The closest I’ve come to getting kidnapped in Colombia was in San Gil, in the state of Santander.
I had heard about San Gil—I had even passed through the small town on my way from Bogotá to Bucaramanga—but I didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. I had heard that it was a nice place, that there was river-rafting as well. But it wasn’t until my friends from el Café del Maestro in Bucaramanga invited me to go white water rafting with them that I decided to give it a shot. At least they had mentioned that they were going that weekend—maybe I actually invited myself.
I decided to head up to San Gil a day earlier to get the lay of the land—and to take pictures, of course. I had also heard that San Gil was currently hosting its annual feria dedicated to ganadería, or cattle ranching. I thought it would be a good idea to shoot some photos at the fair as well, you know, to get a view of rural Colombia. But first, I wanted to take a look around town.
Spanning el Rio Fonce, San Gil is the focal point for a wide variety of extreme sports. El canotaje, or river rafting, is the main attraction, but paragliding, cave exploring and jungle treks aren’t far behind. And, because of the lack of foreign tourists who are still wary about traveling in Colombia, San Gil still maintains airs of a pueblo while offering most of the services of a major resort town.
As soon as you come around the bend in the highway and enter San Gil proper, you can’t avoid the canotaje. Or you can, I guess, you just have to swerve around the river guides carrying brightly-colored, hand-made rafts who are hurrying across the highway. Large trucks advertising rafting are parked along the malecón, which separates the river from the main part of the town, which climbs up into the surrounding hills, cobblestone streets slicing through the complexes of small business and residences. The houses have no yards, to speak of, and are all connected like rustic row-houses forming one, solid mass of buildings of different shapes and sizes per block.
I got out of my taxi and crossed the street to the malecón and began walking toward Gallineral Park. I saw that there were ticket booths, however, and decided that there were plenty of pictures I could take without paying an entrance fee. So, I turned around and began walking along the malecón in the opposite direction, toward the center of town. I was amazed at the sights all around me: a pristine river flowing along to my left, to my right, a stand that specialized in hormigas culonas, toasted, fat-assed ants that are considered a delicacy in Colombia. Streets climbed their way at impossible angles up the hills beyond the shops, and even, as in the case of El Caracól, are terraced in slopes of lesser inclines so that somebody can actually walk up the damn things. As I passed the public market at closing-time, two dozen vultures scrambled over each other fighting for scraps of fruit in the garbage piles.
In the town square, there was the customary plaza, a church (in this case a cathedral) and a variety of businesses across the streets around the entire perimeter. Within the park itself, aside from a lot of people, were vendors of food and crafts and the like, but what I really got a kick out of were the cotton candy and sno-cone carts that got their power from really loud, gas-powered engines. I kept looking around to see which car was making all the noise before I finally figured it out.
After exploring the town, which really didn’t take that long, it was time to go to the fair. I’m not sure what I expected, but it was definitely not what I found. After paying my entrance fee, maybe two bucks, I was immediately aware of all the people selling hats. There’s a special kind of Colombian sombrero called a vueltiao, native to the Tuchín, Córdoba, on the Caribbean coast. It seemed that everybody but me had one—which made me want one even more, of course. But I guess I have a big, fat, Gringo head, because I couldn’t find one that fit me.
The food looked amazing, although it wasn’t anything I was in the mood for at the time: meat, chicken, chorizo, goat, more meat, potatoes and fried bananas. Carne a la llanera, strips of meat hung over a skirt-shaped grill that rotates slowly around an open fire, was one of the more popular offerings, but I’d already had enough meat that day.
The games of skill and chance at the fair were like something out of a Hemmingway novel. Rudimentary roulette wheels spun while people took shots at paper targets with b-b-guns and others fell victim to Three Card Monte. What was really important at the fair, besides the hats, was the beer: glowing, yellow Cerveza Aguila tents were everywhere, with people sitting beneath them at tables overstrewn with empty beer bottles. I suspect that the number of empties on your table is a symbol of potency in Colombia.
Oh, and then there was the live music. A tropical band, equipped to perform everything from salsa to merengue to vallenato, was playing on a large, center stage beneath the largest Cerveza Aguila tent that I had seen so far. Apart from all the instruments, there were four singers—two men and two women—who danced along to every song as well. Typically, the men looked a little bit gay, and the women had huge breasts.
I was kind of dancing around, taking pictures, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw a woman, early forties, who was smiling and nodding at me, and I took that as an invitation to dance. And we did, dance, for a couple numbers, but then I decided it was time to move-on—and to go to the bathroom. So, I smiled, took my leave, and struggled through the undulating crowd and toward what I had christened the “urinal” on the other side of the grounds. The “urinal” was basically a waist high, tiled trough on the back end of the bathrooms. I was starting to get used to peeing in public, and believe me I was, as I unzipped my fly, impervious to the multitudes of men and women within sight of me.
But when I came out from around the back of the bathroom, I was startled to see my dance partner standing there. “Oh, there you are,” she said, and I realized that I was being stalked. “You should have come to my house to go to the bathroom,” she said. “It’s very close.” I told her I was sure that her house was very close, but that I went to the bathroom just fine in the “urinal.” She nodded, understanding. “I like sex,” she said. “Very much.” I nodded, understanding, suddenly afraid. “I don’t,” I said. “Why not?” Her face clouded in disappointment. “I’m a Jesuit,” I said. That didn’t seem to dissuade her, however, as she went on about how she had a lover from New Zealand, but that he had to leave, suddenly. Yeah, I’ll bet.
I couldn’t shake my tail, even when I wanted to go back and do some more dancing. She was stuck on me like you-know-what. So, realizing that my situation was hopeless, I told her that, as a writer, I had a deadline that night and that I had to go back to my hotel and write. “Oh no!” She exclaimed. That’s what I said, I thought. She offered to help me find a taxi because, she said, they were very hard to get. Bullshit, I thought, I passed a line of at least ten taxis outside when I went inside the fairgrounds. But, I had to give her some credit, she was giving it one, last college try, and you have to kind of respect that.
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