Encendamos las luces

Desde hace algunas semanas he notado que esta época navideña no es igual a otros años. En mis viajes entre Arecibo y San Juan, así como alrededor de otros pueblos de la isla y en el área metro también, me ha llamado la atención la obscuridad que reina en las calles. Además de los postes de luz, muchos de ellos, que brillan por la ausencia de focos- reina la negritud ante la ausencia de bombillas y decoración navideña. La navidad en Puerto Rico se reconoce por ser además de la más larga en el mundo- ya que dura alrededor de dos meses- una de las más alegres, las más alumbradas, coloridas y musicales. El boricua se reconoce por ser barroco tanto en su comportamiento, como en su selección de ornamentos para decorar su hogar, sobre todo en la época navideña.

Recuerdo cuando era niña y regresaba con mi familia desde San Sebastián, el pueblo de mi madre, durante las navidades. Gran parte del camino lo dedicábamos a admirar, comentar y deleitarnos de los adornos, las luces festivas y el engalanamiento que desfilaba en muchos de los hogares durante esta época. Algunos mucho más extravagantes que otros nos llamaban mucho la atención. Estrellas, nacimientos, figuras de Santa Cló, los Reyes Magos, venados, muñecos de nieve, de todo un poco se observaba. El décor navideño extravagante no excluía clases sociales. Desde los balcones de los residenciales públicos también podía admirarse la selección de bombillas coloridas y otros adornos alegres. En muchos casos, los más pobres solían decorar sus hogares incluso más que los ricos.  

Este año algo ha cambiado. El espíritu navideño no está encendido como solía siempre estarlo. En mi urbanización en Arecibo, las casas decoradas pueden contarse con los dedos de la mano. La mayoría brillan por su tenebrosidad. En el complejo residencial de mi madre en Guaynabo, igual. Uno que otro vecino ha colocado una corona de pino en la puerta, pero es la minoría. ¿Qué ha pasado? ¿Por qué hemos perdido esa energía navideña que tanto nos caracteriza?

Una conocida comentó el otro día que la gente está desilusionada y sin ánimo. Ante la ineptitud del gobierno, la crisis económica, el desempleo, la ola masiva de emigración, el crimen desenfrenado y la falta de opciones para cambiar esta realidad. La situación no es la mejor, eso lo sabemos todos. Cada vez nos pintan un cuadro más decrépito en los medios, los temas de conversación se tornan más deprimentes y es normal sentirse desanimado. Sin embargo, algunas cosas alentadoras sí suceden mucho más a menudo de lo que nos creemos (o nos hacen creer).

Ayer estuve en un concierto de la Orquesta Filarmónica. La semana pasada me deleité de otros dos espectáculos: el encendido navideño de San Juan y el concierto de Calle 13. En todos vi personas de todas las edades compartiendo. Sonreían, disfrutaban en familia, bailaban, comían frituras, se tomaban un traguito, tocaban maracas. El talento de esta isla desborda, sobre todo en el ámbito artístico y musical. En todos esos conciertos que mencioné subían al escenario a pequeños músicos. Eduardo de Calle 13 presentó a su hija Azul de seis años que tocó el piano frente a 35,000 personas. En el encendido de San Juan con Ismael Miranda tocaron timbales varios niños. Anoche en la Filarmónica, más de treinta pequeños sonaron cuatro todos juntos, luego se subieron otros treinta encabezados por un chico con síndrome Down a tocar gűiro. La audiencia no podía contener la emoción, era impresionante.  

Quiero decir con esto que aún quedan motivos por celebrar. Nuestra isla, igual que el resto del mundo, enfrenta una situación preocupante, sin embargo, no es el final. Nos caracteriza un espíritu vivaracho, alegre, de aguinaldos y celebración en familia. Aún queda la juventud. Aún queda la música, el talento y el mañana. Encendamos las luces tanto en nuestro hogar, como en nuestro corazón. 

¡Feliz Navidad!

El mundo de la aberración

Su presencia es perturbadora, invasiva y quebranta la melodía y personalidad característica de este barrio santurcino. Incluso antes de entrar al edificio, ya de inmediato, percibes esa mala vibra. Una capa de pintura color crema arropa la fachada. El azul del cartel que lleva el nombre, se nota en la distancia. LA PARADA WALMART. Como si no bastara ya con la cantidad de pequeños negocios que se han ido a la quiebra por no poder competir con los precios tan bajos de este nuevo vecino- al otro lado de la calle, como en cada cuadra de esta metrópolis- han sembrado otro Walgreens. Estos dos gigantes han desgarrado las empresas boricuas y han hipnotizado a este pueblo a creer que tienen un sinnúmero de necesidades artificiales que solo podrán satisfacer si compran aquí. Estos dos gigantes han desbaratado la belleza de nuestra arquitectura, de nuestros paisajes, de nuestro carácter caribeño tan característico para imponerse con su presencia usurpadora. Y con todo el daño que han causado y continúan causando, los seguimos recibiendo con bandeja de oro.

Vamos a entrar hoy por primera vez. El estacionamiento es de esos enormes multi-pisos que tanto detesto por ser un laberinto sin principio ni fin. El techo es demasiado bajo para la cantidad de carros enormes que guarida dentro. El tamaño de los estacionamientos también es equivocadamente estrecho. Para encontrar uno vacío, es necesario dar al menos tres vueltas al parking, y, si es día de cobro- como hoy- posiblemente, más de cinco. Una vez logras encontrar un espacio para dejar el carro, la próxima misión es penetrar en la megatienda. El primer problema es que no hay escaleras abiertas al público, “más que en caso de emergencia”, cómo explicó el guardia de turno encargado de estar delante de los cuatro enormes ascensores monitoreando la entrada y salida de personas.

Como uno de los ascensores estaba fuera de servicio, había que esperar al menos diez minutos para lograr un huequito dentro de los otros tres. Entre todo ese tumulto de personas, no había ni una sola que no estuviera obesa. Hablaban alto, todos a la vez- se veían desalineados, mal vestidos. Muchos empujaban carritos de compra vacíos dentro del ascensor y en lugar de esperar, como se hace en los países CIVILIZADOS, para que la gente salga primero y así luego poder entrar en orden- todos formaban una barrera.

Una vez dentro del ascensor subimos y bajamos un par de veces. Pensé durante un momento que era porque el ascensor tenía que hacer un esfuerzo sobrehumano para cargar todo ese montón de libras de más. Una vez finalmente abrieron las puertas, el mundo de la aberración nos dio la bienvenida. Igualito que en un capítulo de South Park, noté el abrumador impacto del sonido de carritos de compra chocándose entre sí,  las enormes cantidades de comida empaquetada, muchas personas- aún desconozco si eran inválidas o simplemente demasiado gordas para moverse sobre sus propias piernas- que tenían que recurrir a las sillas de ruedas eléctricas esas que llevan una canasta enfrente para trasladarse por la tienda. Cuatro mesas enormes con productos 100% americanos de motivo de Thanksgiving yacían en una esquina. Pies de cherry, de manzana, de limón, con frosting, sin frosting, bizcochos de red velvet, cupcakes de mil colores artificiales, quesitos en paquetes enormes, cinnamon buns, bueno de todo lo que conduce directamente a una diabetes tipo dos. 

Me giré a otro lado y una empleada senior citizen gritaba al tope de sus pulmones las ofertas del shopper. QUE DISFRUTES TU EXPERIENCIA EN WALMART. Tuve que contenerme para no vomitar.

Salí de ese lugar casi volando. Qué experiencia tan desagradable, Dios mío. Una vez más, tuve que enfrentarme a la situación con los ascensores, pero esta vez aún peor, ya que la cantidad de carritos de compra llenos hasta el tope, era mucho mayor. Una pareja de americanos que vive en la isla criticaba el desorden para subir y bajar de los ascensores. Otro de Ohio a su lado, se reía de mis compatriotas de una forma muy burlona. Sentí una vergüenza ajena que se me hacía difícil contener. Consideré por un momento que esos americanos eran mis enemigos por criticar a mi país y que debía intervenir de algún modo. Sin embargo, antes de contestarles, me detuve un minuto y me di cuenta de que… tienen razón. Esto da lástima. 

Doy un paso fuera del ascensor y decido que jamás volveré a pisar ese lugar ni presenciar eso que acabo de dejar atrás. 

Zen-less Yoga

Everyone talks about the incredibly positive effects that yoga has on the mind and body. There are hundreds of books, magazines, blogs and columns out there that focus on how this practice has transformed lives through discipline, awareness, compassion, and strength- both inner and outer. However, have you ever ended your practice feeling unfocused, unsatisfied, or even pissed off? Have you ever felt as though you were unwelcome in your own studio?

Recently, a friend of mine who used to practice yoga with me several years ago told me she wanted to join me at the studio I have been attending frequently for the past four months or so. She has a small child and her new busy mommy schedule prevents her from taking as much time out as she'd like to practice yoga. However, yesterday she finally agreed to meet me for a morning session. I was so excited and had told her so many positive things about this new studio, so I awaited anxiously for her arrival.

After a couple of minutes of waiting for her at the studio, I noticed the practice was starting, so I stepped inside the room, where I had already set a mat for her and I- and hoped she would make it in soon. I kept one eye open during the first five minutes of our breathing exercises until I noticed she had just walked in shortly after. Because it was her first time, she failed to see the mat I had set for her in the middle of the class and was a bit disoriented. She pulled out a blanket from the back closet thinking it was a mat and then had to change it. The teacher, from a distance, saw this (it was quite obvious!) and never once made an effort to help her out. Instead, she looked the other way and ignored her as though she was a nuisance.

My friend, all the way at the end of the room, was quite lost at times. This is totally normal, as every studio usually has their own style and every teacher incorporates his or her own techniques into the practice. This is precisely why there is a teacher at the front of the class, for it is the teacher's duty to be a facilitator and guide everyone through their practice, align students' bodies, and aid them along this wonderful spiritual journey of asanas. This was evidently not the case. My friend had to stop every couple of minutes just to look at everyone else and see what was going on and how to do the postures. No notice was given to her whatsoever during the whole hour and fifteen minutes. I understand she was a couple of minutes late, however, what prevented the teacher from approaching her during the class and helping her out- I have no idea. It seemed as though she was punishing her for some odd reason.

Throughout the rest of the practice the teacher made inappropriate remarks often. She kept repeating how she hated the new decoration of the studio. At one point she even pretended to scratch the stencil off the wall with her fingernail. All of these out of place comments stood out like a sore thumb and as much as I tried, it was impossible to block them out. I couldn't focus on my body and much less so, on my breathing, and just became more and more annoyed as the teacher walked up and down the room with a long face and ignoring there was anyone else in the class.

At the first yoga studio I ever went to about eight years ago, I was taught that yoga is an individual practice. That the teacher is there to guide you, teach you, and adjust you in order to take advantage of your maximum potential. We were frequently touched, pushed, challenged, and thanks to those lessons, I learned a lot about this practice. Yoga without a teacher to me is quite pointless, but with "teachers" like these, even more so. It makes me sad to think that the West has, on many occasions, adopted and transformed yoga into something it is not.

That day I left the studio doubting if I would ever return. I was disappointed, embarrassed, and even sad about the experience. I thought about writing an anonymous letter of complaint to the owner, because if I were her, I'd want to know about this. Yoga had never ever left me with a sour taste before. And even though my friend and I were soon to realize that we both felt the same way and even ended up making jokes and laughing about our "zen-less" yoga experience, the truth is- it was quite a downer!

Don't hate, MEDITATE! And if you're pissed off Ms. Yoga Teacher, maybe it's time to practice yourself or take a break from it all and not transmit your bad vibes to your pupils, because in the end of the day, it's not our fault, and the least thing we want from our practice is to exit the room feeling zen-less... 

Necrópolis

Abro una página de Necrópolis al azar. Encuentro dos estrofas que hablan sobre recorrer el centro comercial más grande del Caribe. Y la satisfacción que se siente ante no comprar absolutamente nada.

Inconsumo es libertad

Así termina uno de los poemas del primer libro de poesía de Eduardo Lalo, que lleva de título el nombre de un enorme y antiguo cementerio. No soy su fanática número uno ni mucho menos. En realidad apenas conozco la obra de este escritor quien internacionalizó su nombre tras ganar el premio Rómulo Gallegós hace un par de años. Sin embargo, acabo de regresar de la presentación de su primer poemario.  Angel Darío Carrero, un cura intelectual, también poeta, lo presentó esta noche y cuenta que su amistad se basa en alimentarse mutuamente de poesía y literatura

La poesía de Lalo parece compartir toda un mismo rasgo. La insatisfacción y el enojo ante el status quo que reina en nuestra isla. Esa rabia producida por el colonialismo, por la inacción e incompresibilidad de la sociedad ante quiénes somos y hacia dónde vamos, hacia el gobierno, ante nosotros mismos. Esa impotencia ante lo mundanamente puertorriqueño. Su poesía se adorna de grandes hipérboles coloniales que le recuerdan que posiblemente se encuentre en un sitio equivocado. Que esta no es tierra de poetas. Y por eso se ha convertido en sepulturero dentro de esta gran Necrópolis, como lo ha dicho él mismo.

A pesar de no compartir muchos de los ideales con Lalo, creo que nos ata una misma característica además de esa impotencia, y es el arte.  Esta noche dijo que el arte para él, en este caso la poesía, existe por tres razones fundamentales: la supervivencia, la resistencia y sobre todo, el placer. Se trata de construir algo duradero para generaciones venideras. Arte para escritores es precisamente ese contacto radical con las palabras y el silencio.

Lalo elige la poesía y la literatura como instrumentos para renunciar a esa mundanidad que tanto le perturba. Yo por mi parte, elijo la realidad.  Pero entre los dos, compartimos esa ansiedad por las páginas en blanco y esa magia que se produce al elegir el momento perfecto, la imagen sin corroer, la palabra justa.

Grabar para el mundo lo que el mundo le ha hecho a nuestras mentes...

Self-Publishing is the Way to Go

My first book, now available on Amazon.com, and my second one, will soon be- all thanks to self-publishing

Struggling to publish a book? Confused about the whole process? Not sure where to start? My story might help you...

I just recently became a self-published author. After depending on an incredibly expensive publishing house in Spain for the editing, printing, and creation of my first book- I became very frustrated. Every time I ordered a new box filled with my books, I had to pay outrageous amounts of money. The editing process was also a pain in the neck and the truth is, I was never completely satisfied with the final product. Until recently, I thought there was no other alternative for independent authors like myself who want to get their work out in the public.

All of this changed when in the last weeks, a colleague of mine introduced me to the world of self-publishing. He specifically recommended I try out Create Space, a firm owned by Amazon.com, in charge of the printing and digital delivery of material, virtually worldwide. On top of this they charge absolutely nothing to the author and take care of the nitty-gritty steps involved in publishing a book, specifically, the selling and distribution of the text.

Although apprehensive at first, I still decided to give it a shot. I submitted a second edition of my first book to them and in about 48 hours they approved the draft. I had to make some minor changes related to margins, page breaks, font, and sorting out the images. Then, I proceeded to design the front and back covers and ordered a proof by mail to make sure everything was in order. After about a week I received it and satisfied with the results, I decided to order more copies to sell at a recent presentation. Recently, I submitted my second book and am now awaiting more copies to come in the mail. Contrary to the first experience with the publishing house, this process has been entirely smooth and pleasant.

Self-publishing is a trend that is slowly but surely taking over the book industry lately. Some frown upon it saying that self-published books and authors are nowhere as attractive as those selected by an agent and respectable publishing firm. Needless to say, self-publishing is not a new trend and has been popular ever since authors began writing books. In the 19th century, many well-known writers such as Walt Whitman were in fact self-published.

The truth is: is the way an author decides to publish his or her book really equivalent to the value of their work? I believe not. Self-publishing is an artisan way of managing your own work. You have a say in every single detail of the publication process and everything is left in your hands. The process requires a great deal of patience, passion, and drive. Paying an agent, editor and publisher to take care of everything, I believe, takes away from the creativity of it all. It's the easy way out.

So what is self-publishing exactly and how is it done?

Self-publishing is the publication of any book or material (ebook, pamphlet, audiobook, website, etc.) by the author of the work and without involving the participation of an established third-party publisher. The author is therefore responsible and in control of the entire process including not only the content itself, but also the edition, cover, design, format, price, marketing, and all the other stages involved in the publication of a book.

My advice for all of you out there interested in publishing any valuable work, be it in print or digital form, is to not hesitate and consider self-publishing! Participating in all of the major and minor details of putting together your work and finally receiving it in the mail involves such a great deal of satisfaction! Of course there are terrible self-published books, just the same way there are terrible professionally published books. In a world like today where so much information is at reach, we must take advantage of all of these platforms available to us.

This said, if you feel truly confident that what you have produced deserves to be made public, self-publishing is definitely a way to make this dream a reality. Try it out for yourself! 

Un granito de arena

Hoy el karma me dio una palmadita en la espalda de esas que dicen “¡bien hecho!”. Puedo decir con total regocijo y humildad que hoy puse mi granito de arena para hacer de este mundo uno mejor.

Todo comenzó en octubre de 2013 cuando se creó un plan por parte del Gobierno de Puerto Rico para reducir los gastos del sistema de educación pública ante la crisis que enfrenta la isla. Como parte de ese proyecto, se cerrarían más de cien escuelas. Mi abuelo materno, a quien nunca conocí, fue educador durante muchos años y en reconocimiento de su labor, en 1994, le pusieron de nombre a una escuelita pública anónima en el pueblo de San Sebastián: Escuela Francisco Lugo Rosa, en honor a él. El nombramiento fue, evidentemente, un motivo de gran honor para mi familia, y sobre todo para mi mamá, su única sucesora directa. 

Poco después nos comunicaron que la escuela de Paco, como le llamaban cariñosamente sus allegados, caería dentro del plan del gobierno y dejaría de existir. La noticia fue devastadora para muchos. Se verían afectados no solo los empleados y maestros que serían reubicados a otro centro de trabajo, sino también los alumnos de sexto grado que aguardaban con ansias graduarse de escuela intermedia y a tantas personas más a quienes les tomó por sorpresa esta noticia.

Afortunadamente y casi por obra de magia, un buen día le comunican a la Directora de la Escuela que la institución había quedado repentinamente fuera del proyecto y que se salvaría de un cierre. En honor a mi abuelo y a este giro inesperado de fortuna decidí contribuir de alguna manera a esta institución y ofrecer un taller para los maestros para levantar ánimos y celebrar el evento. Con este objetivo, hace unas semanas me reuní con la Directora, fijamos una fecha y llegamos a un acuerdo sobre el tema del taller que combinaría tanto mis conocimientos, como las necesidades de los participantes.  

 

Hoy, tras dos horas de viaje de San Juan a San Sebastían, arribamos a las instalaciones de la Escuela en el Barrio Culebrinas. Once maestros, una Directora y otro personal no-docente nos recibieron en un salón de segundo grado decorado de manera muy colorida y acogedora. Enchufé el proyector y me di a la tarea, durante hora y media, de compartir mis conocimientos con el grupo, que me aguardaba con ojos curiosos y hambrientos de conocimiento. 

Durante hora y media escribimos y compartimos cortos ensayos sobre la vida, la importancia del  diálogo, el poder de la mente y el pensamiento positivo, la autoestima y la buena convivencia en el ambiente laboral. También llevamos a cabo ejercicios de grupo en las que pusimos a prueba nuestra capacidad para resolver conflictos y alcanzar metas comunes. Y sobre todo, nos abrimos un poquito más a compartir nuestras experiencias como educadores ante un complicado panorama de crisis económica y de valores.

Fue una experiencia que no olvidaré, pues por una parte le rendí tributo al abuelo que nunca conocí y que tantas personas recuerdan gentilmente como Maestro de Maestros. Y por otra, interactué con personas a quienes posiblemente nunca conocería de otra manera y recibí a cambio una gran recompensa y satisfacción personal al saber que puse mi granito de arena para hacer de este mundo (educativo), un mejor lugar.

¡Gracias a todos en la Escuela por esta bonita experiencia!

Un microcosmos en el aeropuerto

Cuando se viaja por primera vez a un país, los terminales de los aeropuertos son como un primer encuentro con ese otro. Una primera impresión, una anticipación, un espejo de ese terreno que pronto estarás por pisar. Estuve en el sur de Portugal en una ocasión hace muchos años, en Lisboa, Sintra y un par de lugares más que no recuerdo. Sin embargo, el norte lo desconozco y dentro de un par de horas estamos previstos a aterrizar en Porto.

Los rostros de las personas que veo aquí en el terminal A del aeropuerto internacional de Frankfurt me gustan. Hablan un portugués diferente al brasilero que me es más familiar. A menudo susurran sonidos que se asemejan al murmullo de las olas. Con excepción de dos niños rubios y su padre colorado, todos son morenos, de pelo, ojos y cejas negras como el azabache. También guapos y de buen vestir. Todavía me asombra como cada embarque nos acerca a un nuevo mundo. A pesar de estar en Alemania, ya pisé un trozo de Portugal.

A nuestro costado se hallan otros microcosmos. Estudiantes americanos de cuarto año que viajan a Madrid y Barcelona de Senior Trip. Indios con turbantes, etiopíes que posiblemente regresan a sus tierras, ejecutivos alemanes y suizos que viajan por negocio, en fin, de todo. Han comenzado a abordar. Me espera una semana de bacalhau, vino verde, mar y fado. Lo demás es sorpresa. ¡No veo la hora!

Todo es bello menos los mosquitos

Todo es bello… menos los mosquitos.

Así es. Hace un par de semanas me mudé a Arecibo. Es la primera vez que vivo en la isla fuera de San Juan. En realidad la palabra mudé debería de ponerla entre comillas, porque paso allá solo la mitad de la semana. El resto de los días regreso a San Juan. Y bueno, todo esto se produce porque afortunadamente conseguí lo que posiblemente hasta ahora sea el trabajo de mis sueños. En mi campo, con compañeros muy amenos y en un entorno nuevo, fresco. Me encanta. Como si fuera poco también encontré una casita súper bonita donde me he mudado para no tener que viajar a diario. Y bueno, todo de repente ha caído en su sitio de una manera muy placentera y perfecta. La vida me sonríe.

El único problema que tengo son los mosquitos. Suena estúpido e insignificante, pero es cosa seria. Y en Arecibo hay MUCHOS. Esos bichitos que ahora transportan en sus minúsculos cuerpos el famoso virus de la Chikungunya. Una palabra que al principio se hacía imposible pronunciar, mucho más escribir, pero que ha ido convirtiéndose en uno de los más populares trending topics boricuas.

-“¿Te dio?”

-“Es horrible, nena. Te dan unos dolores en las articulaciones que matan. Se te hinchan las manos, los pies. A mí me dio hasta artritis. Y lo peor de todo es que los síntomas pueden durar hasta un año”.

Así cuentan las víctimas de esta epidemia que está arrasando con Puerto Rico. Imagínate si la situación se ha tornado seria que hoy los titulares ponían: Chikungunya se apodera de una urbanización en Bayamón, Más casos se reportan en Barrio Obrero, La nueva epidemia se propaga. Prácticamente todo el mundo que conozco ha contraído el virus. Está por toda la isla, regándose como la lava de un volcán en erupción. Tengo una amiga que dice que a la larga, nos infectará a todos. Hoy el ex-Secretario de Salud confirmó este pronóstico. Parece una película de ciencia ficción, mas no lo es.

Para evitar una casi-mortal picadura de Chikungunya he equipado mi casa nueva con todos los remedios posibles. Orgánicos y químicos. De todo. Me he empapado de artículos sobre qué remedios anti-mosquitos son los más efectivos, cómo combatir los dolores si es que te da... Hasta compré una lámpara eléctrica de esas que brillan una luz azul que los atrae y luego los fríe y apestan. Por desgracia nunca prendió. Mientras consigo otra, he encendido una cobra en la entrada. Uno de esos repelentes en forma de caracol que generan un humo fuerte que aleja los bichos.Encima de todo tengo dos ventiladores que me abanican perpetuamente. Parezco neurótica.

En otra esquina cerca de la ventana coloqué dos inciensos de eucalipto encendidos. Por lo menos el olor es agradable y hasta ahora el humo ha logrado espantar los mosquitos entre ratos. Como si fuera poco, también me baño a diario en repelente Off hasta crear una barrera tan potente que solo los muy atrevidos se me acercan. Sin embargo, nada resulta efectivo y hay que seguir engrasándose la piel a cada rato para notar algún efecto. La primera noche que dormí aquí me picaron como treinta. Será porque estuve tanto tiempo viviendo fuera. Antes me ignoraban.

Como quiera, fuera de broma, el Chikungunya está acabando con el país. No hay remedio que funcione. Nos tiene a todos arropados en una histeria colectiva. Poco a poco nos irá contagiando a todos y no hay nada que podamos hacer. A los que no nos ha infectado aún le tenemos pánico a los voladores esos invisibles que te atrapan por debajo de la mesa y nunca los ves. Que te cogen los tobillos y los codos  y luego te pican desconsoladamente hasta por debajo del pantalón. Son unos malditos.

De momento todo es bello, menos los mosquitos.

El cansancio más delicioso

Una vez cumplidos los sesenta minutos de hacer todo ese gran esfuerzo- no solo físico, sino sobre todo mental- siento mi cuerpo desplomarse sobre el suelo. Se revela ante mí un cansancio absoluto que colma mi ser. El cansancio más delicioso que jamás he sentido. Boca abajo, mi abdomen se derrite en la tierra. Inhalo profundamente y luego suelto todo el aire por la boca en un suspiro de enamorado. Se produce una vibración en mi tórax que da un poco de cosquillas. No hay mejor alivio que ese. Hoy por primera vez logré mantener un bind cruzado y poco a poco subir todo mi esqueleto hasta encontrar una postura de pájaro con una pierna subida. Me emociona cuando pasan esas cosas. Como con cualquier obra que requiere esfuerzo, ver los frutos de ello produce satisfacción.

Quedan unos asanas más. Pongo las manos en la parte de adentro del tobillo, mientras subo el torso y pateo las piernas detrás, simultáneamente, hasta formar un arco. Me siento como una guerrera cuando llega esta parte. Me encanta que todos los asanas reflejen la naturaleza y los animales. Por un momento podemos convertirnos en camellos, en luciérnagas, nuestras piernas en mariposas, montañas, árboles y hasta en un pescado. Esa es una de mis favoritas, sí, la postura del pescado. En ella la cabeza se cae hacia atrás, las piernas se quedan rectas, mientras un bloque sujeta la espalda baja. Puedes subir los brazos hacia arriba y poner las manos en forma de rezo.

En este momento de relajación absoluta me dejo ir. Mi mente no piensa más que en mi respiración, en cada inhalación y exhalación. Siento que puedo controlarlo todo con el aire que capturo y libero. Mientras, hago un resumen mental de todas las posturas en que me he torcido. Llega un momento en que mi mente se va en blanco. Lo dejo ir todo, sin apego, sin juicio. Distención. Tranquilidad. Aflojamiento absoluto.

Con dificultad abro el ojo y con el rabo miro a mi costado. La chica a mi lado se encuentra en mi mismo trance. La de al lado suyo, igual. Envuelta en una bolita en una postura de semilla, se deja ir. Ojos cerrados. Se silencian las olas y la vibración de la respiración ujjayir. Culminan las posturas de guerrero uno y dos, y todos los estirones de muslos y caderas. Ya no hace falta encontrar un drishti para no perder el equilibrio. Ni exprimirse un poco más o abrazar las rodillas fuertemente y hacer suaves movimientos para masajear la espalda baja. Ya hemos esforzado los brazos tanto, contra la pared para fortalecerlos en una parada de manos o en una postura de delfín o de esfinge. Hemos alcanzado la meta y solo ahora, después de agotar el cuerpo físico por medio de asanas, es que podemos alcanzar este estado de relajación total en la que los brazos se sienten tan pesados como el plomo y la mente tan liviana como una pluma que vuela por el cielo.

Concluímos con un largo om y una dulce voz que dice: “No dejes que nada ni nadie te quite tu paz”.

Qué bonito es todo, pienso...

A Night in Fiji

(Va & Nikita, Fiji)

I had just experienced my first and worst year at college. A wrong major, extremely freezing Bostonian weather, and the culture shock attached to it all made me hop on this airplane a day ago. I needed to meet new people and experience a change of breath. It was my first time to just spontaneously travel to the South Pacific in search of adventure. I didn't bring a lot of money with me, just enough to survive on a tight budget. I was determined and hopeful to have an amazingly fresh and audacious experience, but was still apprehensive. I found myself dealing with a moment of extremely anxiety as I waited for the airplane to land.

Alone and confused I had arrived to Nadi, the capital of Fiji, twenty hours ago. The place had seemed so completely new to anything I had ever seen. The blend of orange and violet rays in the sky, the tall vivid green grass fields, and the gentle smiles of the people on this little island quickly saluted me. A small tourist bus was waiting at the airport to take me to the bungalows, where I would stay for the next couple of weeks. The ride lasted about an hour. I could hardly manage to stay awake and just snuggled up to the back seat and snoozed off. When we finally arrived at the bungalows, and after picking up my keys at the reception desk, I decided to take a nap and recuperate the lost sleep, before heading out.

Exactly five hours later when the sun was radiant and crispy, I awoke. I got up from my scrawny, uncomfortable bed and head to the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and face, I decided to head out. A quick fresh breath of Fijian air made me feel alive and excited to see what awaited me. As I opened the door of the cabin and stepped out, I noticed the place was filled with young families and couples. I didn't find anyone to spend some time with. I decided to walk towards the beach area in front of the bungalows to get away from that crowd.

The air was silent and calm; almost deserted, and I wondered why no one was there. The sterile wind blew against my face. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and noticed two figures in the distance. At this point, I could only see their silhouettes. They both had very dark skin, were about six foot two at least, had medium sized black afros, and were wearing white T-shirts and sarongs tied around their waists. I still couldn't tell if they were men or women. As I continued approaching the figures, the smell of fresh sea salt and coconut entered my pores. I noticed they were breaking open a coconut against a broken piece of wood stuck in the sand. The coconut suddenly smashed and they began cheering. At this point I was pretty near them, about ten feet away.

-“Hello”, I said friendlily.

-“Hello”, they both responded. “Where are you go?”

The conversation in broken English began flowing slowly, but surely. I told them I was from a small island too, called Puerto Rico and I showed them my towel, which had a Puerto Rican flag on it. I took the only picture I took that day. I was savoring the sea and my mouth began to water. The breeze softly caressed my cheeks. I was feeling so sweet.

-“You want to come to meet my family in the village”, said the taller of the two.

I thought about it for a second and then figured it would be an interesting experience. Still not knowing the sex of these people, I asked them if the village was far. They pointed towards the sun and began laughing.

“No, very near to here”, they answered.

After a couple more bites of creamy coconut, I followed my new friends back to their village. Their names, they told me, were Nikita and Va. They spoke in a very soft gentle voice, although in a monotonous tone.

The walk to the village took around fifteen minutes. They walked in front of me for most of the time speaking in a quick dialect among themselves. I strolled behind, giggling to myself. I couldn't help being goofy. The scenery seemed so fresh and untouched, and I was excited to see their village. Nikita and Va were still carrying their last chunks of coconut in their hands. I had already eaten mine. My mouth still tasted of creamy coconut milk. The sun on my face gave me life. I didn't speak much along the way, for I felt that whatever I said wouldn't give justice to what I was experiencing. We were now about to enter the village, and I smiled as the villagers stared at me curiously.

Everyone looked similar: the same medium sized afro, charcoal skin, and colorful sarongs tied around their waists. All the villagers were tall and robust. Babies were running free in the vibrant green grass; mother were cooking in their tepees, and the men seemed to just be hanging outside under the crispy sun.

Nikita suddenly disappeared in all the commotion and I was left with Va who led me inside one of the shagged-looking tepees.

-“This is my cousin house”, he said. “We stop here one minute to wait for Nikita, yes?”

- “Sure”, I responded.

We took our shoes off and stepped into the tiny straw house. I noticed there was only one twin-sized bed. It had a couple of dirty, worn out blankets on it. Va told me later how six of his relatives lived in that tepee. Six people to one bed!, I thought.

I sat down on the handwoven floor mat. A couple of people stepped inside and sat next to me in a circle. There was a lot of commotion and the Fijian language made me feel like more of a complete outsider. I could only understand a couple of words in English they used when speaking. Big fat flies were flying around my bare legs and face. The place was filthy, but even so, I felt so satisfied to have finally met some friendly people. Va's relatives seemed happy for me to be there. They all stared and smiled at me inquisitively. A small semi-broken radio was playing a popular Fijian song and a couple of people started singing along. The sweet melody of the singer's voice felt like seventh heaven to my ears. I then turned my head and noticed Nikita had returned with a big wooden bowl of traditional kava in one hand, and a large container in the other.

She greeted me with a warm smile and handed me the wooden bowl filled with a whitish liquid.

-“You wanting?”, he asked.

I figured "In Rome like the Romans", so why not? I wanted to share my ecstasy with these people, so I said yes. She poured a cup of kava for me, and placed a couple of pre-rolled joints on the floor mat. She grabbed one of the cigarettes and quickly lit one up. The THC filled the room, and after a couple of puffs, she passed it on to the person next to me. Nikita handed me another cup of kava, and the room soon achieved an enlightened state of highness in which everyone was just talking to each other, laughing, singing, and smiling. Soon enough Va stood up and began dancing to the tropical beats of the music. A couple of people joined him, including myself. I couldn't think of anywhere else I wanted to be at that moment, I thought to myself.

Va's aunt then told me they were hungry and wanted to go to the market in the center of town to buy chicken.

-“Sure”, I said. “Let's go”.

I'll buy a couple of chickens for these people, I thought. They probably cost pennies and I'd like to pay them back for their friendliness.

We quickly said goodbye to the rest of the crowd. I was only carrying my fannypack around my shoulder with the equivalent of fifty dollars inside it, and grabbed it on my way out. Va's two aunts led the way in front of me. Both of the women were barefoot, and only spoke a couple of words in English. Their feet looked stronger than their hands for some reason. I kept wondering how they could walk barefoot on the boiling pavement so naturally without fearing getting cut or being too hot. I never knew the names of these women. They never showed any interest in learning mine either.

The taller woman hailed a small yellow taxi outside the entrance of the village and we hopped in. After a short taxi ride through the flamboyantly brilliant countryside, the driver let us out at the local supermarket after the other woman handed him a medium sized coin. As we entered the supermarket, both of the women suddenly disappeared. I got distracted staring at the exotic , fresh, juicy fruit being sold on the street.

I'm not quite sure how much time must have passed until I saw the women again, but it was probably around ten minutes or so. I stepped inside the grocery store and the women appeared out of nowhere with their hands filled with food. They walked to the check-out stand and placed three bags of rice, curry, four whole chickens, a sack of potatoes, some spices, and some other seasonings on the counter. The cashier began to add the costs of the products. I was in awe as the women began to stare at me with slightly evil, but convincing grins, as though to hint that I had to pay for everything.

I really didn't have a lot of money for this trip, and was really only planning to buy chicken for them. Even so, I kept my cool and as the cashier summed it all up, the total cost turned out to be around twenty dollars. I paid it, realizing one of the women had stepped away and had resisted to pay it herself. I had to carry the bags out of the store to where the woman was standing. The taller of the two had stayed inside. I turned my head and noticed she had disappeared again. What is it with these people, I thought. 
They kept disappearing and appearing again.

The taller women signaled me with her index finger for me to enter the store again.

-“My brothers wanting rum”, she said. “Can you buy this one? Yes?”

I obviously didn't want to spend any more money on groceries, nor did I want the rum. Even so, I didn't want to make these full-bodied robust women angry.

-“How much is it?”, I asked.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the liquor section of the store. The small bottle of dark rum was sitting in the corner shelf. She pointed to it and with a sad puppydog face said:

-“Fourteen. Please buy for them”.

I was pissed off at this point. Fourteen dollars was way more than I was willing to spend for this freaking rum. I definitely did not want it. She continued trying to convince me in a soft voice. I was annoyed at her sad puppydog faces, my stomach began to growl of hunger, and I just wanted to leave. I handed her the money from my pocket, and we were soon off again. None of them thanked me for the whole week's worth of groceries. The shorter woman hailed another taxi, we put the bags in the back of the car, and drove back to the village. I was glad to get back to the tepee. 

I sat next to Va and later found out he was the same age as I was: eighteen. He was sweet to me and didn't make me feel uncomfortable at all. His eyes had an honest light to them and his smile was wide and humble.

A while after we began feeling the effects and the numbness of the kava. I started smelling the curry from the kitchen. It was almost ready for eating. It was still light outside, I could feel the sun rays soaking through the tepee roof. I hadn't eaten anything all day and I was starving at this point. After a couple more rounds, Va's aunt served me a plate of food. No one else had one and after seeing the confused look on my face, Va explained to me how their custom was for the guests to eat before everyone else. I thanked the woman for the deliciously spicy smelling food and quickly began eating with my fingers. This was my first taste of Fijian curry. It was so scrumptious my mouth wouldn't stop watering. They were all staring at me while I ate and a couple of people chuckled at my poor hand-eating skills. Towards my last bite of the meal, I thanked the woman once again, even though she had never thanked me. I served myself another cup of kava and waited while the rest of the people ate.

I don't know exactly how much time passed by until the others were served their dinner, but it seemed like forever. I kept fantasizing about a nice hot shower back in the bungalow, and didn't speak much during this time. My tongue was completely numb from the kava. I felt a little drunk, very much stoned, and my body was almost ready for bed. Va and Nikita had promised to walk me back to the cabins where I was staying, after dinner, since I was pretty much clueless about doing it myself. I have a terrible sense of direction and besides, it was my first day in Fiji, and I obviously didn't know my way back. I started getting antsy seeing there was no movement on these people's parts to even begin eating. I tried calming myself down with another cup of kava and obtained the reverse effect.

-“Suva?”. I asked. “When are we leaving?”

-“Soon”, answered Va. “After we eat”.

Nikita didn't even look at me. I started freaking out because no one was even paying attention to the fact I had stayed with them all day, ate, drank, hung out, and was now ready to head back. It felt as though they were ignoring me on purpose. I was tired of the melodies playing on the broken radio. They weren't amusing anymore. My eyes kept flying around the room and I couldn't sit straight. Shortly after, more people began arriving at the tepee and serving their own dishes, and eating at their own paces. I couldn't see or feel the sun anymore. The room was dark and it was hard for me to focus with my eyes. I started feeling scared and grasped my fannypack in desperation. Va was almost done with his dinner by now. The Fijian voices in the room had completely transformed from being harmonious and sweet, to machiavellic. I decided to step outside of the tepee and breathe some fresh air.

The night was as dark as the insides of a whale's mouth. All I could see were the whites of the villagers' eyes. There wasn't one star in the sky; therefore, it was hard for me to distinguish where the division of the earth and the sky was. The hot curry had filled my belly and the kava made me clumsily step back into the tepee once again.

-“Va, when can we leave?”, I asked once again. “I'm tired”.

No response.

I suddenly decided I had to get the hell out of that place. I would walk back even if I had to do it alone.

- “Sarah?”, said the taller one of Va's aunts. She once again signaled me with her finger.

What the hell did she want?, I wondered. I couldn't reason at this point, however, I followed her outside the tepee for some stupid reason. All I could see were the whites of her eyes, for it was completely pitch black. I could hardly even stand straight.

- “My cousin sells beers in the village. Buy for us?”, she said.

I could hardly comprehend and suddenly felt an even stronger energy filled with rage, vertigo, and vehemence running rapidly through my veins. I thought I was going to pass out right at that moment. Even so, I kept my cool of the outside and tried to control myself. I couldn't see anything; it was as though I was speaking with a ghost.

- “No!”, I said. “I have no more money. I bought you and your whole village all this food, plus rum, and you still expect something?! I'm going home now” I responded sturdily.

I began walking inside realizing that I had left my shoes inside the tepee, and suddenly, she grabbed my arm forcibly. It almost stopped my circulation. My body shaked. I pushed her away.

- “Let me go!”, I said.

She approached me once again and in the most insane murmur she whispered into my ear.

- “We are friends, I think. Friends help other friends, right?”

I could feel her cold curry breath pulsing against my ear.

I ran back into the tepee, grabbed my shoes, and told Va I was leaving immediately. I was so freaking angry, drowsy, and ready to evacuate from there, that it didn't even make a difference anymore. I was willing to do anything it took. Va followed behind me, and told me he would walk me back to the cabin. The lack of light created more confusion. Not only was I completely out of it, but I also couldn't even see the piece of ground where I was standing. I heard a voice shouting to me from behind. It was coming from the tepee.

- “Sarah! We get beers and tomorrow I bring you bill”, said the woman.

I cursed her under my breath for the rest of the way. I tripped and scrapped my knee as we left the village. I could see absolutely nothing. No street light, no lamps, nothing at all. Va led the way. He knew the village like the palm of his hand. I felt as though I was completely blind. The only guide I had to lead me was the noise of his flip-flops on the ground.

I followed the sound all the way back. Somehow I trusted it. An occasional car would sometimes pass by, honk at us, and shine its bright lights. It was the only grasp of control and consciousness I experienced throughout the whole walk back. Even so, the cars still scared me because their appearance was completely unexpected and I kept thinking I would surely get run over by one of them.

I don't know how, but somehow, after this lengthy, gloomy, and pitch black tunnel, I finally saw a light. It was a tiny light bulb flickering on and off as though it was about to burn out. The words Suvaloo Bungalows were carved into the piece of wood where the light sputtered. My body felt a sudden flush of relief. I was back.