native hunter/fisher

baures pt I (pt IV)

Baures is a village of about 4000 people. There is electricity supplied by a generator from 10.30 to 3.30 and 6.30 to 12.00 midnight each day. Unless you have your personal motor, you are limited to those hours. Note: next year they are implementing a bigger motor which will increase the number of hours of electricity each day. There are two main places where one can make phone calls. They operate as small businesses, to make a phone call you go there, enter a booth and make you call. A meter tells you your rate and how much your bill is. The same goes for internet. You go to the place, use the internet, and afterwards pay for your time. Note: shortly they hope to have internet available in housees for who are willing to pay the monthly fee. There is no cell phone/mobile phone coverage there, only in the larger cities.

The houses are very interesting. There are few if any glass windows, nearly everything is just a screen to keep out mosquitoes and other bugs and slightly larger carnivores. The temperature pretty much stayed between 70 and 90 degrees with high humidity. Blankets and jackets aren't really needed, not even in the mornings. Posted are a few pictures, portraying the diversity in housing.

The first picture is of Hugo and Erika's house, our friends with whom we stayed. Just beyond it is the jungle. Well jungle of a sorts. It was full of parrots, monkeys, all sorts of snakes, panthers, ants and other dangerous creatures along with a lot of water. Unfortunately during the wet season (which was just ending) one doesn't see as much wildlife as one does during the dry season. Note: next trip planned for the dry season. A trip there is not legitimate until one has to kill an animal with a pistol/rifle/machete while it is trying to take your life in a fit of rage. That's my opinion anyways. It makes you feel at one with the place. Note: the last bit was a bit melodramatic, it's not really that dangerous. But on the other hand, when one goes out to work in the jungle or country for the day, it is wise to carry some sort of firearm. Especially if you are gringo.

bolivia pt III

What followed the next day was a bit of walking around the city of Santa Cruz followed by a bus ride of 10 hours to Trinidad. Called a Flota, this particular bus was a "bus-cama" version. "Bus-bed" meaning the seats went back a good bit and a bit folded out from the seat in front for the legs. All that to say that I managed to sleep quite comfortably for about 7 of the 10 hours. No complaints here. We did stop once at 3 in the morning for a pee break in the middle of nowhere. Half the bus got up, shuffled behind some wooden shacks to some home-made port-a-jons. To flush, you had to pull your own water out of a tub outside with a bucket. I was just glad I didn't have to sit down.

You may be wondering why it took ten hours. It wasn't that it was that far, just that there were a lot of holes in the road that would have put the bus out of action for a while if hit at speed. So for the second half of the journey, in a sort of weaving motion, alternating back and forth and occasionally leaving the actual road, the driver navigated us to our destination.

Trinidad was as far as the bus could go. Next up, a small two seater plane. Due to the flooding of the plains around Trinidad and beyond, it would be by air that we would arrive. You can see both the airplane and the state of the earth below in several pictures and videos. As I've already mentioned the plane I won't recount that particular part.

So with that we pick up in Baures, the ultimate destination of this particular trip. A place that has now taken hold of something deep inside of me, and so far, hasn't let go.

bolivia pt II

I left Badajoz on a Tuesday night on a bus at 12:30am and arrived in Madrid at 5:30am. After an hours waiting in the bus station, I hopped on the Metro (subway/underground/whatever they are called these days) and road it around for a good hour and 40. Now it normally takes 40 minutes to get to the airport but I had time to kill. So I rode the line backwards and thought about what it would be like to live in a big city and ride the Tube to work everyday at 6am with several other hundred thousand people.
So at nearly 8am I pulled into Barajas Airport Madrid, with supposedly 5 hours to spare. Check in wasn't difficult and I waived goodbye to my main bit of luggage. 5 hours turned into 7 hours and I found myself being envious of the man in the photo. Years of practice have left him able to sleep in conditions I wasn't able to succeed in over the previous 10 hours.

The flight finally took off and it was a party on board. You see most of the people had been living in Spain for a good amount of time, often having left husbands or wives and children back in Bolivia while they attempted to earn money over a couple of years to send it back home. This flight, leaving Madrid and heading to Bolivia signified going back to everything they loved but the money. A fair amount of free food and alcohol was consumed on the flight. It was a happy 11 hours in the air, and an even happier landing for some.

They opened the doors of the plane and the humidity hit like the plague. Next was immigration. I went and stood in the short line labeled "tourists" till I figured out there was no one at the front to stamp my passport. So I went and stood in the long line labeled "Bolivians". Nothing like standing in a long line, sweating, looking like a white fish out of brown water, waiting to be let into a country where their leader isn't getting along with your leader. So I tried to look as Canadian as possible.

45 minutes later I handed over my passport to the one guy who was looking at all 200some passports.
"Are you American?"
"My passport seems to say I am."
"Do you have a visa?"
"I didn't think I needed a visa."
"You need a visa."
"I don't have a visa."
(And so on. Short phone conversation: "I have an American here without a visa. Do they need visas? Okay, okay. Alright then. Gracias.")
"Wait here, there is another man coming to talk to you."
(That particular man and I repeated the conversation quoted above.)
However at the exact end of the conversation, from over the loudspeakers came a woman's voice asking for a certain Señor Antonio Flora to report to the information desk. The man looked up at me, looked down at my passport, then back up at me. I puffed out my chest and tried to look important.
"Is that you they are calling?"
"Yes it is."
"Do you know why they are calling you?"
"No but it's probably important, I'm a very important individual you know. Denying me entry into your country could cause some serious international problems and not to mention, it would probably cost you your job."
(At this point you have probably figured out that my responses are the one thing I have been making up so far. The rest however is truth. Curiosity finally got the better of the man once they called my name again over the loudspeaker and with a stamp in my passport, let me know I had 30 days in Bolivia. However he was going to accompany me to the information desk to see why they were calling some American who had just flown in from Spain. When we found no one there, and the lady at the desk knew nothing about me, he asked to see my passport.)
"It's not false is it."
(I paused as I considered the stupidity of his question. Briefly considered pointing out that if I was to have a false passport, one, I would not tell him that it was false, and two, I would put in it a slightly better picture of myself. Considering the fact that I was in the country with my luggage and had a couple of weeks of adventure in front of me, decided to not be a jerk and simply replied that no, it was in fact a legitimate document and that I was just a humble law abiding foreigner who wanted to see a bit of Bolivia. After a long suspicious glance he disappeared off into the distance.

Turns out, my contact in Santa Cruz had called info an hour or so earlier asking for me. Why they chose that moment to announce me, I don't know. But God seems to have pretty good timing. One 35 minute taxi ride and 5 euros later, I was hooked up with Iván my first night's host.

the Beni

A couple of vidoes taken. The quality seems to have deteriorated, but you get the picture. All the water you see in the longer one is the flooding they have had in the Beni, particularly near Trinidad. Water, lots of water.

transportation

To get to the village of Baures... The wooden bench leaning against the wheel under the wing was my seat. Along with two other people. That was set on top of luggage right behind the only two seats in the plane: the pilot's and the co-pilot. Who was simply the passenger who weighed the most. I didn't get to sit there either time. To give you an idea of the space, I could have reached around the pilot at anytime with my arms and taken the plane's controls in my hands- without leaning forward too much. But with all the lack of personal space, I felt as one with the machine.

welcome to baures

Personally I like the color scheme and I should mention that the ventilation is excellent. What more can one ask for from the local airport? Which by the way, is the only get to the pueblo during this part the of the year. The rainy season takes out all the mud roads. Well one can take a boat, but that's a good few days on the river with blood sucking mosquitos. So we opted for the one hour plane journey. See plane above. What you can't see is the air-traffic control center, but there is one. It was empty when we landed... and when we took off. A couple of cows were grazing at the base though. I don't know what they do if they wander onto the runway. The odds can't be that low as it is made of sweet, juicy grass.

bolivia pt I

So I am home again after more than two weeks of time spent in Bolivia. Santa Cruz, Trinidad and Baures were all on the itinerary. I find myself questioning where to begin, how to relate the experiences I had there, and what is more, what to say about the aftereffects that are still rippling through me at this moment.

It was an experience unlike any other. But then again, when one is relatively young it isn't the most difficult thing to partake in something new. I shall put up photos and then explain them, that helps. I shall try to describe experiences and what it was like experiencing them. Perhaps even throw in a few statistics. But what remains is this: For the writer I am, good or bad, for the photographer, better or worse, the experience shall remain only fully mine. I will not be able to convey it in its entirety, nor even a large percentage. I can only throw out pieces. And I will not apologize, for that is simply the nature of what it is like in other parts of the world. Until one enters their borders, eats their food, and speaks with them, those young, those old and those in-between, one will not have actually tasted, seen, nor heard what is, in this case, Bolivia.

From my journal...
"It is always a one time experience- entering a country foreign to your own for the first time. One does not know what it will be like, though perhaps he tries to expect and imagine. Perhaps he has seen pictures, movies or even documentaries, yet it does not change a thing, for those mediums are like watching the world through a telescope. Entering a country for the first time is like being dropped naked into the ocean. It hits every sense in a way words cannot describe. So open your senses, because the next time will not be the first time."

back from...

ahh what a life - more to come...

de viaje

I'm going to be gone for the next couple of weeks. Off to Bolivia. If you didn't know about, I will tell you about it when I get back. So things might be a bit slow around here till the middle of April. But then I suppose there might be quite a bit to tell after that!

Pray for me, I don't want to bring and bugs back, and I can't afford to lose any weight. Plus that God would do some amazing things there! Hasta pronto!

by George MacDonald

Our old age is the scorching of the bush
By life's indwelling, incorruptible blaze.
O life, burn at this feeble shell of me,
Till I the sore singed garment off shall push,
Flap out my Psyche wings, and to thee rush.

a little bit of sun,
a little bit of cloud,
...

a bit of beauty,
a bit of controversy,
amidst high-rise living.

nearly spring now.

A good Indian.

Ironically Indian food is the most popular food in Britain. Maybe it's the influx of Indians over the last while or perhaps it's an attempt to break away from centuries of bland food. Or perhaps it's both. Centuries of bland food creating an amazing business opportunity for immigrating* Indians. Whatever you do, don't get huffy with me, I'm just stating accepted stereotypes. *I never know if it's immigrate or emmigrate.

So me, my British mate Ben, my dad and four non-english speakers poured into an empty Indian restaurante at about 7 in the evening, feeling rather hungry. Instantly everyone felt at home due to the welcome in broken english. Nothing like common ground over a language no one spoke particularly well. (With the exception of my mate Ben, none of us there were born and bred on the Island.) So in the middle of English England in an Indian Indian restaurante we were: two Americans from the States, two Spaniards, one Colombian, one Dominican, and a whole host of Indians from India. And Ben, the sole representative of the host country.

We were sat around a table in the middle of the room were asked what we wanted. Indian beer and lots of water for the heat was the concensus pick to drink. And a lot of blank faces as to what the heck these Indian names were that described Indian foods. And which were the ones that blow the top of your mouth off? Well many thanks to the one native present, Ben sorted us out with his vast knowledge of Indian culture, food and the occassional word that was supposedly English that I didn't seem to catch.

15 minutes later we has 7 bowls of seriously nice looking bits of meat soaking in sauces of varying colors and an hambre big enough to eat a horse. (That's not me saying it was horse meat btw, just that we were hungry.) Being the wimps that we are and coming from the land of non-spicy food (Spain) we had avoided roof blowing dishes and elected normal to medium. And some none/nom/nam/nan bread beside our steaming dishes of Indian rice.

And one heck of a feast later we had polished it all off. Including an extra round of chocolate mints on the house! We had been invited back, we had invited to Spain, we had agreed to meet up for holidays by the beach, and perhaps take a group pilgrimage with our new friends to their little pueblo in India. Signs of good times.

So Indian food holds a high place in my memory. The Indians even higher and perhaps once day we will all meet up on our side of the channel. To share a similar experience over a good paella and pig.

De todos modos, we could sure use a good Indian here in Badajoz...

Back in Spain now after a brief respite of a few days in England. Will write more on that after I catch up on sleep. Just occurred to me that I used the word respite without being 100 percent sure of its meaning. Funny, it's a normal occurrence for me in Spanish, I say it if it sounds right. In English I tend to be a bit more hesitant to use a word I'm not completely sure about.

So shortly I will tell of my Indian meal and friendly British customs agents. Here's to both and a good night's rest...

It's raining but it doesn't matter.

Sunday started promising, sunny, warming up with only a light breeze. That was walking to church.
Walking back it was barely sunny with definate winds kicking up and more than a few clouds barreling along.
The post-lunch forecast was suddenly threatening. Grey was the word with no hint of sun.
The hour arrive and as I stepped out of the house the sky started lightly spitting.

Now the importance of the weather on Sunday is that Sunday afternoon is my futbol afternoon. There are a couple of hardcourts about 10 minutes away that have constant games a happening. And Sunday is when I join them. Now *football wasn't my first game. (*soccer that is. Call me a traitor but I think America should join the rest of the world in calling it as it is, soccer nothing.) Basketball would probably claim that. Growing up in heartland Indiana it wouldn't be anything else. But man I enjoy a good game of football sala, as it's called. Now difference between futbol and futbol sala is that futbol sala is played with only 5 on each side, one in goal and 4 playing the pitch. And instead of being played on grass it's played on a surface pretty much the same as a tennis court.

So needless to say I like my Sunday afternoon kickarounds. And today it starting raining just at the hour of kickoff. But the game kicked off anyway. We continued playing as it turned into a steady drizzle and then a steady rain. And pretty soon it didn't matter. Of course there was no turning on a dime, but you adjust. Such is the game of sport. And the moral of the story is that. Sport is sport. Futbol is futbol in rain or sun. It might have been raining today but it didn't matter.

miracle

For what we need to know, of course, is not just that God exists, not just that beyond the steely brightness of the stars there is a cosmic intelligence of some kind that keeps the whole show going, but that there is a God right here in the thick of our everyday lives who may not be writing messages about himself in the stars but in one way or another is trying to get messages through our blindness as we move around down here knee-deep in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of the world.
It is not objective proof of God's existence that we want but the experience of God's presence. That is the miracle we are really after, and that is also, I think, the miracle we are really get.

Frederick Buechner (The Magnificent Defeat)

(w) the undervalued letter.

W, wow, what a letter. There before I even reach the second sentence I've already used it 5 times (including the title of course). Where else could you find the lineup w,w,o,w,w used in gramatically correct english? The importance of the letter w to the english language reaches far and wide. Don't be fooled by it's place at the end of the alphabet. That actually underlines its true value as a letter that does not depend on it's place in line to derive it's virtues. (V is of similiar fortitude, in the previous sentence it was used 3 times! and in this one 2!) But back to w, which is of double importance. Note: two v make one w. vv=w.

Where would we be without who, what, why, where, when and how? The very foundation of our language rests on this humble and not-yet widely acclaimed letter. To ask a question, you practically are forced to rely on its services. Try to avoid it (v again!) I dare you. Okay, the verb "can" does its bit to break up the monopoly, but honestly, would you like to go around all day limited to can and could? Heck, even the conditional form "would" jumps back to our letter! Haaave it!

So we agree that (w) is important. Good.
Now for the shocker.
The letter doubleu does not exist in Spanish. Search between V and X in a small dictionary and (w)hat do you find? NOTHING. Search in large dictionary and you get maybe t(w)enty words starting with W. ALL STOLEN FROM ENGLISH. Not one is an original Spanish (w)ord. You (w)ant an example? Waterpolo. And Waterloo if you are talking about famous battles. Mind you they're pronounced, vaaaterpolo and vaaaterlu if you want specifics.

Ho(w) the Spanish (w)ould undervalue perhaps the most crucial letter in our tongue I don't know. I guess that just goes to show that cultures and languages are (w)idely different. And to each his o(w)n...

eh-hem.

I realized it's been two weeks since I've posted. Sorry.

I had written a couple of paragraphs that were naff. So I just deleted them because I realized I was writing just to fill space. So while I am again writing just to fill space, this time it will be wasting less of your time.

Shortly I hope to write something that won't be a waste of time.

not so long ago...

reminiscing late one evening.
it's a nostalgic activity, slightly slanted to one side.
slanted because do we really remember accurately?
the good, the bad, the monotonous.
or is it mostly just good with the bad melting into a puddle?
or the bad growing like weeds till it swallows up any good that was?
or neither and actually while we remember with a subtle slant, memory speaks as much truth as the present.

well whatever.
tonight i've been remembering. i uploaded photos a good number of fotos from the last couple of years so i could order prints- i'm a bit behind on the process. to decide which ones i wanted i had to shift through them all. i've only just begun and it's like being flooded with things that one hasn't forgotten, but one hasn't been conciously remembering either.
a few nights ago i was sifting through old posts from this very blog. again, things come rushing back and i even occasionally surprised myself.

i think memories are equally as important as one's present and maybe the dreams for tomorrow. without memories there is no history. and no history means nothing to jump off of, or fall back onto. it's funny, but the present can be taken from us (or at least given), while the past never can. that being said, i hope i never offer up the present for the opportunity to go back to the past...

the game

arial shots

random bits of barcelona

cold feet and hot water

Suddenly it hit me that I have been using a hot water bottle for the last month and I haven't even given it a mention here!

The use of a hot water bottle certainly deserves a mention. Matter of fact, it should get it's own post. Which of course, is what this is. It's an entire posting devoted to the hot water bottle. I would post a picture of it, but I've so many pics up at the moment with more coming, that I think I'll just describe it.

It's a normal size for a hot water bottle, nothing more nothing less. The actual bottle itself is of the typical pink rubbery substance that hot water bottles generally consist of. However, like a mitten, a green cloth of terry substance covers it nicely. Every night I boil some hot water and fill the bottle, seal it up, and lay it where my feet generally rest in the icebox I sleep in. Also known as my bed.

I'll have you know that it is probably a top quality, premium made, water bottle. That's because however many hours later when I wake up in the morning, its still lukewarm. Which is better than ice. As I write this sentence, it lies behind me, under the covers, gently thawing out my sheets, preparing them for me.

I'll tell you, life hasn't been the same since I got it. I sleep better now. I wake up warmer, which in turn means I am warmer throughout the day. That means I am a happier person. Which means I sleep better. It's a wonderful cycle. So if you suffer from a cold bed at night, I recommend that you too, get yourself, a premium, top of the line, green terry covered cloth water bottle. It will change your life.

A few photos from high up in my city.

the briefest of updates

My oh my que frío hace! A cold wave has swept down from England and Germany to freeze the fingertips off all the Spaniards. Not that it wasn't cold before, just that now it's freezing. Okay, so just a degree or two above where I live, but considering the houses sit only about 5 degrees warmer than the wind chill outside, its cold!

Well I suppose this should be an about about me. Updates on my life for those who find themselves interested.

I'm currently making my own greatest hits album by Mana while I type this. It's going to be good, let me tell you! I've got to cut one song to fit it on the disk though, its like choosing between your own children.

I continue to stick my hair up in the morning with this sticky stuff and shave every other day. Though with the cold, the odds on a beard are going up if you are on your way to the local bookie.

Recently finished the best novel I have read in the last four years. Easily. It's called the shadow in the wind by a guy called Zafon. A fat book but it cut late into my nights and early into my mornings so it didn't take long to finish. My top three novels (in no particular order) are now: The Shadow of the Wind, The Brother's Karamazov and maybe the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. Cept that's three books. As for what book just got booted out, ahh I dunno. Before I just had a top 2.

Go Bears.
Go Barça.

It's that that is all I can think of to say about myself without getting too deep into things. I'm short on time so it'll have to do for now. Maybe a more worthy post will come along in a few days, I'm off to Barcelona for a couple of days.

If I were the owner of an ancient, mysterious house...

If I were the owner of an ancient and mysterious house I would make sure it had lots of windows. But it would not be a house of glass, for these are times in which one must be careful not to be too fragile. The windows would let lots of light in, both sunlight and lightning, and not to mention the sound of the rain. And towards the center of all those eyes, there would be a large door. One that opened up very wide, to accomodate many people, coming and going.


But there would be small doors too, in various and secret places. Ones where one must stoop to walk through. Ones that would hold lots of secrets and even more stories.


There would be windows even in the corners where they were difficult to place. There would be windows, for it would cause young children to let their imaginations run wild with the shadows that were glimpsed beyond them.

Around the library I would consider having remembrances of some of the writers whose works were held inside that library. It would be to pique the children's interest in the world of books. I would have to carefully consider that however, as the heads may simply scare the children instead of inspiring wonder and fascination.


But perhaps high above the ground I would allow pets to roam, and they would guard roof terraces and keep an eye on what was happening below, in case someone would get lost in the maze that they oversaw.





A wall would surround the maze, with only a small hidden gate to let one in. The gate too, would have many stories and a few secrets.


Somewhere, a small street would run through the property, with a walkway over the top, where one could sit and read, occasionally lifting up ones eyes to watch the paserbys hurrying underneath to get out of the rain. The rain that was lashing against the many windows.



And somewhere, amidst old garden sheds, trees that are older than history, surrounded by stone walls would be a tall tower. It would stretch above everything else, overlooking what was to be overlooked. It would not have many windows. And every so often, the sound of a bell being rung would steal over the house, and it would cause all to stop what they were doing and listen. It would go on for a minute and then slowly die away in the evening light. Only every so often, with not much regularity. However the tower would only have one entrance, and that entrance would always be barred and locked. No one would know who had the key, and it would make stories rise up in the children's hearts. Stories of past deeds, past loves, past losses... Stories mixed with intrigue and wonder and perhaps a small amount of fear only if they happened to be looking at the tower as the last gleams of light dissapeared to the west.

hair

haircuts are funny things. i spent the last week planning on getting a haircut, only to wake up each morning and decide that either 1. i was having a good hairday so why get it cut, or 2. i was poor and should save the money, thus deciding each day that i would not get a haircut.

this morning i woke up and decided neither were true. so i went and got scalped.

a survey of sorts

I would like to put a few questions to those who will see this. Please respond in the comments box, even if you don't feel qualified. To any or to all of the questions. And remember, only honest responses are valid, I don't want citations from apologetic commentaries.

Do you believe in hell, and if so what is it and why/how does it exist?

What is the criterium for spending eternity with God?

What do the words grace and choice mean to you?

2005,2006,2007

Of note:

Café en España now stretches over three years. Numberwise anyways, starting in late 2005 and now having reached early 2007, there are three years to navigate! Thought it should be commemorated. Thanks for the faithfuls who have been here from the start. And for those who haven't because I suppose that is what grace is all about.

random shots of the motherland

some disrespected sign. the view from the toilet (impressive isn't it?). juli and i outside a quality door. a fence with heads on it. you can figure out which caption goes with which picture.

a pub once frequented...

Ahh the joys of Oxford. Here at the Eagle and Child I washed down a pint in honor of two fellows whose writing I much admire. One CS Lewis and another JRR Tolkien used to frequent this joint to have a pint and talk about whatever they happened to be writing about. Quite a few decades later I joined them. But sadly they had long since gone. So I enjoyed a pleasant steak and ale pie and toasted to their health which had long since given up... May they rest in peace and make lots of posthumuous royalties.

recuerdos de inglaterra

hi from the land of rain and darkness. okay so its a harsh way to start out, but we've been here 5 days and 4 and a half of them have been filled with dreary clouds and dripping rain. other than that i have had a splendid time.
england = no sun

a few english experiences that have been had that have been (nice run of h words there followed by beens) crumpets (being the american i am i smothered them with peanutbutter and jelly) tea (i've had three cups, in the previous year i drank 4 cups total) fish and chips (now that's niiiice) followed by the inevitable skinning in the exchange rate between the pound and the dollar. since when should the english pound be worth more than the dollar? you could fit like 12 englands in the US. bigger country = stronger money

thats my take anyway. and now that ive alienated my british readers... i should say that i really do like your country. BUT tell your customs officials to be a bit nicer to me when i come to visit! nice american = easy time in customs

my good friend juli from spain came with me. he's got good english, but maybe not as good as mine. well he walked right through customs. im not bitter, i just think that better english = easier time in customs when entering an english speaking country. why don't the english understand this concept?

throwaway comment to the english: if i really disliked your country i wouldn't have bothered to come.

maybe i should name some things i like about england....
.
.
.
.

well im just glad good quality humo(u)r is never lost on a tru brit.
brit = good laugh

i will probably wrap this up now. when we reach the sunny land again i will write something perhaps slightly more worth reading... CHEERS!

tasty

chompin on some churros. i walked 15 minutes in driving rain for them! so they had better be good!

día 25

well we are fast approaching Christmas. fast approaching the time of year that i seem to enjoy more each time i experience it. my appreciation for the time of year and the cold weather (its really the only time i won't complain about my numb hands and frostbitten ears) is slowly and steadily growing. now don't take this to mean that i now like christmas films or those stupid glowing santas. i despise them more than ever. i think because both are entirely false. what i do have is a soft spot for 'O Holy Night' which i could listen to on repeat without problem for the good part of a december night.

perhaps i am stopping more then ever. and just being. being aware of being. i have a lot to be thankful for. i am blessed because i have two families. one where i live and one in indiana. yesterday i suddenly realized that i am missing my family. i am missing being able to spend christmas with them. to stop with them and just be. to eat with them and laugh and experience those moments where only until afterwards does one actually realize they were happening. i am able to do that with one family but not the other right now. being away is making me more away of what i actually have. acutely aware in fact of how i am blessed beyond measure (to have family wherever i go). is there anything else one could ask for?

have a blessed Christmas.

and to my family: miss you all and looking forward to the next Christmas i get to spend with you!

My favorite song. And it's been a long time since I've been able to name my favorite. So it's called Manda una Señal by Maná.

I would apologize for it being in Spanish but I like it in Spanish so I'm not going to.

This is some random kid drumming it with the song in the background. So you don't see the band but hey, I enjoyed it so I'm posting it!

what i've got here are a few vids taken from my camera. im no professional and neither is my camera so please don't be too harsh on us. one is of a small spanish pueblo. i held the camera up to the window as we drove through. it's not at all like the city where i live but it certainly is a normal small town, pueblito here in spain. the other two vids are of some flamenco that jeremy and i saw in seville. maybe the lighting and the sound isn't great but you get the idea of what flamenco sevillano is like... que os disfrutéis!

What we've got here is the beginning of a week with Jeremy. Quality time. Catchuptime. Well spent. Second sign down is my town. We were five hours away in Madrid, walking the streets and constantly I would see signs pointing to the city where I live. It's not that big, but all the signs made it seem like the place to be! The second picture is Jay taking some pics of the sidewalk. Whatever floats his boat. Okay, so the truth is that it said Madrid and he was getting a cool shot. All in all we hit up Madrid, Seville and the hometown Badajoz. Not bad for a stay less than a week. Anyways, I'm not going to rehash the entire trip but thought I'd stick up a few things. We saw some flamenco in Seville too, I'll try and get some video up shortly...

double quote

O momentary grace of mortal men,
which we more hunt than the grace of God.
-Shakespeare, Richard III

To love a person means to see him as God intended him to be.
-Dostoyevski

not stalking just observing

I can stare out of my thin slice of a window down into the life of another. I can see down onto their patio and in through their large double-paned sliding glass doors that are never shut with the curtains that drape their edges. I can see what is playing on the television and I can see what is hung out to dry. I can tell when they get home and I can tell when they go to bed. If they smoke, I can watch. If they play cards, I can see their hand. If they stand outside at the edge and look down at the people passing below them, I can stand looking down at them.
It makes me wonder if there is a window into my life that someone can silently look in through, without me having the slightest clue.

veinticuatro

well im 24 now. i just figured the world should know. i passed a good birthday. filled with, well you know, work and a bit of celebration. i'd say the highlight was the actual evening. about 10 oclock we were off to a sweet mexican restaurant, actually more spicy than sweet, for some quality fajitas with wicked hot green salsa. much quality later i was stuffed but still found room for a mango dessert. liquid mango with whipped cream on top. a sufficient end to a good day. but it didn't end there. we were off after that to pass some of the good night away. a band called the purple experience was doing their best impression of jimmy hendrix. they were old, they were white, they were spanish, but sure could rock. and rock they did. purple haze, all along the watchtower, and other numbers were belted out. not bad, not bad. if you were to try and talk to them in english however, you'd only get as far as hello and a blank stare. that's cause all they'd done was memorize the words. don't look too suprised. i could give you the names of a handful of english singing bands around here who couldn't pass third grade english. its just the way it is, something about english music.

and so i passed into another year, 1 something in the morning, listening to several pony-tailed, beard boasting, seventies rockers, doing what they love to do. until next year!

choice (background)

Man in his state apart from God is a depraved creature, subject to the whims of his base nature, and is quickly dying. It is simply by the grace of God that man is able to lift his head, acknowledge his state and plead for more of that very grace that lifted his very head.

Adam chose for all mankind or if perceived outside of time, all mankind chose for Adam. To be as God is, to know right and wrong and decide as if we were a god- was our first choice and nothing has been the same since. With this decision we walked separate, apart from God. No longer was he able to draw near, to commune with us, nor us with him. Instead a holy distance developed in the space between God and man. And both were pained.

Man wondered about doing as he pleased, filling the earth, filling his belly, fulfilling his pleasures. He did as he pleased, for he was not his brothers keeper, was he? If it was pleasing, he took it, if it was painful, he fled from it. Man was left to himself and with that came death. And God full of pain decided to rid the earth of his creation.

There was a man however who walked upright. Who did not give himself over to himself, but instead, walked with God as he was a righteous and blameless man. (It is amazing what God will do for one righteous person.) So God didn't wipe out the entire Earth for the sake of Noah, and instead began building a people he could call his own. They would be his people, and he would be their God.

Thus begins a journey towards Jesus, the journey of a people, selected by God for another righteous man. This man would be the father of God's people, and his children would be numbered like the stars and the sand, and so the covenant is formed. The relationship is full of 'despites' from the very beginning. Despite man's best attempts to get in the way, ruin, and walk away from God, he is always dragged back. Despite constant idolatry, thickheadedness, adultery, murder, and countless other crimes and sins, God makes for himself a people. God is holy but is not afraid of using unholy people. And from this very people that he formed, there will come the one who crossed that holy distance between God and his people, and drew them together.

He came small and unsuspecting. Lived as a man, and was tempted in every way, yet his eyes did not linger, his heart did not covet. His words pierced hearts and minds as he spoke of a kingdom, not so far away. A kingdom where the lame walked and the blind received sight, the orphans found family and the hungry found food, the broken found comfort and the sad found joy. This kingdom is open to all, but the road is narrow, the gate small, and only those who seek find. He who is first, well he will be last, and he who is servant of all will be the greatest. And unless you become like a little child you will never get in. But faith as small as a mustard seed is all it takes.
So blessed is he who is poor in spirit, for he will recognize the kingdom, and it will be his. And lest it is thought that by works one may get in, it is only for grace, that none will be able to boast.

And so he lived a different life. One fit for a different sort of world, a different sort of kingdom. He lived and then he died. Hanging there with blood and energy seeping from his body they heaped insults on him, “you saved others, why don't you save yourself?” not seeing that every shallow breath was bringing them closer to the very forgiveness that he had just prayed over them, “Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Meanwhile, the thief on his one side turned to him and with a simple request was with him later that day in paradise. Faith so small that it is barely noticed yet it got him to a kingdom where many are invited but few are chosen. The other thief staring into the dying face of God, sneered along with the rest. Choice.

Three days later Jesus overcame death and the world has never been the same. But he did not stay long for he was to go and in his stead, send the helper, the Holy Spirit. And with the very winds of Pentecost, the person of Jesus and the Kingdom of his Father has not stopped spreading to this day.

Grey eyes and a dirty beard
hang down to holy sneakers
and cracked hands holding the cardboard
that asks God's blessing on those who give to the poor.
Weathered flannels and yellow teeth
don't find much to chew-
so an empty stomach nags
his worn soul.
Scabs and bruises cover two arms
filled with used veins
that can't often run in a straight line
because it makes the night warmer,
the bench softer,
and the memories a little foggier.

updates

bad bad bad. it's been a full week since i've written. well on my blog anyways. sorry to my faithful readers. to my unfaithful readers, well, you've got no room to complain about my unfaithful writing.

so a few quick updates:
it's cold here now.

it's even colder in my room than outside. it's simply the law of my room, it is always either hotter than the hotness outside, or colder than the coldness.

i am in a state of flux over whether to cut my hair short again or continue to grow it to warm my ears during the long cold nights i spend in my bed.

i'm taking a protein/carbohydrate drink in order to gain a bit of weight because im tired of outspoken latins telling me i need to eat, when i already eat.

i'm going to England the 27th of December till the 3rd of January. i'm taking a Spanish friend along who speaks good english, should be a great time.

az and abby have been gifted this amazing videocamera. as im the resident tech i get to play with it... and i thought my camera was fun... there might be some run-on benefits for my blog in the future.

this year's loss to ohio state only ruined one weekend instead of the usual weeklong aftershock. small benefit to being removed from the scene of the crime by an ocean. (it case you don't understand, my team Michigan just lost the game of the century. there is brief talk that there might be a rematch in a few months, though who knows.)

well that's all the updates i've got time for, it's time to eat. and of course i can't afford to miss that.

bicycles and dominicans

about a month ago my good dominican friend, willy de jesús de la cruz lent me his bike. now for those of you who understand spanish, the fact that i now have a bicycle won't have registered because you will have been too fixated on that fact that it was lent to me by willy of jesus of the cross. yep, that's his name and he lent me his unused bike for the time being. if you want to see what willy de jesús de la cruz looks like, check out the previous post entitled 'coffee' located in the month of september. willy is the black coffee.

so he's a great guy, not just because he lent me his bike, but for a long of other reasons which i am not going to expound on here simply because i am too enamored with having a bike and can think of little else. it's really been something good for me. i must say, when i first borrowed it, i was like, 'hey, cool, i like this.' a whole month and something later, i am like, 'wow, having a bike is awesome!' it's only been getting better with time. man i hope that's what it's like being married. i sense an analogy beginning to brew about marriage and bikes, but i think i'll let it go for now.

so tonight i put a good hour in on it, with some football in between. after my english lessons followed by spanish lessons it was time for some evening football. so i pedaled off to where we were going to play. a good twenty minutes later i arrived. played some quality sport and pedaled home another good 25 minutes, and i feel great! greatly tired! but just think how long that would have taken me to walk. and besides, buses aren't allowed to go the wrong way up one way streets like i am on my bike. in case you are into math and want to call me on the fact that i only actually did 45 minutes of riding instead of the hour i confessed to earlier, well i had 15 minutes here and there prior...

so thanks for the bike willy. it really is great. and here's to it never getting stolen. (maybe tomorrow i'll even take a picture and post it! how exciting would that be??!?)

a century of writing

somehow, someway, café in españa has managed to pile up 99 previous posts. this will make it 100. in less than a year i might add. what i ask myself though, is what kind of gift i am giving... on the day we leave behind double digits to enter the daunting but yet secure world of triple i am gifting a lousy post. a post considering only itself and its own shallow glory. i should be treating some tender subject like compassion or powerful concept like forgiveness and yet i sit and hit keys which simply speak of length. longevity. yet even my longevity is subjective. and who am i to be an expert at 23?

if the average lifespan of a healthy male in the western world hovers around 75, then ive nearly covered what could possibly be a third of my life. that makes me stop for a moment. death isn't something i think about everyday. (if you want a strange and random circumstance, Hootie and the Blowfish's song - "when i get to heaven" just came on my random player by circumstance) so chew on that.
i think death is something i want to be prepared for. by prepared i could mean several things. prepared to face the God who made me from dust, several generations back. prepared to give account for how the heck i spent my life, whether i loved, clothed, fed, and sheltered- physically or emotionally or even spiritually. prepared to experience finally being completely human. prepared to let go of what i hold dear here until my hands are finally empty and only holding out for completion. prepared at last to see the fullness of grace and forgiveness it took for me.

there is a book called till we have faces. the title in and of itself leads to me ponder a day when we will finally have faces and be seen and known for who we really are, perhaps simply looking into faces.

well this posting took on a life of its own, perhaps fitting for the beginning of a new era. tomorrow i will come back and see what i've actually written and hopefully not have to change too much.

something about a rabbit

Here I am at the end of a busy last week! Had a fabulous visit from Dave R and Henry F for those who know them. I laughed a lot, learned a lot, and even loitered about, talking into the night a lot. Perhaps this blog shall bear the fruits of some of those chats. It is a shame not all of it can be repeated, but what I come away with is a bit more vision, a bit more excitement, and a lot more faith. And the bearded sailor in the background? Well, we are not sure where he came from but he says his name is Cave.