Alex played reggae songs from his favorite bands on his iPod, telling us which island each singer was from. He didn´t say it, but you got the feeling that as he looked out at the ocean and sang along, he dreamed of traveling to these islands with his drums and jamming with these musicians, sharing songs and recording together.
I met Najo, a reggae singer, who hopes to travel soon to the States to visit his father and siblings, who live in the Bronx. He dreams of doing a professional recording, in a studio (does not exist here in Livingston, and with the racism many Guatemalans feel toward the Garífuna culture, fat chance of it happening in Guate City), and being a famous singer.
It appears that many Garífuna have migrated to New York City in search of economic opportunities. How sad is it that the most soulful, deep-rooted cultures in this world are dissipating so rapidly? What will happen in 20 years, when the young generation is not here to replace the elders? Who will lead the town forward and continue to celebrate it´s culture? And what if, one day, tourism here disappeared; where would the cash flow come from then?
Despite the lack of promising economic opportunities, however, these people keep on dreaming as they go about life, smiling and singing to each new day.
Jesus dreams of returning to Germany where his wife and children are living, and being with them. Claudia´s daughter, Sadie, dreams of becoming a world-class volleyball player and going around the globe. And Claudia herself told us yesterday, over coffee, after we shared stories of how our parents met and she admitted her own boldness--she ran away at the age of 15 with an older boy from the Garífuna culture, so unlike her own Latino culture, and today he is her husband and father of five children--of her own dream: to travel, to meet other cultures, and learn from them. She discovered she loved this when she moved to Livingston from Morales, where she grew up, and encountered the cosmology and rituals of the Garífuna, like nothing she had ever seen before. And now, us travelers bring her a little piece of our own cultures whenever we visit with her and chat, as we watch her son Lester make a kite out of newspaper, sticks, and string, and we share stories like old friends.
Livingston is so beautiful: the pelicans, the water, the seafood and coconut trees lining the beach, the old African ladies in their simple frocks, the rastamen with their drums, the Mayans with their quite pride and long hair. The family celebrations in the streets, the school marchingband walking around playing drums in the afternoons, the families drinking together and dancing in bars after dark, all make Livingston such a colorful and lively place. Claudia´s family, full of spunk and inquisitiveness. Alex and his friends, who play music that comes from their souls, and their ancestors´ souls, their hands flying across the drums in a blur. Lester and his friends, flying their homemade kites on the beach after school.
Why should they have to move to NYC, and leave this place and their loved ones, in order to be successful? Is it an attraction to materiality, to possess Nike shoes and gold chains they never could afford if they stayed here? Is it a sense of responsibility, to send cash and useful household goods back to family here? Is it to live a different life, one of fresh clothes instead of second-hand, of playing music to a youthful, rowdy crowd of fellow Africans instead of a bunch of unknowing, foreign, white tourists?
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-- And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
-Langston Hughes
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