Territorio Rebelde
Tonight I find myself in one of those moments when I'm suffused with an ineffable lightness of being; a condition in which the beauty of this precious life produces an upwelling of emotion that leaks out of my tear ducts and flows glistening down my checks; an outward manifestation of my inner state.
I awakened an hour before dawn in the cool highlands far southeast of gringolandia, Venus already well above the eastern horizon blazing in the way that only she, the brightest "star" in heaven can; smiling really, at the third rock from the sun, locked in a gravitational dance of planetary bodies in which 'she' periodically 'dies' as she disappears behind the sun, and re-emerges eight days later as Quetzalcoatl reborn.
This morning I too feel as if I have completed a circuit and been reborn.
I'm behind the wheel, pushing the truck through the tight turns; well into the tropics here, the pines of the altos give way to tropical forests and warmer air as the road descends the contours of mountains that are a patch work of corn fields and remnant forest, though towns with indigenous names that are so much fun to pronounce once I've learned to wrap my tongue around them.
In the highlands the coffee is just ripening and the corn planting waits for the rains. In the lowlands there is no coffee visible on the bushes and the corn is starting to mature. Very different worlds.
After five hours of passing lumbering trucks and chicken buses, we finally turn off the pavement, off the map, lock the hubs, put the truck into 4WD and head into the forested lowlands on a dirt track snaking away into the selva.
My heart sings as the road deteriorates. After several wrong turns and back tracks, it drops into a deep valley and fords an impressively sized river that is only crossable when it is not raining.
The dark green tropical forest opens up and we are greeted by sign painted with a big red star and announcing that I'm entering "Territorio Rebelde" (Rebel Territory). Spread out along both sides of the narrow jungle track is a collection of thatched and corrugated metal roofed buildings, many painted in colorful murals of people in resistance and their defiant words proclaiming there desire to live free and struggle against extinction.
Scattered throughout the village are banana trees and corn patches. People here move in the timeless rhythms of poor farmers everywhere. Butterflies flutter, turkeys and pigs roam about. The sounds of bird song from the forest at the village edge provides a continuous reminder that 'nature' is close by.
Imagine the location set of a Hollywood movie: a rebel base secreted deep in the jungle, somewhere in Latin America. I wonder who is imitating who.
Sometimes it's difficult to remember that we are here to do serious revolutionary work and not to get caught up in the romance of the place :-; its physical beauty and the outrageous people who have declared themselves to be autonomous.
We are given accommodation at the international peace observer camp. It is occupied by Catalan anarchists who warmly welcome us with wonderfully accented Spanish. They seem to have a carefree grace that I don't see much in Americans these days; perhaps it's a lack of fear and anxiety, but it's palpable and I envy it.
We spend the evening chatting about culture and politics. Talking with them gives me hope. They say that at the February 15 marches against war in Iraq across Spain, that there was a broad cross section of society represented. Many people who have never been active before were out in the street.
We look across the road at the guards who stand watch 'round the clock for the paramilitary groups that continue to be active in this area; The presence of peace observers seems to be a deterrent to the death squads. Such a paradox: I wonder at the very real dangers that the stoic rebels face and the freedom that we give up to pay for our privilege.
Later someone tunes the radio to a regional station. The host and guest are speaking very articulately about the nature of the conflict in Iraq, and the world's response opposed to the U.S. position. Again I'm hopeful: if such intelligent discussion is reaching campesinos here in this jungle, I assume that the same sorts of conversations are reaching in-and-out-of-the-way places around the world. Everyone knows. The distance and radio filter out the emperor's mendacious manufactured charade and delivers the death rattle of a dessicating corpse. It feels good to be in a 'stronghold' in territorio rebelde, even if it is tenuous.
I spent the afternoon exploring along the river that runs down the valley paralleling the community. It is a world class water works, without a dot on a map, so it's still unknown to the world. The physical beauty of the river is what must have caused the inhabitants to settle here. The water is has the aquamarine color common to travertine. For about half a mile there is a continuous series of falls, pools, and travertine dams that the water deposits as its minerals come out of solution.
Hot and sweating; diving into the water is amniotic ecstasy. I'm Johnny Weissmuller and Lord Greystoke crossing the threshold of a disappearing forest... fading into the dreamscape of chainsaws, logging trucks and endangered species.
One of the compañeros tells me that he is worried that the community will be displaced to make way for an eco-tourist resort.
A feeling of timelessness exists here; time kept by roosters and the cycles of rain and corn... face-to-face with the relentless march of 'progress'. So many poor choices being made in a world pregnant with possibility.
From a postage stamp piece of rebellious paradise somewhere southeast of gringolandia,