Midday runs hot here. In fact, I’ve found the best thing to do to avoid the sun at high noon is nothing at all: sit in the shade with a good book or a good friend and good fan, if you can. Also, on occasion — three or four occasions during the past week since I last wrote — a torrent of rain, lighting, and thunder will break the humidity and bring the temperature down. Then, of course, you have to contend with the muddy roads and the inevitability of getting a flip-flop stuck. With the help of my guide and research assistant, Alberto, I learned to navigate the mud patches like a local.
But, of course, I’ve learned much more than how best to remain cool and mud-free. Not too long after lamenting about how tough it was to communicate, I began to fall into the rhythm of this place. With Alberto, I started the process of conducting official, investigative interviews which included both qualitative and quantitative questions. Despite my self-consciousness with real-world Spanish, my guia (Spanish for guide) and I communicated (and still communicate) just fine. Beyond matters of research, we bond over language: Alberto teaches me snippets of Lengua and I help him with his English. The interview process has been over since Tuesday (when I ran out of cash to pay participants), but Alberto and I covered a lot of ground and gained some good insight about Palenque’s neighbors. In five days — not including Saturday and Sunday, skipped in part because of the annual Mango Festival in Malagana — Alberto and I spoke with residents in the surrounding communities of Palenquito, Malagana, San Cayutano, and La Pista (just outside of San Pablo). I’ll wait to analyze the data until I get to the Netherlands because it’s hot here (did I mention that?) and also…
"This is not a lab; this is a town.” Alberto was not just a guide; he’s my friend. Our small group of American researchers have made other friends too. Jorge, Jeiner, Lawin, Ronan: ma kumbilesa suto — our friends, in Lengua. The linguistic situation on the ground here is fascinating, but so is the ground itself. Palenque is an absolutely unique place with remarkable people. I’ve never been in a town where every house has an open door policy that applies not only to animals but to people. Everyone is treated as a neighbor even when you come from halfway across the hemisphere. Palenqueros are quick to smile and greet passersby, saying ¡buenas! any time of day. I quickly got swept up in this neighborly, friendly way of life. There’s gonna be some culture shock back in Elkins Park when every car doesn’t slow down to waive hello and pigs don’t scuttle across the street. More culture shock when I stop eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner homemade from scratch with the freshest imaginable ingredients, oftentimes plucked straight out of the backyard. We have Anna — the mom of the house we’re living in — to thank for most of those delicacies (actually just typical fair for Palenqueros), and her husband, Bernardino — our host for the duration and one of Palenque’s most prominent teachers — to thank for making every other arrangement run smoothly. We’ll miss them come next week. And me? I won’t miss the splotchy red color my feet turn covered in mosquito bites, but I’ll sure miss Palenque.
On Saturday, Mary Beth, Mindy, and I will hop on motorbikes, and then on a bus, and then on another bus to return for one more night at the Mama Waldy Hostel in Cartagena. Just as I’m starting to pick up some Lengua, tune my ears to the rural Spanish dialect, and earn some street-cred playing soccer with Palenqueros, it’s time to head out. Sure, at home I’ll get a proper shower and the bug bites will fade, but when’s the next time I’ll get to call out buenas?
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