going....going....

My replacement, Chris, and I hopped an evening bus to Medellín in order to take the first morning bus up to Apartadó. I am a convincing sleeper on bus rides, though long and winding they may be here in Colombia. I unfurled the blanket I had brought, proving my seasoned status as a rider on the frigidly air conditioned busses between Bogotá and Medellín, popped my earphones in and settled down for the 10 hour ride.

Forehead to the window, I watched the dark shadows of mountains and eventually the river valley pass by. Sleep would not come. I was too focused on the fact that this was the start of a long journey north back home. I would not pass this way again until I begged, borrowed, or stole enough money to get me back to this country that has come to mean so much to me. And the winding road was bringing me closer and closer to the place that will always have a hold on me, the Peace Community and La Unión in particular. It is full of the friends and neighbors who have been my family since I half fell off/half purposefully dismounted a horse back in November of 2006. As I scoured the darkened scene outside the quickly fogging window, I was awash in the warm sentiment true to homecomings. Faces flashed through my mind and that all-too-obvious lump in my throat threatened to choke me with tears. I was only going back for five days. It was essentially a delivery trip: get new volunteer Chris to the community, give him some training and head north to Panama to begin my amble across Central America and eventually home.

My wakeful thoughts turned to rearranging my admittedly loose travel plans. I would stay for a bit longer. Afterall, I was leaving only days before one of the most important anniversaries in the Community, that of the 2005 massacre in Mulatos. And this year the remembrance would be observed alongside a celebration of return to the outlying community – as a handful of resilient families would mark the macabre date by moving back to the vereda to restake their claim to the fertile land that has been emptied out over and over by paramilitary and military threats, massacres and forced displacements. How could I leave a couple days before this? I had been to Mulatos many times; accompanying the process of planting that readied the area for this very return and this was seeing the process to fruition, I had to go. Having decided this I quickly allowed to not-so-gently rocking bus to lull me to sleep.

We managed to arrive in plenty of time to buy tickets for the 5am bus to Apartadó and boarded the next installment of land travel. We arrived around 2pm, met Danny who has been in the Community the past month, got some lunch, some groceries and headed up on the chiva to San Josecito. I was smiling like a fool at just about anyone. In Apartadó, I had managed to hug the chiva drivers, the juice ladies, a waiter, the vegetable ladies and even tried to see if the bathroom attendant in the terminal would remember me. (she most definitely did not) So, when I hopped off the chiva in San Josecito I was running into much more deserved and expectant hugs. These hugs were the ones I had been waiting for. It felt so right to be back. We didn’t stay long down below as the darkening sky hastened us towards La Unión.

The hike up was seen through a lover’s eye. When I first arrived I remember Paul and Mireille gushing about just how gorgeous this place is, how special, sacred even. And I found reason to agree. But, having been unexpectedly sent away back in the very start of December and then living in Bogotá for the past two plus months, I was gushing. It felt unreal that we were invited to live here, that the green could be so green, that the setting sun could be so warm and purple. Walking into La Unión, the greetings of some of my favorite kids rung out in the darkness before we even made it through the door. I sped up my pace. I grabbed the first available child and squeezed. It was so right to be back. The less-than-luxury homes seemed without flaw to me. Dilapidation looked sensational. We slowly inched our way towards our house. Everyone declaring that I looked fatter and healthier. Chris introduced himself in my wake of joyful hugs and how´vyabeens and I smiled as I heard the first struggles to correctly say his name as he in turn made his first attempts at some of the more creative and tongue-numbing monikers of this small community.

We eventually made it to the FOR house and I felt that twinge of sigh-filled home. The next morning I slept in a bit and as I lay awake listening to the sounds of morning - chickens, rancheros and vallenatos, folks leaving for work in the fields, kids running down to the school – I realized that my original plan would hold. I would indeed leave at the end of my precious five days. And it would not be the best timing I’ve ever had. But, I’m at a loss to really understand exactly when would be a good time to leave an at-risk community. I’m unsure exactly how you leave people you have grown to truly care about, how you leave the excitement and danger of living in a Colombian war zone. It seems to me that you just leave when the time for leaving has come. So that is what I am doing. The time has come. I am leaving.