De Polvo Eres

A couple of days ago Mireille and I accompanied the community as they exhumed bodies from the cemetery in the casco urbano of San José (where they were displaced from in April of 2005). We woke up early to go down, being passed or joined by many from La Unión on the way down. Upon arriving in San José we headed straight to the cemetery by walking up a steep hill that leads up to the police post. The police post, installed in April of 2005 in response to the Feb 2005 massacre, is the reason the community displaced to San Josesito. The hill then heads down a bit and the cemetery is hidden from the town center but in plain view of the police post, a point amplified by the guns that were constantly trained on the community as the exhumation commenced.

This is the start of a very long process. The community has suffered over 150 deaths since its’ founding in 1997, there are many remains to locate and move. They plan to move them to the memorial that is being constructed in San Josesito. A large and grim task as people have been laid to rest all over the veredas. (If you need extra clarification for any unfamiliar words please refer to the “Allow myself to introduce myself…er my surroundings” post). It is made more complicated by the lack of headstones for many of the deceased. This leads to family members trying to remember which tree or bush was near the grave. And always-changing vegetation further complicates the task.

As the first coffin was located and the remains were pulled out, adults and children crowded around to see who had been found. They had been hoping to unearth Fernando Aguirre, a community leader and the former partner of one of the women from La Unión, she stood over the plastic bag as her son, too young to remember his assassinated father, stood nearby watching. The Priest who has been with the community since its’ founding and who now works out of Bogotá was present to preside over the remains. He began to separate bones from clothes and other material. It was decided that this was not the body of Fernando Aguirre, but Elkin David Tuberquia. His mother stood to the side, clearly affected by the surprise of being confronted with her son’s remains

Nearby another body was located, this time the person with the shovel was the 15 year old son of the assassinated man. He was another community leader named Anibal Jimenez, killed by the Paramilitaries in 1999. Again, the priest sorted through the remains and Anibal was identified by his clothing. Community leaders also unearthed the remains of a third man, Fernando Espinoza, a leader assassinated by the Guerilla in 1997. Towards the end of this process a police commander came into the cemetery to ask what was going on and who had authorized it. Mireille and I and two accompaniers from Peace Brigades International (they accompany San Josesito 2-3 nights a week) collapsed on the police, priest and community present. The priest and one of the leaders answered questions and reminded the police that this cemetery was private property of the Peace Community. The police, machine guns hanging at their side, wrote down names, radioed something in and finally left.

Already past noon, the community gathered the remains and headed down the road to San Josesito. Folks cleaned up and gathered in the main kiosk in the late afternoon. The priest then presided over a ceremony, which included a re-consecration of the remains, the baptism of 2 children and the first communion rite of 10 young girls and one young boy. In his short homily he focused on the juxtaposition of life and death within the peace community. In front of him were four wooden boxes with the remains of assassinated community members, the families of the baptized children and 11 youth, dressed up in white with looks of excitement on their faces. Never has juxtaposition needed less articulation.

After the youth received their first communion, we processed out to the field where the monument will be built and the remains were buried once again, this time in the heart of San Josesito. The painted rocks that bear the names of all those martyred from the community lay nearby, a colorful testimonial to remembrance and a grim display of the many sacrifices suffered.

The next day I was chatting with one of the women who I spend time with each day. Two of her brothers were killed in the La Unión massacre in 2000. She said she couldn’t help but think of how strange it is that people are reduced in death to bones that fit into a small plastic bag, a small wooden box. The bible rings true, she said, we do indeed return to dust…

time to gather round the festivus pole

The community had a Christmas dance last night. The music system was “tested” for just about the entire day. This was especially thrilling because the building the dance was in lays directly across the way from our house. Last night we danced inside this concrete building with three windows. Usually the community dance is in the kiosk because it is bigger and without, well, concrete, making the heat created by dancing less relevant. But there is fear of inviting an attack by armed actors by providing a very visible target and so this puts us inside the much more intimate concrete building.

Vallenato is, of course, the mainstay, mixed in with some regaton, guasca and occasional ranchero. It beats out a 2/4 rhythm and in between each verse is a solo accordion riff. Couples trace out small circles, then turn the other direction, her arms around his neck, his arms just below her hips. Some of the most entertaining men look away from their partner, towards the floor while not quite placing their hands on their partners’ back. This type of seeming disinterest is comical given the extreme closeness of the partners, definitely no room for the Holy Spirit. Kids ring the dance floor sitting in chairs, smaller kids on their laps. Earlier after the nightly posada reached its grand finale, the kids had their own dance party. A group of girls would go to the center of the floor (in front of the manger scene they all created with construction paper and palm fronds) and then some boys would spring up and grab a girl, creating a replica in miniature of the swinging hips and studly grace as couples dance hip-to-hip in oh-so-close rhythmic embrace. The moment the music stops, both parties look in the opposite direction, never at each other, and walk towards the nearest wall or exit.

This is my second such dance, although the first was in the cooler environs of the kiosk. Unfortunately, I created a bit of a legend for myself by somewhat keeping up with the energetic Norbey who pulled me onto the dance floor and proceeded to bounce around in such ways that I only matched by practically doing double-dutch jump roping hops. And I don’t know how to double-dutch. I wore, as did Mireille, a santa hat with my name on the white brim in green sparkle. I also had on a brown tank top that was wet under the armpits from my, em, bathing attempt just before we left the house. And wet pants. Everything else I could wear was hanging soaking wet on the line. The pants were only mildly wet. It has been raining for two days and nothing is dry. So I’m already damp from the hips down and on the sides of my torso. And I’m the sweatiest person you have ever met.

The moment Mireille and I approach the building, Norbey spots us, offers up his arms, leads us inside, twirls me into his arms and the crazy hop dance begins. But only for a second, as he actually calms down to dance the more restrained small circles of the vallenato. Of course, our hips are still moving wildly – in ways that my hips were just not born to move. My hips were born to body check girls on the soccer field or slam shut car doors, not to find rhythm in this constant 2/4 beat of music. What’s more, I’m on average 5 inches taller than most willing dance partners. This means that, due to the proximity required in such a dance, I am trying my hardest with each bounce not to knee the nice man in the crotch. This is infinitely challenging, especially when at times the nice man’s sombrero is poking me in the eye with every other bounce and breaking my concentration. And harder yet when the nice man is saying how much he likes tall gringos and how beautiful my eyes are. So the nice man has his hands on my wet hips and I have my knee in prime position to put him in a great deal of pain. Plus, while I can hang as the circle turns me to the right, I loose all sense of rhythm the moment we switch back to the left. Holy Zoolander! I’m not an ambi-turner. After about six dances in a row, each one increasingly sweaty, I ducked outside to the safety of obscurity. One of the older women allowed me to hide a little behind her and when the next dance began I am safe, at least for 4 minutes. We left the dance around 1 am, but the dance did not stop until 6:30 in the morning, an inescapable fact given the music bouncing through my on-again off-again attempt at sugar-plum fairy slumber.

This is not to say I didn’t thoroughly enjoy myself. Celebrations here in the community are joyous and well deserved.

Today, the sky remains covered in grey clouds. Mireille and I are worried about the obvious signs of global warming. It is supposed to be the hot, dry season right now. Folks have said that more rain will surely harm the cacao. And at home, my parents tell me there is no snow and it has been quite warm. But it is the birthday of the niño Jesus, so such worries can be saved for another day. Instead we are lucky to have a constant stream of visitors including the kiddies, who have caught on to our “come visit us and we’ll give you candy” trick of the day. It seems to be working.

For those of you that celebrate Christmas, I wish you a very merry day of renewal and relaxation and tasty treats. Someone find some snow (if it still exists) and build a snowman for me, ok?

Celine Dion Ruins the Moment....Again.

So much can happen in one day that I realize I must be better at sharing what I experience on a more regular basis. That is, after all, why I decided to do this work – I feel a real responsibility to share the privileged insight it provides. Of course, the days go by filled with little interruptions, as now, two of my favorite brothers have wandered in. They urge me to put aside my computer and instead explore the fantastic possibilities of the granola that is on the table next to the hammock I’m currently resting in, trying to get over the nasty nasty bacterium that has kept me feverish, without appetite and a bit delirious for the past few days. I am glad for the visit as I haven’t felt up to doing much else than lay in the hammock. I am beginning to feel a bit disconnected from the community. Here's a photo from a week or two ago of the younger of the brothers, he loves the camera.
The brothers have left after a long visit and now back to the task at hand. After we pulled ourselves out of the topographical map that was the mountains just north of Medellín, we spent a couple of days in the city itself visiting with some of the other groups we provide accompaniment for as well as celebrating Mireile’s 25th birthday. Our first stop was to the Red Juvenil de Medellín (Youth Network of Medellín). The Red has a large house that provides space for offices, meetings, and creative pursuits and always seems to be full of revolutionary and inspiring activity. We said hellos and did introductions with everyone that was around and then headed out with two of the members to meet with Claudia Montoya, a human rights lawyer connected to the Red who had just days before been released from jail.

Claudia had been arrested on charges of rebellion and treason and government conjured witnesses said she had been seen dressed as a guerilla. In reality, Claudia’s only crime was representing social justice workers in a country that doesn’t see such work as a true priority. Soon three of the five witness were proven to be false and Claudia was finally released to house arrest where she waits out the judicial process which legally should last six months but has lasted much longer in many other cases. Meeting with her in her home, 4 days after her release, as her sister and nieces sat with us was surreal. In her early thirties and soft-spoken, she was lucky to have the legal training necessary to not be taken advantage of hile inside the prison system. Punitive justice is harsh in any country, but in one with an ongoing civil conflict it does not bode well to be labeled a dissident.

Thanks to a decent support network and even some international pressure, Claudia was released. Her case will continue to be closely monitored by human rights groups, including FOR. When I asked her if she would return to the same work, she gave me a tired smile and told me that it might be some time before she has the energy to return with the same vigor, but that she hopes to, some day. As for the members of the Red, they said that Claudia’s nighttime surprise arrest has them all a bit on edge. When they are engaged in late-night planning sessions, they jump at the smallest outside noise. The threat of false arrest is a constant fear for those involved in such work here in Colombia.
The next day, at my insistence, we took a ride in the “Metro Cable” which is a kind of gondola that goes from the outskirts of the Medellín valley straight up the mountain towards the poorer neighborhoods of the city. (I’ll try and attach a photo) It is part of the city’s metro system, an aboveground light rail system that continues to expand. This allows at least one more accessible corridor for the some of the less privileged residents of the city. Of course, as with any development, the houses and buildings that lay in the path of the suspended cable car were demolished. Progress comes not without its price.

We got off the metro at the Candeleria Church to stand with the Madres de la Candelaria, a group of mostly women who have had family members disappeared and also murdered by armed actors in the civil conflict. These women meet each Wednesday in front of the large Catholic church; roll out large banners that have color photos, names and date of disappearances. All of the photographs are of people who belong to the women that are there. They stand together, many with photos also hanging off neck lanyards, and chant together for the hour. My three teammates and I stood there in our FOR shirts and our obvious gringo posture and attempted to take in what these women were bearing witness to. Very quickly, I noticed a woman among the many photographs named Juanita Betancaur who was disappeared on my 23rd birthday.

The leader of the Madres gave me a quick hug as I introduced myself and then asked me to talk to a local reporter about our accompaniment. I found myself thrown into my first attempt to give a non-specific interview in Spanish, as FOR accompaniers we do not give opinions on events happening in Colombia. If you know me, you would be right to think that this particular type of restraint is a challenge and one I struggle with. I was immediately taken aback by the reporters correct pronunciation of my last name (usually I get “Hack”) and as the quick interview finished I was approached by a woman who wanted to thank us for our accompaniment.

I asked her name as we were enveloped in the larger group and she began to tell me the story of how her son was disappeared 17 years ago. Her family was also living in Segovia at the time of the horrific and indiscriminate paramilitary massacre of civilians in the late 80s. They displaced after the massacre and soon after her son was taken. Eight years ago, her daughter went out to run some errands and was never seen again. The remaining family displaced again, this time to Medellín, where she found the Madres. Our arms wrapped around one other as she, about a foot smaller causing me to bend down to better hear every word, told me what details she could bear to share. As I stood there, hunched over and shaking with silent tears, I would occasionally look up and feel overwhelmed with the realization that everyone standing as part of this large group has been directly affected by the widespread violence. Mothers, grandmothers, daughters, sisters and a few fathers and brothers, all crying out in unison for justice.

Even though many of their loved ones had been disappeared for years, the pain was evidently fresh and made new with every gathering. It seems that reopening that wound every Wednesday is perhaps one of the best ways to keep their loved ones alive, the moment the pain starts to fade into acceptance is the moment hope is maybe lost. When the hour was complete, the women began to roll up their many banners and invited us back to their nearby office. At the office they showed off their newest form of recognition, the Colombia Peace Prize for 2006, as well as did quick introductions of all the women in the room. Each woman stepped forward, gave her name and the name and date of her disappeared or murdered loved one. This too kept stinging tears running down my face. I, who have been so lucky to be rather unfamiliar with loss, now feel privileged to have these women present their stories and invite us into their process of grief, healing, action and ultimately, hope.

After our time with the Madres, we wandered back towards our hotel, stopping in at the Church of the Candelaria on the way. We lit some candles for the Madres and their loved ones and then I slipped off into a pew to sit with the emotion of the day. I found myself in truly deep prayer/meditation for some time, until outside in the square, the Indigenous Wooden Flute player that seems ubiquitous to all places I have been (from the Boston T station to Austin supermarkets) jarred me out of my reflection by deciding to grace us with his melodic interpretation of the Celine Dion Titanic hit “Our Love Will Go On”. Nothing kills a prayerful mindset quite like it.

The next day we made the winding and long bus ride back to Apartadó. In the days since arriving we’ve made a few hikes up and down the mountain for meetings in the city and in San Josecito. And now I am incapable of much more than laying in this hammock and trying my feverish best to recount the remarkable ways in which people continue to struggle for justice while inviting strangers to share in their struggle.

get IN the map

We just got back fom a retreat with the Bogotà team. We stayed at a friend´s farm outside of Medellìn. The view from the 100 year old house was out of control. I felt like I was in a topographical map.

Light one candle

Yesterday was the official start of the Christmas season here in Colombia. Families light candles, which in Catholic communities is to honor the Virgin Mary, and in all Colombian communities is done to celebrate the "Illuminación" and the start of the holidays. La Unión is not very Catholic or even Evangelical, but candles were lit nonetheless. One of the older men in the community was explaining his religion to me as the enjoyment of music. He said the rhythms and strains of a guitar get him as close to heaven as he has ever been. Many campesinos, as he did, felt abandoned by the Catholic church in the early days of La Violencia and into the current conflict as the hierarchy overwhelmingly sided with the conservative and wealthy power holders. There have been, of course, many priests also dedicated to the people, preaching a theology of liberation but the rift in some communities has yet to heal and religious practices are noticeably absent. Regardless, the warm light of candles on the front stoops and windows of small houses, aided by a clear night allowing the bright moon to do it's part of the illumination stoked the feeling of comfort that is daily growing inside of me.

Today is a national holiday and although we are in town to run errands that include trips to the bank, post office and Electric Company, all we have found are closed signs and lots of candle wax on the sidewalk, a sign of last nights candle lighting. People were selling candles all over the streets today in Apartadó making the bustling informal economy full of more bustle. The informal economy here really is quite impressive. You don´t need a cell phone because you can buy cell phone minutes on the street. There is at least one table on every corner selling minutes for the equivalent of about 25 cents. Today, because I have yet to receive my Colombian ID card from the bureaucracy-laden government (some things are common the world over) I made a ID-sized copy of my passport and got it laminated at the table that said "se plastifica". About a dollar later I had a very official looking passport ID card. Other tables sell fruits, freshly caught fish, bags, ponchos, hats, sandals, candies, jewelry, and the list goes on.

The heavy rains seem to be slowing down here and our walk down the mountain to town was not as muddy as it has been nor was the river as raging. It is also quite possible that I am finally adjusting to this new life and so things do not seem quite as hyperbolic. I think, however, that they will remain awe-inspiring as I can't imagine ever being able to take in all that I am experiencing and find it commonplace.

The kids have been loving the digital camera that the too-generous Wesolek´s got for me. The ability to instantly see the photo that has just been snapped is a curiosity to children and adults alike and a chorus of "Show me, Amanda, show me!" follows the snap of every picture. And for my part, I love, love, love, being able to share photos of my experiences over the information superhighway. More importantly, I´m forever grateful to to the Wesoleks for the thoughtful and useful gift of the camera!

Invierno, Cacao and Living with Violence

It is hard to imagine that it has only been two weeks since I arrived in the community. Time is at once creeping and speeding by. My teammate Mireille continues to recover from malaria, keeping us from traipsing off on too many adventures. The “invierno” or heavy rains continue almost every day. The heat builds here as the sun rises higher in the sky; clothes put on the line at 1:00 are dry by 1:15. The rain seems to come around 3:00 everyday and leaves a cool, fresh breeze in its wake. We have been completing my training in this last week, going over security protocols, evacuation procedures, important events in the community’s history, our agreements with the Internal Council. I have also kept busy with the everyday tasks that seem to take just a little bit longer here. Washing clothes by hand, cooking every meal, washing every dish, gathering food from our garden or trekking down to town and its markets. All of this while kids clamor to have then new FOR volunteer take them to the swimming hole, or carry them on her back, or sing them a song, and as adults come past for a visit and a chance to share their stories. It seems the main task of this job is to build relationships with the people here as the more you are trusted as an accompanier, the more information you are privy to, the better your analysis of the security situation, the more effective your accompaniment.

It seems every day I am struck anew with the realization that the violence of this war has woven itself directly into the fabric of everyday life here. Yesterday I was going over a list of the massacres and killings that have happened since 1977 and an older man walks in, tired from a days work in his fields, and begins to recount his own history. His life story brings to life these atrocities, as each massacre, displacement or threat affected him, was something he survived or something a loved one did not survive. A couple hours later I sat down with the same list of events and a middle-aged woman came over and matter-of-factly recounted loosing two of her brothers in the 2000 massacre that happened in the center of this settlement, La Unión. Paramilitary troops marched into town and took people from their homes, gathering them together at the kiosk in the center of the village. The paras demanded that the leaders identify themselves. After realizing that the community would not give up its leaders, it picked them out on their own, having identified them beforehand, and told everyone else to leave by going further up the mountain into the work fields behind the village. As the men, women and children made it up to the cacao fields they heard the shots begin as each leader was executed. When they were sure the paramilitary had left, they gathered their things and displaced to the main village of San José. They remained displaced for months returning eventually only to suffer through more killings and more displacements. And yet they continue to return and their commitment to the process of this Peace Community holds strong, a remarkable testament to non-violent resistance maintained in the most violent of circumstances.


Last week I sucked on my first cacao bean. The chocolate bean grows in these orange/yellow pods, you break it upon and inside our purple beans covered in a citrus-like membrane. Folks here suck on the bean until the citrus flavor disappears and then throw it out. When harvesting the cacao, the beans are pulled out and dried out, on rooftops here, for about a week, and then the beans are roasted and eventually ground into a paste of pure chocolate. I got to try some of the paste in my first days here as Paul and Mireille prepared some to send home to their families for the holidays. We ground the beans then mixed it with panela and nuts then formed them into delicious chocolate bars. The globalization lesson for today is this: the community sells this rich chocolate and then buys Nestle “ quick choco” to drink and eat.

Allow myself to introduce myself...er my surroundings

It is time to get serious about this blog. I’ve been here two weeks and have yet to say much of anything. It occurs to me that it might be a good idea to give a rundown of places, people and things I will be referring this year. More in-depth background on the conflict/Peace Community/Accompaniment is found among the initial posts. Today’s voacb list:

FOR, Abbr Fellowship of Reconciliation (in Colombia: Movimiento de Reconciliación)
1. US Peace and Justice Interfaith organization, founded in 1918, part of International FOR, supports the Colombia Peace Presence(CPP), a Human Rights Accompaniment Project in Colombia
2. The logo that appears on the shirts I wear everyday, on the house I live in, I’m considering having it permenantly inked on my forehead

Apartadó, pl
1. City of about 100,000 people located in northern Colombia in the gulf of Urabá, the banana growing region of Colombia
2. Takes a 2 hour hike down the mountain and 40 minute chiva ride to get there
from La Unión
3. Location of air-conditioned internet café, bakery with delicious arequipa, clinics to go get tested for malaria, bus terminal with rocking juice stand, airport and hot, sweaty, dirty streets.
4. Location of a post office and a friendly postman who is trying to learn English. Write me at: Amanda Jack FOR/CPP AA 25008 Apartado, Antioquia Colombia

San José de Apartadó, pl (abbr. SJA)
1. A corregimiento of the municipality of Apartadó, also a town center that community members were displaced from in April of 2005 after the installation of a permanent police post
2. Peace Community Formed in 1998 after endless attacks by armed groups. Committed to non-violent resistance, community work groups, and remaining neutral amongst the legal and illegal armed actors.
3. Governed by an elected Council, the council has the responsibility to petition FOR Accompaniers to accompany community leaders/members on trips to outlying settlements or outside of the municipality.


La Unión, pl
1. A settlement of 45 families, 135 people with a few babies expected in the next couple of months, part of the Peace Community of San José de Apartadó, its inhabitants were forced to displace many times, as recently as 2000 after a massacre of 6 leaders in the center of the settlement.
2. Where I live.
3. A place where violence has touched the lives of every woman, man and child. Stories are filled with tales of bravery and fear. Children are identified by “His father was killed last year”.
4. A beautiful, paradise where bananas, star fruit, papaya, mangos, avocados, corn, chocolate beans, coffee beans and so much more grows while animals roam around mowing the grass and eating organic scraps


Mireille, fantastic person
1. Artistic and spirited Canadian who grew up loving the outdoors of British Columbia, arrived in La Unión in June of 2006 to accompany SJA
2. My teammate, my housemate, my new very good friend who just brought me pea soup.

Bogotá Team, compañeros excelentes
1. The other FOR sub-team in Colombia. They work to support the process of SJA and accompaniment within it as well as politically and physically accompany 3 other Colombian non-violent social change groups: the Red Juvenil de Medellín (Youth Network of Medellín), AMOR (Women’s Association of Eastern Antioquia) and the ACA (Small Farmer’s Association of Antioquia)
2. Gilberto, who has been here since February of 05 and Janice who is more newly arrived than me and just completed an amazing bike ride to raise funds and awareness about our project, check out her blog at : www.pedalingforpeace.org

San Francisco Office, noun
1. The third part of the CPP trinity, 2 coordinators (John and Susana) and an intern (Moira) sharing an office with Global Exchange in the San Francisco mission district.
2. Where I worked last year before coming here.
3. Where you can send donations to the project: FOR/TFLAC 2017 Mission Street #305 San Francisco, CA 94110

Campesinos,noun
1. The peasant farmers who live in this community

Sweaty adj.
1. What I am every day here in the equatorial climate, close to the Caribbean especially when I walk up to La Unión from SJA. Or move.

Veredas, noun
1. The divided areas of the corregimiento of San José de Apartadó. I’d maybe compare them to rural townships.
2. Some veredas like La Unión, have a caserio or a settlement of houses, surrounded by work fields. There are no actual roads between or to any of these veredas, just well worn mountain paths.

Cultivos, noun
1. The fields where community members work in groups and also as families to cultivate a variety of fruits, vegetables and grains.
2. A major crop here is baby bananas or primativos as they are called, the cacoa is also plentiful and rich as is coffee and a gazillion other crops

Panela, yummy
1. Sugar cane, ground down, then boiled and formed into blocks of delicious sugary goodness. Often boiled in water and served hot or cold: Agua Panela

Chiva, semi-ridiculous but quite useful mode of transportation
1. Not a goat, but a jeep with 2 benches in the back, that goes up and down the road between Apartadó and SJA, it costs about $1.50 a ride
2. It has to have at least ten paying adults before it leaves at either end and 10 is not a comfortable fit. Once, as legend has it, it fit 32 people.

Machete, noun
1. Device used to cut away brush, open up hard fruits, and other useful tasks.
2. Makes me look more hardcore in pictures taken to send home.

Bestia, noun
1. A horse or a mule that the community will sometimes find for us so we can get up to La Unión or other outlying veredas.

Las Botas, useful noun
1. The bottom half of the FOR accompanier uniform. Rubber gum-boots that hit just below the knee and are used to walk everywhere, keeping water out, unless you are me and allow water and dirt to sneak their way in

Mona, adj.
1. Me
2. Other light skinned persons, including other Colombians.

Zarco, adj.
1. My eyes
2. Light eyes, be they blue or green or brown

Maleria/Paludismo, awful
1. What Mireille currently has and many other teammates before her have had.

La Poza, wet
1. The swimming hole a ten minute walk from the center of La Unión
2. What the kids insist I accompany them to everyday so they can jump on me, at me and over me.

Mugre, predictable
1. Me
2. Dirty/Muddy

Guapa, adj.
1. Here it means strong. "Because Amanda didn’t fall off her horse on the way to Arenas Altas ella es muy quapa." But at first I thought the man was saying I didn't fall off because I'm pretty.

La Huerta, food souce
1. The lovely garden behind our house that gives us lovely fruits and vegetables

Madrugar, verb
1. To wake up early
2. What I am doing now that I’m on campesino time, waking up around 5am and going to bed around 10pm.

Aguacerro, adj
1. A heavy rainfall, like the kind that happen here almost daily right now.
2. A man in town blamed the recent aguacerros on El Niño, which, in case you didn’t know, is Spanish for…The NIÑO.