Page 22 of Out of Office
“Yeah, all these little towns both on Costa Abajo and Costa Arriba meet the Caribbean Sea. Portobelo was the second try for a settlement to connect the Spanish commerce route from the Atlantic to the Pacific.”
We drove slowly; the sun lazily woke up on the horizon, tinging the land with a golden hue that made everything seem otherworldly. I focused on the striking contrast of beauty and poverty surrounding the area—so much potential for the development of tourism to inject into an area of need. I couldn’t miss that most of the people awake before the sun, walking to their jobs and duties, were Black, and the whole province was filled with people like me, attempting to live their best lives in an area riddled with potential and neglect.
“Why is this area not developed more? There is so much beauty, the coastline is pristine, and with some heavy sanitation, you could—”
“I get the instinct of wanting to make this more touristy, to inject money into it, to bring in foreigners. There is much history this area has to offer, but how to avoid advancements from displacing the people that have lived here for centuries?”
I pondered his question, not having a proper answer to it. He wasn’t wrong; gentrification affected us the most wherever we went. But God, there must be a way, a way for us who had some means to explore beautiful areas like this to inject directly into the economy of the little towns without disrupting the culture and the very foundation here.
“It’s what happened in other areas in the country...and the money never goes to those that need it the most. Much could be done, but I’ve yet to see projects like what you’re thinking of not displace the people that live here. Close to here was one of the first, if not the first, settlements of free Black enslaved people in the continent, we deserve for that to be preserved.”
“For real? That is amazing! When did it happen?”
“Damn, now you’re putting me in the spot.”
I smiled at his mixed prepositions, and he pinched my hip, making me jump.
“My mama loved to tell us that story. It was told to her by many before her. A lot of our history has been preserved orally in these areas. It might not be in history books, though many are now attempting to discover things we long knew. If my memory doesn’t fail me, it was 1579.”
A sensation of rightness went through me as Adrián became animated, explaining to me the story of this area and his people.
“See, my dad comes from West Indian descent, whereas my mom comes from Maroon descent from the people that rebelled and raided the Camino Real taking Spaniards’ merchandise and money to help free even more enslaved African descendants. Once they were granted the freedom that was always theirs, they built what we call palenques.”
“I’ve read about those remote settlements of free Black people, right?”
“Yeah. Here let’s park and walk around a bit.”
Adrián found parking on the side of the road, in front of a small fonda, and ran around the front of the car, opening the door for me before I even attempted to reach for the handle. I didn’t realize they still made men like Adrián so gentlemanly and polite. He didn’t need to do this anymore but still managed to do this little gesture, and every time it warmed my heart. I stepped out of the vehicle and took in the smell of brine and seafood that permeated the area. Small houses and structures of different sizes sprouted along the coastline beside the narrow main road. Everyone made their way to their spots of business and merchandise stands.
“Mama’s great-grandma was born in that house, and always led a simple life.” He pointed to a red house with ornamental brick-styled windows, the square footage probably not larger than my bedroom in Florida. “Same as my grandmother, then my parents. Then I came, and well, I wanted more, but life has a way of humbling you, and now I love being here. What do you see in your future, Genevieve?”
This trip made me see things I’d never realized were possible. My mind raced to answer the question most truthfully, even though something inside of me made me want to say something different. Wish for something different.
“I want to be the president of my company. Be the youngest Black professional to reach those ranks.”
Adrián turned to me and gave me an earnest, sad smile that caused a flash of shame to go through me. There wasn’t anything wrong with my dream, was there? The smile Adrián gave me mimicked some of the looks I’d seen in the mirror in the mornings when I practiced a presentation or got ready for a long day of meetings, but then I walked into the office and a surge of energy would fill me, reminding me of what I loved about my career. Wanting to be the president of a company I believed in was a dream that I deserved to pursue without wondering what other opportunities I left on the table, because of the grueling responsibilities of this path. What other experiences I would never have because of the dedication required for my goal. I had decided, and I had to be content with my choice. I was content with my choice.
“What else do you want besides the career goal, which by the way, is something I know you will achieve.” I didn’t need his approval, but I couldn’t help the glow at his certainty.
“I...a long time ago, I thought I’d find a partner to share my life with, to do the fun, silly stuff. Wake up on Sundays and drive by the coastline...”
“Like we’re doing today,” he said with that rumbling, deep voice that always made me think of warm cups of coffee in the morning.
“Like we’re doing today. Go sightseeing to new places, discover things about where I lived that I didn’t know, and just constantly be surprised. Go out to dance...even though the ancestors played me with all the rhythm but not many skills,” I said, not minding sharing this with him. Only Gino knew about these other dreams, and I had stopped reminding him so he wouldn’t berate me left and right about giving up on them. But I was a realist. The more I moved up in the ranks the more I realized the time and bandwidth required to stay at that level. Life wasn’t fair, nor did I believe in the infamous work-life balance. It was a mirage to keep us believing we could achieve it all.
“All you said sounds like a dream worth fighting for,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze singed my skin. I avoided his stare, unable to withstand the heartfelt regard Adrián deployed when I least expected it. I was never ready and seldom said the right thing.
Children ran around a basketball court smiling as two men danced dressed in clothes with colorful tattered rags.
“Who’s that?” I asked Adrián as we strolled side by side, and he gently slid his hand into mine, holding it warmly as he guided me across the road. A pool of simmering desire rested in my center, always ready to boil whenever near him. A simple hold of hands and I wanted to start writing my first name next to his last name and list our children’s names right below it. I wanted to write his name in every song lyric I loved. It was truly sickening.
“Those are Congos. Many of the people that live in the area, descendants of Maroons, are Congos. They are what I call the living, breathing ambassadors of our culture, our past struggles, and a reminder of all we have accomplished.”
“Oh, so they are not just performers?” I asked as we stood side by side in the open space, seeing their dance moves, intrigued; and the music they played from a boom box next to them seemed to be straight from the depths of the sea, a beautiful calling.
“Oh no. They are way more than that. Some people perform Congo dances that aren’t Congo, but they don’t know half of what being Congo truly means. Right now, we’re in what is called Congo season, and during this time, they have rituals and games, for lack of a better word, that re-create many of the ways of the past for the Maroons in this area.”
“Damn, there is so much culture here,” I said happily, and he squeezed my hand, a tingle running through me at the mere gesture.