I hadn’t even arrived in Bogotá yet, but I was already invited to a Colombian wedding. I must admit that I pretty much invited myself, but after three hours of chit-chat on the flight from Miami to Bogotá, Pilar and I felt like we were old friends. She gave me my first crash-course on Colombia, explaining how in her country people don’t express themselves by going out for a cup of coffee and talking, they express themselves by dancing. And once they start to boogie, the only thing that’s certain is that the rumba is going to follow.
A closet fan of Dancing With the Stars, I understood that the Rumba was the sexiest of the Latin dance styles, something akin to making love without taking your clothes off. I must admit, I was a little embarrassed—Pilar was a married woman—but when I probed further
, she explained to me that in Colombia “la rumba” is the party after the party that seems to go on and on and on. When I asked how long they go on and on and on, she told me that it’s not uncommon for the rumba to last for several days.
Wow, I have enough trouble staying up to watch the Late Show.
I struggled with my suitcases through the narrow door of the hostel and smiled as the taxista’s jaw dropped when he saw how big my load was. Not a lot fits into a little, yellow Daewoo or Hyundai taxi. I made the decision to leave the hostel for two reasons:
1. I wanted to explore another part of Bogotá
2. After several days of sharing, I really wanted my own bathroom.
The taxista, a former bodyguard to a former American ambassador to Colombia, was eager to be helpful, and offered to take me to a hotel that he knew of close to the restaurant where the wedding party was going on. I said that sounded great. It seems that every taxi driver in Latin America has a certain hotel or restaurant that he recommends—they probably get a commission for it.
However, the “Flamingo” wasn’t really a “hotel”—it was a “motel,” and in Latin America, motels are all about hourly rates. The situation was rather awkward for all of us, but in the end, I decided to stay. Besides, the taxista had already unloaded my luggage, and, I’ll have to admit, the place was pretty nice. They decided to put me up on the top floor, out of the way and out of earshot, and after having lugged all four of my bags up four flights of stairs, I collapsed on the bed, exhausted. I didn’t have time to rest, though. The email I had received the night before said to be at the restaurant Marmara, next door to Salitre Park, at one o’clock. After freshening up, I made my way downstairs, out in the street and began looking for a taxi.
I don’t think Pilar actually believed that I would show up. I mean, we had sat next to each other on the flight from Miami and had got along really well, but how many Gringos actually crash weddings in foreign countries? I’ll tell you how many: one. Me. And maybe my sister.
But I showed up, and although I wasn’t sure at first if Pilar’s expression were one of fear or happiness, when she sat me down at her table—with the family of the bride—and I was served an overflowing plate of Colombian food, I thought, Yes! I’m in! At first I did feel a little awkward sitting there with complete strangers and eating their food, but the sheer curiosity of all the other guests—and my digital camera—were enough to knock down barriers that normally would’ve stood firm between the family and friends of the bride and the groom and some Gringo that Pilar met on an airplane.
Before long, I was up and dancing. Although I kind of had a thing for Pilar, she was married, so it was her older, divorced sister that dragged me out on the dance floor. This was a very slow, sexy dance, Pilar explained to me, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to dance with me. I said that was fine, though I didn’t really stand a chance: Liz grabbed me in a big bear hug and started swinging me around the dance floor.
The theme of the party was “Urban Cowboy,” although I’ll have to admit that the scene looked a little more “Mexican Ranchero.” Apparently, someone in the family had recently been in Mexico. Regardless, it was pretty surreal to be at a Colombian wedding with a western theme and to feel like part of the family. Stuff like that just doesn’t happen where I come from.
I must’ve taken a hundred photos (and some video) when it was time for all the single men to go up on stage with the band. I didn’t really want to go, but one doesn’t argue with a dozen very determined Colombian women. I handed over my camera to Monica, one of Pilar’s nieces, and reluctantly climbed up on stage with the rest of the fellas. When the bandleader held the microphone up to my mouth and asked me my name, my timing was on. “Juan Valdéz,” I said, and everybody started laughing. But, they already knew my name—I had met just about all of them—and several people began chanting, “Ma-te-o! Ma-te-o!”
As punishment for my belligerence, I was the first to ride the mechanical bull. This was something a little more up my alley, I thought. Considering that I’m 1/3 Mexican and 2/3 American, being a cowboy is in my jeans. I’d like to think that they pushed the lever all the way to the max—just to mess with the Gringo—but when it comes right down to it, I never stood a chance. I took hold of the pommel with my weak hand (so that I could wave my hat in the air with the other) and didn’t think about adjusting my jewels. By the third buck, I had a sprained wrist, cracked nuts and a bruised ego.
When I got my camera back, the retractable lens was jammed and I couldn’t take any more pictures. I tried pushing the thing back in, changing the batteries…nada. I figured I would just let it rest for the remainder of the evening, and everything would be okay. And anyway, Monica informed me that the “rumba” was going to continue upstairs on the terrace—and I didn’t want to miss out on the rumba.
We danced, they sang, we rumba’d…until Pilar told me it was time to go and that they could give me a ride back to my “hotel.” That was fine by me; I’d had enough rumba by then. I was also eager to get back to the motel and try to figure out what was wrong with my camera.
They dropped me off, we said our goodbyes, and I went to my room and took my camera out of its bag. I decided to plug it into my MacBook, hoping that the hardware interface might somehow remedy the stuck lens. Sure enough, when I plugged it in, the camera made a little whirring sound and the lens retracted back inside. I decided it would be a good idea to download all the pictures I had taken, but when I opened up Image Capture, there wasn’t a single picture on my camera. Apparently, when I reset it, I erased it.
Damn it!
I know I can still rely upon my memory to paint a portrait of the wedding, and the mother of the bride gladly sent me some of her photos to make up for my loss. Unfortunately, the eye behind her camera didn’t see things quite the way I did, and in all honesty, my little FujiFilm S1000 takes a hell of a picture.
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