government assigned this house as a Casa Particular – one of the ways to earn an income here. The house was able to meet the standards the government thinks tourists will accept, and the owner of the house is allowed to charge a particular amount of money for travelers to stay. We’ve been here for three days. The most common place to spend the night here is in someone’s house. They are cheaper and more personal than hotels. Maria Esther, the owner of this house, is busy making beans and rice for us downstairs.
“Julianna, come here! You’ve gotta see this!” I hear my dad call from the roof of our rooms. I put my pencil down and climb the ladder to join him. He has been taking photographs using the natural, vibrant light that spreads through and heats the town every day. It is seven thirty at night and the sun is setting over a sliver of ocean we can see if we stand on our toes. A house in the distance blocks the crystal-blue horizon otherwise. Slowly, the semi-circle of blazing sun disappears from the bottom up and the orange tint that had covered the tile rooftops fades to shadow.
Yellow
There are two easy ways to get around the city: Coco Taxis and Bici Taxis. Coco taxis are yellow egg-shaped, three-wheeled motor bikes. You should negotiate a price before getting in, or you could end up paying twenty dollars for a five-block ride. If you are a tourist, it is against the law to get a ride on the rickety Bici Taxis if they aren’t licensed. They are rusted three-wheeled bicycles with a padded bench attached to the back that can fit three slender locals and a couple kids. Like the natives-only pizza shops, these accommodated bicycles put yet another layer of alienation between my government and theirs.
Dad and I refuse to pay the lowest price the shiny Coco Taxi driver will give and we start looking for a Bici Taxi that will be willing to take us illegally (and cheaper). A random, bored-looking man notices what we’re doing and starts whistling to bring one in for us. He wants a tip and since we’re toward the end of our trip, we know we can afford it. He finally gets someone who is willing to break the law, but we have to walk with him to a dark alleyway so we aren’t seen getting on. We weave in and out of unlit streets, taking the back routes, avoiding men with yellow suits and berets who stand tall and keep their hands resting on their nightsticks. Several natives have boasted that their country is one of the safest statistically, but apparently, laws do get broken. We pay the man quickly before we arrive at our destination so there’s no hanging around. We get off and he checks over his shoulder before speeding away.
Black
Walking by an open doorway, I hear drums and voices singing. I look in and see a room full of African-skinned people in white clothes swaying back and forth to the beat of three large, beaded drums. The drums are of different sizes, but all of the same shape. One man asks my dad not to take pictures. A woman pulls me into the swaying crowd and tells me, “Baila!” Dance! I feel the beat and follow her footsteps. She calls me her friend and asks me my name. For an hour, she calls to me, “Juliana, mi amigita! Baila. Es bueno para el salud.” My little friend! Dance. It’s good for your health. She leads me to a back room where I find a shrine and about fifty plates of cakes and sweets. She tells me to take off my shoes, kneel, hold a shaker, shake it, and be thankful for something. I shake it and am thankful.
Back out in the room with the drums, a man is kissing the ground, pulling himself up, kissing the largest drum, falling back down to the ground. Everyone helps him back up and he leads a line of people around the room, stepping to the beat. “Ven, Julianita!” Come. She starts twirling and dancing forward and backward to the beat in the middle of the floor. I stand and watch as people start giving her space. She is starting to sweat. She is ripping at her silky green shirt. Her chest is now showing and her head is bobbing back and forth. Her eyes are rolling. I notice people stop dancing to watch, but the drummers drum harder, faster. She is shaking and just before she falls to her knees, a large woman runs and catches her. I am given a fan so I can help cool her off as she stumbles helplessly, weightless in people’s arms. After ten minutes, she smiles at me. “Julianita, mi amigita.”