**This is an actual account of events, woven with theories of the imagination, that took place during my nearly three months in Minca, particularly my time spent with Oscar, who showed me the importance of owning my imagination. It must be broken down into parts, and may take me awhile to complete.
Everything is raw. After a month's battle with a head full of lice and pesky mosquitoes night after night - my main remedy being a bucket shower - my skin burns from my scalp to my ankles. That's what living in the tropics does to you; makes you raw. My thoughts and emotions are beginning to resemble my skin. Raw from incessant scratching: trying to cleanse, trying to make better.
Fast as solitude came, it left. Now I find myself in a town where two months ago I had to learn which road to take and what food to avoid, where I now know everyone's name and vice versa. I hear my name being shouted by local drunks at the Billiard's room by my house, and spoken more softly by the nature guides and store owners, school kids and travelers, all the way up the mountain on the derelict red-dirt road, past the schools and farms and waterfalls to a hostal cloaked in clouds, where a military base once was. I don't know if this says more about my social skills or the size of the town and its outskirts, but the former, without a doubt, have developed.
Many nights have been outlined the same since the beginning. Once the dawn had been nearly dampened to dark, I'd push my feet into my black, steel-toed rubber boots, fasten my headlamp tightly around my itchy scalp, and make the 20-minute trek down to Oscar's place, ready to play chess.
We'd drag the game table to the balcony beneath the stars, the milky way shining down on us a differing perspective, while Santa Marta's city lights remained in the distance. We'd light the candles, and begin.
Everything is raw. After a month's battle with a head full of lice and pesky mosquitoes night after night - my main remedy being a bucket shower - my skin burns from my scalp to my ankles. That's what living in the tropics does to you; makes you raw. My thoughts and emotions are beginning to resemble my skin. Raw from incessant scratching: trying to cleanse, trying to make better.
Fast as solitude came, it left. Now I find myself in a town where two months ago I had to learn which road to take and what food to avoid, where I now know everyone's name and vice versa. I hear my name being shouted by local drunks at the Billiard's room by my house, and spoken more softly by the nature guides and store owners, school kids and travelers, all the way up the mountain on the derelict red-dirt road, past the schools and farms and waterfalls to a hostal cloaked in clouds, where a military base once was. I don't know if this says more about my social skills or the size of the town and its outskirts, but the former, without a doubt, have developed.
Many nights have been outlined the same since the beginning. Once the dawn had been nearly dampened to dark, I'd push my feet into my black, steel-toed rubber boots, fasten my headlamp tightly around my itchy scalp, and make the 20-minute trek down to Oscar's place, ready to play chess.
We'd drag the game table to the balcony beneath the stars, the milky way shining down on us a differing perspective, while Santa Marta's city lights remained in the distance. We'd light the candles, and begin.
