El Afinaíto, El Barco va pa Lante

 
Colombia was an intangible concept before I went there. I'm finally back in New Orleans but as soon as I left Cartagena I knew I had encountered and certainly underestimated the indomitable and lasting effects of the powerful Caribbean.

It was as if all the magic realism I read came back to life. From García Márquez's Macondo to Captain Pantoja and the Special Service from Vargas Llosa, even some of Isabel Allende and it's hiding spirits behind the curtains came back to me.

Make a clean cut unto a watermelon with a machete and you have Cartagena. An open and bursting place that offers coconut lemonades, whispering men that rub against your ears as you walk by, honking traffic, drumbeats from the Santo Domingo's Plaza, the constant sound of rusty bike or bus breaks, the condensed humidity against the windows. Pink flowers cascading from barred, wooden and colorful balconies trying to weave themselves into women's hair. Chiseled mulatto men and boteric voluptuous women, cocadas in the morning, in the afternoon and at night. Dancing, ravenously, indecently to scandalous champeta. Getting drunk with a Vallenato group a friend (and almost brother by now) brought because I was so intrigued by it.

And all of it mended my soul. One by one, all the rags have been tied together again. Every grain of sand I felt in the soles of my bare feet, from all the warmth, generosity and abundance I received from its people. Just as green trees that get entwined against the houses, I swiveled all my parts to try to reach for the sun again.

I know by now I do romanticize places, I do. I also know this rawness can kill you. As I was jogging or on the bike I rented, mules, motorbikes and some metal wires sticking out of the concrete, made me very aware of this, Cartagena also allows chaos, invites or even defies it.

At some point in the Getsemaní quartier I felt I was lost but embraced it, which required an inner certainty that everything would be all right. That I was in a smiling, helpful land surrounded by water and sure enough, someone pointed me towards the way out.

Finally the friends, the dear friends that have become part of my life, the people that offered their music, unraveled the mysteries of its city, to let us experience the "olor de la guayaba" or the "smell of the guava" as Márquez once wrote.

I think Cartagena is a state of mind. One of being open and inquisitive, one where you allow for good and surprising things to happen. I hope I can keep this feeling wherever I go.