by Mireya Perez-Bustillo
Like rapid fish, the sleek tan bodies dive for coins they catch in their mouths tossed by tourists from the towering cruise-ship. Amid the iodine-impregnated air, the boys paddle out in fragile canoes in the blue-black Bay of Cartagena, where the sea sinks to slumber to clasp the city in an embrace. Here, where the largest slave market from Africa prospered in the 18th century, where the viceroys once lived in the Old City, surrounded by six foot walls, pockmarked from cannonballs shot from the ship of Sir Francis Drake. Here, the alert watchtowers welcome Reyna and her family back home.
The smell of coffee beans rises from piled sacks on the pier as the ship reaches port in safety. Soon, Mami welcomes aboard Henya, her almond-colored old nanny. Over there is Tio Aquiles, Tias Marta, Clara, and Soledad, cousins Alicia, Pable, Mario, Sofia, Alberto and Eduardo. They have three hours to visit while half-stripped stevedores the same color as the coffee beans spilling on the docks unload the ship. With each embrace of another welcoming relative, Reyna notices Mami and Papi’s faces light up, their shoulders melt in ease. This is home. Nobody stumbles over their names. No one asks Reyna about the holes in her ears or why she wears earrings. The hugs, the kisses on the cheek, the familiar abrazo between men walking with their arms clasping each other’s shoulders, the women holding hands or walking arm in arm, the joking among the men, the women admiring Mami’s Fifth Avenue dress and shoes, Papi, being greeted by one of his former students now a customs official, the ease of hearing their name recognized. Here the people knew who they were.