The Guajira

My flip-flops died last week.  Or maybe the week before.  I can’t remember.  But I do remember where they died.  The Guajira : a remote peninsula at the top of South America shared between Colombia and Venezuela.  90 % for Colombia, 10 % for Venezuela.  The Colombians are in awe of her.  The Venezuelans fear her.

The peninsula is a desert.  Two types of cacti grow there.  One grows tall and straight and is planted in a row to make a fence around the yard.  The other is far less impressive.  That’s about the extent of the flora.  Less robust cacti wilt and wither in the hot sun.  I don’t feel so bad about the death of my left flip-flop.  The right one didn’t die…but he couldn’t go on without his partner.


The animal life includes lizards that eat insects and insects that bite the Wayuu Indians, the tourists, and the mangy dogs.  Looks like we’re at the bottom of the food chain…along with the mangy dogs.


The Wayuu, cousins to the Arawak, was one of the only indigenous groups in Colombia or Venezuela never to be conquisted by the Spanish.  Fierce by reputation, they also gave Simon Bolivar a hand in expelling the despised Spanish.  Even today the governments of Colombia and Venezuela have little say and less control over peninsular affairs.  But the Wayuu aren’t quite so fierce these days.  They still fish and herd goats like always (fiercely ?), but now they spend a lot of time weaving baskets, hats, and hammocks for tourists.  They also own posadas (inns).  There are more posadas there than tourists.  I don’t blame them for the death of my flip-flops; it’s the land that’s fierce.


The land jumped out of the sea millions of years ago and got baked by the unforgiving sun.  The earth got hard and jagged.  My flip-flops felt every uneven stone.  Yes, life got hard when the land left the sea.  But, damn, this land’s got some fine vistas…cerulean coastline and copper sunsets every day.  Seems like it was worth the change of address.  Except for my flip-flops.