Jardín

So yesterday and today has been R&R in the rural town of Jardín, a coffee growing hub, before tomorrow's 5am start for an exhilarating 4wd, 22km, 2 hour ride up a 'trocha' or horsetrack into the cloud forest of Rio Sucio in pursuit of birds and an ocelot. Our hotel shown below.





The central plaza of Jardín is delightful, the place where people watch people having coffee, pigeons by the dozen, dogs watching dogs doing doggy things, couples holding hands, and old guys with sombrero, poncho over shoulder, and walking stick. If I squint at noon, I reckon I might catch a glimpse of Clint Eastwood, but I'm not sure if this punk will be lucky today.

Overseeing, overlooking everything and everyone is the giant cathedral. Today the amplifiers are on turbo form, blasting out religious choir music interspersed with instructions how to run your life at decibels competing favourably in sheer loudness with an openair Rolling Stones concert.

Us Plaza persons get the message, just like on my 12-hour nonstop flight with a nonstop wailing infant on the way out here. It's a tough choice to know which competitor for my attention was the winner, although another possibility in either case is to ask for an early lift with the sweet angel of death to take me now at a bargain price.

Sins are a specialty of mine, however regrets I honestly have none. So, it is immensely comforting to see three nuns order humongous, icecream sweets to their table at the centre of the Plaza.

Nothing to atone for here, they tuck in on their way to foodie heaven. Go for it ladies, congratulations after all that holding back, none of us is getting out of this alive. Looks like we will all be dead a long time, I'll send a text to order seconds of icecream if the Internet works up there.

Gen wanders into the cathedral and takes the photo of the day, the trip, the Pulitzer Prize, the best ever. 

Picture this. A priest is at the confessional at the back of the cathedral the curtain is open, so you can see clearly he has his hand resting gently on the head of a man dressed in blue workclothes, kneeling before him.

Two metres to the left, a wizened lady is crouching with her ear tightly pressed against the wooden side of the confessional box, her left hand cupped around the compressed ear to act like a radar dome. Seen sideways on, her face of tumbling, deep wrinkles is crumpled tight, tight, tight, with such an intense effort, straining to hear every little whisper of the confession.

The tension of the picture is palpable, so incredibly intense. Who are they, what is their connection, what happens next?

As a writer, all scenarios are up for my febrile mind. You can guess, but you will never know.

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Colombia, Jardin, Cathedral, Church, Confessional, Confession, Priest, Woman Listening