Author: Olavia Kite

This is Carlos Castañeda, a 39-year old coffee-grower from Andes, Antioquia. He was chosen among hundreds of candidates to succeed Carlos Sánchez in the role of Juan Valdez.

I thought I wouldn’t like him since I was so used to the image of Sánchez, but Castañeda seems humble, friendly, and his physical features are very typical of the coffee-growing region. He looks like the kind of farmer who would gently invite you to a cup of coffee when finding you tired on the road around his property.

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Once again, the words have hidden behind my lips. Nevertheless, I saw them last Sunday fluttering around the house, melting around the inarizushi and chasing the doggie in the living room. Words, colorful and clumsy, filled up the house that evening and invaded the streets of suburban Yokohama.

Now I’m back in my lonely room, silent, monochrome. I suppose I won’t see them again until sometime far, far away from today.

In my head, Japanese language flows endlessly. Sentences keep appearing, one after the other, conveying my thoughts and feelings, maybe not properly, but in an acceptable manner. In my head, I am able to speak to the best student in the class about things that do not sound like reruns of lessons. This person then doesn’t have to wonder why I run away, and I am not hoping to somehow explain it is all because I’m ashamed of my vanishing abilities (yes, I used to be able to speak). I can state my point of view in class and there is no need for the teacher to translate my blabber into proper Japanese.

However, whenever it’s time for words to flow out of my brain, they get stuck in my throat, forming a huge ball that chokes me and stings my tongue into numbness. Will the knot ever be untied? I hate this constant feeling of helplessness towards something as important as communication. Where will the courage come from, if it ever does?

If it requires 1000 more yen every month for me to be happy, then so be it. I’m not giving up my music to cut expenses.

I wonder what my neighbors think of my music. One minute there’s Ravel, and the next there’s Pedrito Fernández. Beatles, Backstreet Boys, Nara Leão, Frank Sinatra, Air. I love the melodies filling up the air all day long. Solitude is lighter when there’s a sweet voice reminding you of the existence of happiness. Despite the fact that people will be able to hear me from outside, sometimes I sing in the shower. I miss my guitar, though. However, my music is here with me, and that’s all that matters. After all, it’s Japan but the Chipi Chipi is available! Too bad there’s no one to dance it with.

This morning I listened to Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, and it was superb.