Palenque

Out of town and into country, five of us split into two cars. They are simple, older, but well kept sedans with highly capable drivers. It feels like star treatment after some of our other recent forms of transportation. We depart Cartagena and head south. The landscape changes from urban to industrial to — passed out in the back seat, I’m not sure — to bucolic countryside. Trees and farms and rolling hills dominate both sides of the road. 

Eventually, we take a right and the pavement gives way to dirt: “6km: San Basilio de Palenque,” a sign reads. I’m fully awake now. We’re flanked by square, cylinder block homes and more of the same countryside, but more densely dotted with foliage. At this point, I’m getting that feeling I used to get in the back seat of my parents car, driving up through Stroudsburg, PA on the way to Pinemere — camp jitters. This is nervous excitement. I’ve been hearing about and studying this place for over a year. All those stories John told us. The dirt turns to pavement. All the YouTube clips we’ve watched. The elevation is steadily rising. Months and months of preparation. My stomach is in knots — it’s not the arepa I had for breakfast. 

There’s no new sign, no change in surroundings, but it’s clear now that the driver has slowed down; we’ve arrived in San Basilio de Palenque.  A town established by escaped slaves.  The home of Lengua Palenquera. A beacon for linguists. Our home for the next two weeks. The place where we’ll do our experiments to try to understand better the bilingual mind. But this is not a lab; this is a town. These are not volunteers in the basement of some building in State College; these are people going about their daily lives. We’re not only here for science; we’re here to learn about Palenqueros — to learn about ourselves. Language doesn’t matter if there aren’t people to share it with.