bom-cu-PRA cu-PRA ta-bom-TAK-ta-ti-ki-TAK-TAK.

bom-cu-PRA cu-PRA ta-bom-TAK-ta-ti-ki-TAK-TAK.

bom-cu-PRA cu-PRA ta-bom-TAK-ta-ti-ki-TAK-TAK.

bom-cu-PRA cu-PRA ta-bom-TAK-ta-ti-ki-TAK-TAK.

así van las clases. that's the guaguancó.

i don't want to forget these rhythms.  i've always considered myself kind of devoid of rhythm.  i love making music, but it's usually of the sappy-girl-song ilk, the kind without a defined beat.  i can't dance because i think too hard about the rhythm, get tense, and don't have fun.  thanks but no thanks to the person who gave me THAT complex, you know who you are. grin.

but this, this is a different thing. 

i get up early, swim in the ocean for an hour or so. it's usually nice in the morning, after raining itself out at night.  the weather here is split in fairly even thirds-- about one third sunny, one third cloudy, one third rainy.  except for standing in full sun, they all feel pretty much the same--warm and wet. the rain is coming down with a vengeance right now...  it's funny to think i was so sweaty for the first few days, now i love it, my skin loves it.  the ocean is warmer than the rain, and warmer than the river that feeds it. it feels great to stand in the ocean while it's raining, the lightning as bright and constant as a fall of welding sparks.  

after i swim i sneak into the yoga studio. it's an open air shelter with a wood floor, and only occupied during the daily 6pm class. they leave the mats out. no one has kicked me out yet. the howler monkeys sound like demons and disrupt my practice. 

i open up the window at 8, make coffee, make gallo pinto, mixed beans and rice. breakfast is always gallo pinto, sometimes with eggs, sometimes with thick sour cream, sometimes with a wedge of salty, fresh cheese. i make a big vat of it to sell later. the beans are always cooking, simmering in huge pots with onion, garlic, and meat, usually smoked pig skin.  this morning it was some kind of tentacled thing, probably squid. the finished meal tasted like the ocean. 

i read while the coffee brews. i have read one book a day since i came here, and have unfortunately picked several oprah-type books in a row.  so here i am in a tropical paradise, reading about incest in turn-of-the-century ireland or illegitimate pregnancy in WWII jamaica or  dramatic racial discrimination in mid-century atlanta.  i get it, oprah. it's tough to be a woman.

i spend the afternoons on my own, accompanied by all three hostel dogs, who race ahead, hopefully clearing out all the ticks and snakes. sometimes i hang out with other travelers, climbing waterfalls and hillsides, surfing (it's fun), catching the brilliant purple-and-red-crabs called tajalines from their holes in the woods, trying to climb coconut trees (it's not fun), trying to find the capuchins with the babies that come by occasionally. they lick their lips and point to their stomachs, asking for mangoes and almonds. 

in the evenings i hit miguel up for drum lessons. if he's not off his nut, he'll teach me. he is a really patient teacher. josué and i dance salsa barefoot in the dirt. i tried to dance with the dominican guy but he chewed his gum too loud and kept yelling at me to relax. i got tense and didn't have fun.  i play cards with folks who are staying at the hotel, mostly nederlanders and americans, lots of english girls, the occasional italian.

bom-cu-PRA cu-PRA ta-bom-TAK-ta-ti-ki-TAK-TAK.