Santa Anita

I got down out of the back of the pick up truck, shouldered my heavy backpack, and turned to face the community where I plan to spend the next few days. A handpainted sign read “Bienvenidos a Santa Anita de la Union” (Welcome, basically). I took it for what it was worth, and walked slowly down the dirt path into a hodge podge of buildings in various states and colors, looking for signs of life.
About a hundred yards in to Santa Anita, there is a crossroads. I looked both directions and in one, saw a man clearing the weedy road with a machete, and down the other, a small hill and a pick up being loaded with something or other. I chose the path with the man and the machete, but stopped before reaching him when a boy about three feet tall jumped out from behind a string of bushes and a corrugated tin wall shouting, “Mama! Mama! Una extranjera!”
My foreign identity and large backpack clearly a dead giveaway, I resigned myself to my role as the clueless visitor and waited for the appearance of Clara, a round faced woman about 5 foot 4 with five children in tow. She welcomed me, I explained that I had called, but that upon arriving, I was unsure where to go. She laughed a little, and led me further into the community to “the hotel”. As we walked (not far, as this entire community of 170 people apparently has only about 6 acres of land), we passed a tiny, yellow, one room church, a blue and white pharmacy (supported by an NGO from Madrid, I was told), the beneficio for the coffee, the elementary school, and came upon the hotel.
The hotel has about eight rooms, and I imagine a capacity for 30 or so people. The rooms are simple and cream colored with various chunks missing in the spackled walls. The tapioca and brick checkered floor has the look of being old and dusty even when it is freshly washed. Curtains hung with clothespins cover the square gridded windows. The room where I am staying has five beds and a large television. Just outside is a hand painted map of the community, various rules and announcements for guests.
Santa Anita is a community of 35 ex-guerilla families. It was founded seven years ago. In the three hours that I have been here, I have been reminded of this a few times, quick instances that jar a person into remembering the horrendous and violent history to recent in this seemingly peaceful countryside. The first instance today was when Clara introduced herself and the other community members as ex-combatants. Moments later, I was talking to her children, when one of them, about four years old, came up with a very realistic looking toy gun. I was taken aback by the image of this small child with the model of a very deadly weapon in his hand, surfacing the lives and experiences of his ancestors who are now sharing this seemingly peaceful existence. The next moment was a series of gunshots just outside the window to my room, which caused me to catch my breath and run to the window in time to see a man with a gun running to the back of a pickup truck. Will have to find out more about that pronto.
Here at Santa Anita, I am to eat with families, participate in what needs to be done and learn as much as possible. So far, I am hearing the laughter and patter of running children, breathing hard, screaming, playing. There is a church service going on outside, people enter and leave the small yellow building as both a man and a woman take turns talking about Christ on a microphone. The community bustles as the sun sets on another December day, seemingly the kind of peaceful day these people took up and put down arms for before they arrived here. I hope to have a much better sense of their past, their present, and their aspirations for the future as I share with them a few of these hard-garnered sunrises and sunsets.