Voyassitude

With a pina colada in one hand and my cellphone in the other, I realize it is midnight already. There are dozens of people surrounding me in the narrowest of alleys, each of them dancing, drinking, laughing, or somehow everything all at once. I focus on two of them, a couple of friends that eight hours ago were complete strangers to me as we pedaled through the insanity of Cartagena, but who have now become travel acquaintances of mine in an evening of trip anecdotes and exploration in one of Colombia’s most iconic cities. As I see them jumping and moving to the rhythm of music coming from all possible directions, I think that even though they’re from Austria and one of them lives in New York, at this very moment they utterly, inexorably belong to Cartagena, forever ingrained in my mind as the two Austrians of Getsemaní.

I only remember one of their names: Thomas, the one settled in the US. The other guy is quieter, perhaps because of his lack of confidence in his thick English accent which nevertheless I understand perfectly, or because he enjoys listening more than talking. In any case, Thomas, his friend and I happen to meet in the worst bike tour I’ve ever had, but that matters very little because once it’s over we strike a small chat, the traditional “where are you from?” or “where will you go next?” so often exchanged between fellow travelers. They mention a salsa class they scheduled for the next hour, while I’m heading to the hotel to take my third shower that day —so inclement the humidity is over there. But at night we happen to have the same idea of wandering around the colorful Getsemaní streets, so we exchange information and decide to meet later.

We reunite at 9 p.m. or so at a desolate bar, beers shared over conversations about Austria, Colombia, and the magic of Christmas in this part of the world. I’m a bit disappointed that the place is rather quiet, lifeless, so once we finish our drinks we head out for some proper excursion. That’s when the true spectacle begins. If you’re familiar with the Getsemaní neighborhood then you know that no wall is free of color or wonder; every corner comes to life with vibrant graffiti and flamboyant art that captures the eye. But not a few minutes have passed when, guided by an increasing roar that’s not so much heard as it is felt, we find ourselves at the entrance of the heart of Getsemaní, its main artery flowing with incessant color, music and the absolute best street party one could dream of. The one-story houses are only differentiated by their vivacious façades, the alley is plagued by locals and foreigners amassed into one giant cluster of frenzy as the Austrians look equally amazed and ecstatic. There must be at the very least twenty or thirty homes in this street alone, and each of them has its own speaker blasting all sorts of salsa, champeta and reggaeton.

It’s quite puzzling how people manage to navigate through this madness when there is an amalgamation of plants, street lights, Christmas decorations, outside tables and chairs, beer crates, dancing kids in spite of the hour, and the endless stream of customers coming in and out of living rooms turned into impromptu bars where beers are sold for 50 cents and cocktails for $4.

So we talk a bit more. And share a few more drinks. But mostly we observe astonished what unfolds before us. We have secured a spot halfway through the alley with a privileged view of some three, four mini-parties occurring simultaneously. And the Austrians, boy, these guys are feeling it. Their salsa class was only a warm-up because now the real deal is happening and their bodies can’t hold it much longer, energy and rapturous joy building up inside them, threatening to erupt.

And it happens, of course. Little by little, timidly, as if afraid they’ll be judged or ignored, they approach a group to our right where Quevedo and Bizarrap’s single hit is reaching its climax. And guess what? It’s obvious they’re not Colombians but the local group admits them anyway as if they were kings, as if they were lifelong friends. Because that’s what we do. Most Colombians are goodhearted people that love welcoming foreigners with open arms, genuine warmth, and a kiss on the cheek. These Austrians might struggle to put together a few sentences in Spanish, but their inexperienced movements suffice to make them the epicenter of this mini-party in which they’re now suddenly shaking euphoric to the lyrics of “Me Vale” by Maná, surrounded by Colombians who fully embrace their European rigidness, their timorous joy flourishing in the middle of this wonderland called Getsemaní.

Me, I watch from afar. Had I been drunk I would’ve probably joined them, but shyness is still strong and settled inside me, and by the time I feel courageous enough to jump into action the furor stops due to the city laws about ending all street parties at 1 a.m. But that’s okay, because the night was about contemplating the warmth and enchantment of my country in full display. By the time we part ways, I can tell this experience is one that Thomas and his friend have not lived before and I hope that wherever they are today they still cherish the moment they became the great Austrians of Getsemaní.