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Limon, Costa Rica
December 2, 1982
The blood spread across the ceiling serves as ample forewarning to turn the fan off. Our room has a double bed, a little nightstand, and a pendant lamp suspended by a frayed wire, dangling precariously close to the two clammy pillows.
"I feel like I'm in Graham Green's novel," Catalina says.
I inch my way out of the bed, careful not to get decapitated, and make my way to Catalina sitting on the windowsill, lighting up one of her Camel cigarettes.
"Thinking about your father, Catje?" I ask, knowing her father was a Graham Green fan.
She smiles as I grab the cigarette from her hand.
"Women were either depicted as saints or sinners." Catalina leans her head against the wall and looks me in the eyes. "I know I keep bringing it up, but the indigenous cultures with matriarchal societies—I want to meet one of those women. I want to feel what they feel."
I grab her hand, and she strokes mine. We look outside the window and see two men with thin gold chains sparkling against their skin. The moment they sip their Red Stripes, Catalina and I look at each other and ask, "Thirsty?"
We rush to the little kiosk as the wind picks up, and in the distance, a dark black curtain of billowing clouds moves over the sea toward the hotel. No problem, we’ll be back in two minutes.
Nature waits for nobody.
Raindrops fall from the sky with such force they seem to bounce like rubber balls when they hit the concrete.
It takes us three minutes to get back to the hotel, but that’s enough to be entirely soaked.
We strip down and wrap two humid towels around ourselves. We sit on the window sill, watching lightning bolts pierce their fiery signatures throughout the sky. The wind amplifies, her mournful howls intensifying with each passing moment. She pushes the palm trees into Cs and rips the foliage, spreading it across the street.
The Caribbean Sea grumbles, and her power fills the room with a presence that silences us. We watch the lightning illuminate the crests of the waves with white foam and the rain that lashes the terrace, causing the drops to bounce back upwards.
However eerie the blood, the concrete slab we ended up in doesn't seem all so bad anymore.
We hold each other tightly as she thunders with a sound of sharp metal. She pours out all her rage and sorrow, giving life, even amongst the darkness and pain. And then, suddenly, it’s over. The thunder and lightning have moved inland, leaving only a drizzle.
The room is humid, and we are still wet, but Catje looks radiant as she tastes the seawater on her lips. The light line of her "Van Thillo furrow" (a characteristic of the father's side of her mother) has vanished.
She kisses me, then fits her head between my shoulder and chest like a puzzle.
The next day, we head to Cahuita with a car that’s likely stolen. No paperwork or license is necessary, just trust.
The road from Limon to the Panamanian border meanders through densely forested areas and small banana plantations. Every few minutes, I dodge old trucks laden with bananas, rumbling up the hill, ignoring any concept of right, left, or lanes.
I read about the atrocities of the United Fruited Company, but being here, on the land they destroyed, I sense the suffering. The only way I can keep sane in this madness is to let everything I have learned spill out of me.
"Can you believe what the United Fruit Company did in the early 20th century? The fuckers grabbed lands for their damn banana cultivation. It’s pure banana politics with the UFC having the government eat out of their hands, shaping policies for their pockets. They don't give a shit about the Bribri and Cabecar communities. They trample all over the ancestral territories of these indigenous people, ripping away their connection to the very lands, their cultures and souls—
I swerve and honk.
“These fucking trucks! And it isn't just Costa Rica. Jamaica's biodiversity and resilience have gone down the drain with these plantations. And then, as if that isn't enough, the Fusarium Wilt disease strikes, wreaking havoc on the plantations.”
Time to gear up and pass this shithead!
“And what does the United Fruit Company do? They try to wiggle their way out of it by changing their name to Chiquita! So it goes."
I pass the truck, suddenly aware of how heavily I’m breathing.
"Don't get so worked up, Luca. But you're right."
"I do get worked up. I mean, those bastards from the UFC practically own countries like Honduras and Nicaragua—actually, all of Central America. Civil wars, repression, genocide—a bloody puppet show for them."
Catalina doesn't respond at first. The banana plantations are behind us, and Catje looks out the window at the towering moss-laden trees that shade the road and cool me down.
"Well, maybe we can tell our children about the wonders of nature. They could be the last witnesses of the beauty on this planet. Just imagine."
"Did I miss something? When did you give birth?"
"No, no, you know my mind's not there. Kids, I mean. But nature's all about reproduction, right? What else is the purpose of life?"
"The purpose? Trying to reproduce as much as possible."
"I think that's the drive. Maybe the purpose is diversity. The more types of plants, ideas, and people, the healthier our world and societies. It's those who try to reproduce more of the same who misunderstand this."
I place my hand on Catje's knee, and the wild beach of Cahuita appears in the distance. As eager as we are to tackle the teeming vegetation surrounding the trails to the beach, we must find a place to sleep.
After a few turns, we realize we’ve seen the entire village. The choice is easy.
There is no choice—a motel-ish shelter is all there is. The room’s shower head is connected to electric wires, creating a makeshift water heater at 110 volts next to mouldy, damp walls.
But a beach town is a beach town, and we quickly find a bar where the Cuba Libres come with the right amount of rum and a splash of cola.
From the bar, I peer over at Catalina, who sits speaking Spanish with an elderly woman who bursts into laughter. I know to leave the ladies alone and turn back toward the bartender, a man as black as onyx. I admire the intensity of his colour and wonder if racism arises from jealousy.
"Es bueno hacer snorkel en el arrecife," I say in my rudimentary Spanish.
"A wah dat," he answers in what must have been Limonese Patois. That or my Spanish is indeed very basic.
Time to try English.
"How is the snorkelling at the reef?"
"Best reef in the world. Plenty of fish and colours. But now you won't see your hand in front of you. End of the rainy season. Very cloudy and messy. Chaka-chaka.”
I study my surroundings, inhale the stillness, and—
BAWK!
Two chickens fight over a piece of garbage, creating a brief cacophony of hellish screeching. A sleeping street dog raises its head, huffs in indignation, licks its balls and goes back to sleep.
I let the scene settle in my mind, call for two more Cuba Libres, and nod my thanks to the bartender.
"Walk good," he says.
I bring the drinks to Catalina and ask the lady if she wants something. Her countenance wearing an exotic grace framed by discerning eyes.
"Eres un hombre afortunado con una mujer como Catalina," You’re a fortunate man with a woman like Catalina, she says.
"Sí, doña," I reply, and just as I am about to introduce myself, I realize the two ladies aren't done talking and can do without the company of a lucky man for a little while.
"I'm going to the beach; I'll be back in an hour."
Catalina smiles and strokes my back, appreciating how well I understood her unspoken request.
I walk to Playa Blanca, and my decision to leave the ladies alone is immediately approved by two Capuchin monkeys in a giant palm tree, calmly looking at me and smiling.
On the beach, I see a blue crab with red and yellow shades, and I follow the creature as it quickly seeks safety in the plant world. It disappears into a small hole. But there’s another crab, and another, and another. I run after these little masterpieces, feeling like a child again.
I am so immersed in my own world that I nearly bump my head into a bright yellow viper snake, half hidden under the beach grapes. Like the blue crabs, I am back on the beach in the blink of an eye.
Usually, it's people who venture into the jungle in search of "wildlife," but I feel like I am the clown in a packed circus. High above me, the howler monkeys laugh themselves silly and even throw a few twigs onto the stage.
I hurry back to the village as fast as I can. When I get to the bar, the lady stands up, embraced by Catalina, who also looks ready to explore the inland.
The Talamanca mountain range, where Cerro Chirripo stands tall at 3818 meters, overlooks both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, creating a paradise with some of the greatest biodiversity on this planet.
As we drive through the breathtaking Talamanca Mountain Range with our “rented” sedan, Catalina’s eyes shimmer.
It is my time to listen.
"I've always wanted to visit a matriarchal community, and now I met a Bribri woman in Cahuita. Unbelievable. And way more interesting than listening to a privileged professor in a university lecture hall frustrated that his books aren't selling."
Amidst the twists of the meandering road, she leans forward, wholly absorbed in the tapestry of knowledge.
"The Bribri is one of the world's few matrilineal societies, you know, and the land is handed down from mother to daughter. It's the women who give life, who suffer to give life, so it's pretty obvious that they are also in charge of life."
I nod, taking in her words.
"The woman told me about their God, Sibu, who creates a strong relationship between women and their environment… I respect the idea, but after spending twelve years in a catholic school, I’m a bit allergic to Gods of any sort."
That's one of the many reasons I love you.
"It's not about who’s the boss, who has the power, but who is the leader, who leads by example. And since women will protect their children by a natural force unknown to men, they’ll also protect their environment if the community's future is at stake with that same force."
Before I can respond, Catalina says precisely what I was thinking.
"This is the kind of feminism—if you want to call it that—I can get behind. Not the individualistic, frustrated 'look at me' kind of feminism conceived in Europe and the US.”
Catalina casts her eyes out the window. I trace her gaze, a sense of déjà vu hanging in the air, as if she’s been here before.
“She described how a community is like a bird. The woman is one wing, and the man is the other. To make the community, both wings have to be equal. It's not about proving what a woman can do on her own or showing—we just crossed a creek, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then we can park the car here. The beginning of the forest trail should start just behind the little river; at least, that's what I understand."
"And where are we actually going?"
"For those who don't know where they want to go, every road leads to the destination."
"That sounds like the motto of our life," I say, pulling her in and kissing the top of her head.
She rubs my back and then breaks free to march ahead.
"Follow the guide," she says, giving me a wink as she knows walking behind someone is not my nature. Then she disappears into the greenery, and I have no choice but to follow.
The deeper we penetrate the jungle, the narrower the path becomes. The towering trees and thick undergrowth create a tunnel-like effect, almost as if nature itself is guiding us. Vibrant green ferns line the sides of the trail, their delicate fronds reaching out as if beckoning us to explore further.
"Do you know that the cacao tree is actually considered a female?" Catalina says, reaching out to touch one. "It’s seen as a wise sister who heals you when you're sick and brings happiness when injustice occurs."
I am too hot to answer, so I just reach out to touch the tree with her. The rugged patterns tell tales of the tree's endurance against the elements and the passing years. Yet, amidst the roughness, there are patches of smoothness and new beginnings.
"In various forms, cacao is used in all ceremonies, and only the woman can prepare and use the sacred drink. You know, when a girl gets her first menstruation, it is honoured and celebrated by the community. She is washed with cacao and learns to take pride in her moon cycles. From a giggling child to a woman capable of giving life. That's how ‘primitive’ peoples celebrate a young woman.”
As much as I’d like to dive deeper into the conversation, I notice we’re diving deeper and deeper into a jungle we don’t know.
"I’m listening, but Catje, are you sure we're following the right trail?"
She falls silent, sits down, and takes a water bottle from my backpack. Her gaze is fixed ahead, and I can see her eyes fill with an unfamiliar sorrow.
I stay quiet and wait to see what will come next.
"I was 13 years old when I suddenly started bleeding in the bathroom... between my legs. I didn't know what was happening and called for my mother. 'Mamske, mamske, come quickly, I'm sick.' My mother reassured me and told me that I had become a woman—that I would bleed every month for most of my life. I was in shock and couldn’t understand how my body could allow this to happen. I felt truly lost."
I just stand there. What’s a man to say? What’s a man to know?
"When I was at the table with my father and brothers, my mother said, 'Cattepoes has become a woman.' My brothers stared at me and saw no difference between the girl of an hour ago. Then my father said, 'We don't discuss those things at the table.' The way he says 'those things' made me feel dirty, like the female body was something to be ashamed of."
I put my arm around her as she cries and take in her sweet scent.
"To this day, it's difficult for me to accept my menstruation, to accept myself as a woman with ovaries and all that stuff. And today, for the first time, a woman tells me I can be proud of my menstruation. That I am a source of life."
Catalina stands up and walks confidently through the jungle where the trail dares not go. The howler monkeys' roar and the cicadas' chirping are deafening, but I follow her and slowly begin to feel like Tarzan, running after Jane—except I have hiking boots on.
Catalina stops at a large cacao tree and gestures for me to approach quietly. Before us lays an open space where a few giant trees provide plenty of shade.
The trees are covered in brilliantly woven nests, some a meter long. The owners of the nests have large straight beaks that seem to end at the top of their heads.
Catalina whispers something in my ear, but it remains an untranslatable sound of awe. The oropendolas, also widely known as the weaver birds, sing loudly and melodically, tic-tic-glik-glac-GLUUuuuuu."
The show goes on. Under the giant trees stand a few large fruit trees, populated by about ten exuberant keel-billed toucans. Striking and colourful birds with large, curved bills showcasing vibrant green, blue, orange, and yellow hues, while their black plumage contrasts their bright, feathered throat.
We watch in awe as the oropendola birds perform acrobatic displays to impress their mates. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale where you have to walk through an invisible wall to enter another world.
"What is this place?" I ask.
"I think it's an old abandoned agricultural land of the Bribri people. A finca integral. They always left large trees for shade and protection against heavy rainfall. Underneath, they planted fruit and cacao trees that protected medicinal plants, herbs, and vegetables."
I follow Catalina’s gaze. She’s staring at two cacao trees that seem to have this wall of energy around them. It is something mystical our languages can’t capture.
Catalina doesn’t need to tell me to wait as she walks through the magical wall and sits under two cacao trees. She gently touches the trunk and silently observes the weaver birds. The toucans fly away, and one drops a piece of fruit from its beak. It lands next to Catalina with a soft thud.
I remain a spectator of all this beauty and see a few brightly coloured butterflies land on Catalina's hair. Then, larger blue butterflies flutter in and settle on her legs, arms, and back. After five minutes, she is completely covered in butterflies, sitting under the cacao trees.
She has found her sisters.
Each story stands alone but holds more weight for those who read from the beginning.
Woaw.. i was reading and at the same time I was able to see everything. Or Mother Nature choose Catalina for something so especial. Thank you for sharing this story. Should be a movie really, something words are just words
Thoughts passing through me as I read:
that kind of rain, from my neck of the woods, is my favourite
the barman is Jamaican
yep yep always some form of imperialistic behaviour destroying our part of the world, if only the citizens of imperialistic country could understand
some cultures accept girls coming of age quietly, it's not announced