Blog 1-Braving Coral by Myself

I sat at the table by the blue double doors of La Fonda Migajas, flung open, and stared at the domed green branches of the tamarindo trees in the Plaza across the street. My mind wandered, trying to find itself so I could write. I noticed my heartbeat settle and realized how terrified I'd been walking that deserted red dirt road from the Encampment. I felt a rush of euphoria. I'd managed to get to Coral by myself!
I saw Anacaona step out of the dark doorway of the Catedral de la Virgen de Coral on the other side of the Plaza. She wore one of the faded embroidered blouses she always wore. She ran down the wide, crumbling church stairs and strode toward the Fonda. As she came close I saw the blouses' faded turquoise and magenta embroidery at the top had run, tinting the blouse an odd shade of blue. Although I saw her everywhere in Palenque we'd never yet talked. She joined me at my table without asking if she could. Were we friends because we both lived at the Encampment? She leaned toward me and took my hand. "I've just been to the church to interview the Padre for Verdad. Have you met him? He's a liberation padre with a lot of connections. He can help you find your Desaparecido.” Clearly her mother Patria had told her my story. In Palenque we all got to know each other's stories.
Her face was a narrower version of her mother's. They had similar thick brows and deep set eyes that found and held mine. Like her mother, Anacaona had the gift of making me feel known, as if we'd been close all along. "I remember you from when you were seven," I said. "I knew you as Tina and now you're Anacaona Novo, the reporter for Verdad, my old job, the very job I had just left to come to Karaya back when I first knew you a dozen years ago." She focused her intense black eyes on mine and grinned. "You don't know you inspired me! Until I met you I didn't realize real women like me could be writers." I let her take my hand.
In Palenque I would see her Beachside talking to groups of people while she sold them Verdad; Hillside heading to or coming from the Comedor de las Señoras de los Frijoles; outside the casita she shared with her mother Patria;or disappearing into one of the paths to El Pico, the rain jungle mountains in the middle of Cayo Karaya. I watched her from the dune where I sat in the mornings. I watched her instead of writing in my journal. A few times I had designed my walks through the mazes of Palenque by following her. Maybe I stalked her! And here we were having lunch together. I stared past her to the wall behind her where a framed print of a blonde Jesus with an enormous bleeding heart hung on the blue-green wall.
She looked at my plate, helped herself to one of my plantains, and called out, "Otro plato del dia." She ate fast, piling picadillo, arroz with black beans, and maduros onto each forkful. She wasn't much older than my boy Machi, and delightfully entitled. Was she arrogant? I couldn't tell, but I forgot to stay jealous or threatened, so maybe she was simply confident. I realized I wasn't used to confident young women. It was the first conversation we'd ever had. All I knew about her till then was through her mother, Patria, an old acquaintance I'd run into my first night in the Encampment. People here liked to say sooner or later everyone in your life turned up in Palenque.
"I waited more than two weeks for your mother Patria to bring me to Coral like she promised when she turned up at my shelter with cafe con leche in a jar, my very first night in Palenque. She and I stayed up talking til dawn. Today I gave up waiting. Late this morning I braved the Carretera Naval by myself."
She laughed her loud laugh. "That's Mami's problem, too many promises."
Over our lunch Anacaona told me that Palenque had a Biblioteca del Pueblo and a Todos.tv where lots of what went on got live streamed. "There are people all over the world who are addicted to watching us." I swallowed a big mouthful of rice and beans, trying to keep up with her. "Really real reality tv." She laughed. I leaned toward her. "I remember your laugh. When you were a little girl you used to laugh like that, like a song, and throw yourself on the floor laughing. I remember it because my son Machi used to do that too." She slapped the grape printed table cloth. "I remember, yes, Machi and I laughing so hard we literally rolled on the floor." She pressed my hand. "Have you been to the Fabrica de Escritores? I swear it was invented for you! It has a Todos website, a living book where you can post your writing." I shook my head. "Why didn't Patria get around to telling me any of this?" Anacaona smiled. "What she's good at is one to one, face to face communication. She doesn't pay much attention to all the rest."