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Portrait of A House

It's been eight years since I was in Macondo*. The political situation has eased somewhat making it now possible to go back, assuming of course nothing changes within the next eight weeks until my holiday.

I think it will be very strange to go back, now that Abuelo is no longer with us. When I think of the village, I think of him, the two are almost synonymous in my mind. And it will be strange to go back to his house and not see him; alseep in the hammock, his mouth hung open in an endless silent snore, or sat in his favourite chair (The broken one of course), or to see him weaving his fishing nets, or sharpening his machete on the stone.

I think of their home and part of it is my home too. Everytime we've been to Colombia we've stayed with my Grandparents and when we lived there however breifly that was, it was that house we lived in. Mami, Dad, Sister, Grandparents, baby cousin Laura Marcela, and three dogs, back in 1992 when I had goofy teeth, a squeaky voice, giant glasses and a mane of uncontrollable flowing hair.

It was a big house with four bedrooms, though some of the house had fallen into disuse and neglect. In the hot mountains villages of Cundinamarca the houses are built in L or U shapes around an open courtyard, patio or garden. At any rate you are exposes to the elements. Their house had the four bedrooms at the very front, with the kitchen and bathroom running along the side of the courtyard, and the courtyard just suddenly stopped as though the builder had got bored and it melts into a large and dusty garden.

You can't escape the dust in Macondo. The streets here on the outskirts of town aren't paved, they're born of the passage of time, footsteps in the dried mud and volcanic ash, treading their own path. Sweeping the floor is a task in futility and yet it's done on a daily basis, as though stiff twigs on the end of a broom will defeat the wind.

The walls are whitewashed stone, leaving a chalky residue on your clothes if you lean on them for too long. Only the passageway into the house from outside differs, with a half hearted attempt to paint the walls green.

The dinner table, the fridge and the cupboards nestle in the shade beneath the overhanging corrugated iron roof. The fridge hums away (If the electricty hasn't been cut of course) hot air pumped out the back as it works overtime to keep it's products cool. Tins of milk and tins of soup, fruit and vegetables, chunks of meat and pitchers of Abuela's home made fruit juices.

The table can hold eight probably and it's battered and worn but comforting all the same, smug in it's role as a central gathering point for the vast extended family. All human drama has occured around that table when five generations sit around to eat. A well serviced fly swat serves as a reminder to the unwelcome visitors at meal times, and casting an eye up at the ceiling would reveal the ludicrious bags of water hanging above the table which Abuelo is convinced will fool the mosquitos into staying away.

There's a seperate table. A smaller one, decaying. Abuelo's table. With his own knife and fork, his broken chair and the radio where he listens to cumbias all day.

A blazing pool of sunlight burns the centre of the courtyard solidly for twelve hours a day. Numerous rocking chairs are dotted about, seeking solace in the shade that can be found beneath the overhanging trees. By midday the heat will be unbearable, inescapable, the diminishing patches of shade fought over. This is a town that knows the meaning of siesta. Even the dogs surrender and doze in the corners.

We only have three dogs; Princessa, Rocky and Gertrudis but there are always more. Tia Christina lives next door and her two dogs, Canela and Tony are no strangers to this house, and Tia Nury lives down the street and her dog Caruzo is a constant visitor, deeply in love and devoted to the indifferent Princessa.

The kitchen is a world of shadows. A square block of a room with only the tiniest slit for a window upon the main table. It smells of gasoline and woodsmoke in there. The room is stifling in the heat, even the flies give this room a wide bearth. A chandalier of pots and pan hanging over the old stove, rivers of wax on the tiles from the candles that burn in the evening illuminating this paradox, a dark hole which you never associate with the myriad of meals served throughout the day.

The tiled courtyard fades into polished stone in the wash area. A lone shower and seperate WC, hidden behind battered metal doors. A sink with a family of geckos darting around the pipes, and a huge stone basin where all clothes are handwashed and rather more disoncerting where chickens meet their fate.

The garden is huge and filled with chickens. Their mindless clucking is a constant background noise to the house, the melody we're accustomed to and no longer hear. Abuelo's workshed sits lonely, a wonky shack of iron and wood, filled with all manner of junk and bits and pieces. Next to that on a wooden stool is a cage for rabbits, but unsettling to my ten year old self, they won't be fluffy pets, they'll be Tuesday dinner.

There's space to park a car. In fact there's space to park several cars and on those endless bank holiday weekends you'll find several of them nestled beneath the trees, reluctantly awaiting the traditional painting of chicken shit, as family come all the way from Bogota for a bonfire barbeque, in a Roman Catholic country where every Saint Day is an excuse for the offices to shut and a four day party.

The house lies on the edge of the village and beyond the garden nothing exists save for majestic mountains, painted in whites, browns, greens and purples, rising to the sky and shimmering unreal in the constant sunlight, like a a vast painted backdrop or a half remembered dream.

* Real village name changed.

By Cockney Colombian on Jun 6, 2005, 08:43 in Friendly Talkzone.

kat1 (Moderator) (Trustee board) (☼Travelguide writer) says on Jun 6, 2005, 08:56:

That pictures bring me a lot ThIS pictures bring me a lot of memories, reminds me of my grandfather house too, and as you said everytime I think of the village he used to live I think of him even that he is no longer with us too. The house and the place is not the same without him. I miss him A LOT :-(

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Desideria (Moderator) (Trustee board) says on Jun 6, 2005, 09:01:

This is great stuff and should go right into "living in Colombia" category next to my Normal Day thread.

Thank you for sharing the story and the pics of the house.

Cheers,
Desi

A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi

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rjstuff says on Jun 6, 2005, 09:14:

Wow fantastic You write so well! I would be surprised if you are not a writer (or a poet at least!) Your words weave a poem of a tranquil life that matches the picture of the mountains - very poetic, very picturesque, very romantic! Great stuff! Can we have more?

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Desideria (Moderator) (Trustee board) says on Jun 6, 2005, 09:20:

"La casa del abuelo" Your post reminded me of a children's book I used to read to my kids when they were small in Colombia.
Cheers,
Desi

A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi

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poco says on Jun 6, 2005, 10:17:

Outstanding Ahhh,, Now this is your number one post and shows an ability to mesh a story with words bringing the pictures to life.

Not bragging (much), but I could see the possibility of this talent in your first post. “The stench of corpses” was an outstanding observation. I’d have never guessed your reasoning for the comment and almost fell off my chair when you added the explanation later. Never expected to see that depth of knowledge on this site.

The house reminds me of where I live, complete with chickens and the stack of bricks for future projects, but my chickens are caged (most of the time). The house is much larger than usually found in a rural area. A tiny Colombian “Finca” and perfect place to lounge in the shade with visitors.

Your observations are always entertaining. This time it is the bags of water. They are to keep the flies away and yes,, they do work. Not perfect, I use Zip lok baggies, guess it keeps them entertained, unless there is food on the table.

Thinking “That’ll never work” has now been replaced with “How does that work”, “Why does that work” and “I’ll be damned”.

Colombian Chickens are crowing about the new President of the U.S. who will assure that From each according to their ability to each according to their need.

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miamimike says on Jun 6, 2005, 10:21:

Your Post Reminds me why I return to this website.. Very Nice Journey with your Grandfather's house and the typical life in Colombia.Great Post!!

No hay Peor Ciego que el que no quiere Ver o Sordo que el que no quiera Oir--Soy Yo, Sarah Palin, Wasilla Alaska.

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Colombiche says on Jun 6, 2005, 11:07:

Excellent! Cockney, your pictures literally brought me down memory lane. Growing up in Colombia is a blessing that I will cherish until I draw my last breath.....

I will always remember those days and nights that I spent as a child in my uncle's finca, a cattle farm in the outskirts of Cartago

The sight of a cloud of dirt rising along as my uncle drove his land rover over the bumpy entrance road will stay with me until the day I die. Who can forget getting off the jeep, a gang of chandosos (mutts) would bark in unison to welcome us, sniffing everybody's crotch as we tried to make our way to the house :)

I will never forget riding a saddled mare along the banks of the La Vieja river, while the smell emanating from the sugar cane fields enveloped the air around us.

Who can forget the occasional unlucky "murcielago" (murcie-ga-lo I used to say back then) that would find his way into the house after sunset, batting his wings around as all the women panicked. My aunt Ana was the only one brave enough to force the murcielago into exile by hitting him with a broomstick all the way to the door.

I can still feel the sense of wonder us kids experienced when we ventured away from the house by ourselves at sunset. Back then there was no fear of paracos or Elenos... our biggest threat came from the occasional toro Senu that would charge towards us full speed while we all ran screaming and praying not get a bull's horn poking into our loins. After the "chasing of the bulls" we had to go back to the house with our tail between our legs and beg one of our older cousins to come help us rescue the sneaker we had lost in a pile of boñiga while running away from "El Toro".....

.... oh yes. If I could do it all over again, I would grow up in Colombia. Who needs video games or barbie dolls when you have the sky, the moon, the singing of the cigarras and cane of sugar clasped between your sticky hands?

Cockney, I feel you there brother. Congrats for the post.

No me den trago extranjero, que es caro y no sabe a bueno.... (Rafael Godoy)

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kernow62 says on Jun 6, 2005, 20:06:

I am surprised Poco gave a so I am surprised Poco gave a story with embedded photos a thumbs up. He mustn't be on his steam powered Colombian PC with an 11 K connection today.

Great post Cockney, even though the Colombia of my wife's family in the city is totally different; I feel as though I know your Colombia after reading this story. Very nicely done.

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poco says on Jun 6, 2005, 20:19:

Surprised myself I am surprised Poco gave a sory with embedded photos a thumbs up

Don't think it wasn't on my mind. The story is that good. Similar to buying Hucklberry Fin and finding out you accidently got Pee-Wee Herman's autobiography by mistake.

Colombian Chickens are crowing about the new President of the U.S. who will assure that From each according to their ability to each according to their need.

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Miguel says on Jun 6, 2005, 23:46:

Good photos and writing It also motivated me to start planning the next trip to make sure I can hang with the novia's abuelo while there's still time; he's 86 and has been sick lately. Thanks for an enjoyable post.

"There is nothing lower than the human race...except for the French." - Mark Twain 1878-79

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Cockney Colombian says on Jun 7, 2005, 02:36:

Thank you all for your kind comments, although I should add my apologies for unthinking in posting the large pictures and not considering it would be slower for some of you (Thanks Kernow)

It was the "Normal Day" thread that inspired me to post this, as Colombia is such a large and varied country, this depiction of a typical house may inspire nostalgia in some of you and be alien to others. I cannot claim to know all of Colombia, only Bogota, a few of the rural towns and villages in Cundinamarca, a fortnight in Cali and a day trip to Melga! So this can only be *my* normal day.

And of course the rural and the city life are different too, I've lived in Bogota too and it is a different world from Macondo as it is from my native London.

Thank you rjstuff for the compliment. A writer... well an unpublished one perhaps!

Colombiche, I have to agree. I was ten years old when we briefly lived there and it didn't take me long to forget TV and computers. The nights were endless, in those days of power rationing, sitting on the veranda surrounded by candles with my cousins, our imaginations conjuring up a whole library of stories, with the dogs sat at our feet, a loyal and captive audience.

Or with the children in our street we would be invisible in the darkness, playing "escondidas" (I am uncertain of the Spanish spellings) we're we learnt to become one with the shadows in order to outwit the seeker.

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marcos66 says on Jun 8, 2005, 10:42:

love the fotos Your fotos remind me of the home i stayed in one summer when i went back to visit my home town. Thanks for sharing everything with us.
Marcos

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quindioman says on Jun 9, 2005, 08:26:

superlatives do not suffice....i think i need to change my username.

Your posts are amazing...keep 'em going

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dwmte says on Jun 16, 2005, 16:25:

i feel like such an honored gringo... for the above described personality and experience of colombia shared by you, cockney, so,, ever so deeply parallells the experience of colombia which was vouchedsafe to me over these last many 16-18 yrs.

for this typical adult american, straight from the heartland of america, professional, active in business finding himself cast into the heart of rural outter colombia, the families, the life, the surroundings, the happenings...life/death, in the same tub! being washed in bird shit like the cars...discriptions, so clear of the life as it is actually lived.

so few of the other foreigners i've known over the years, who've lived in or visited colombia over the years, had anything close to the depth and breadth of my experience of colombia. thank you colombia

and do i mean that...for the smiles and the tears, all of them, thank you colombia...thank you.

dwm

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Cockney Colombian says on Jun 20, 2005, 01:04:

I think there is room for two Cockney Colombians. It just goes to show we have great taste in usernames ;-)

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Linospadix says on May 23, 2006, 13:58:

Apartments, Candelaria I lived in Candelaria for a while - 4 months with a Colombian family (Lourdes & Carlos David) - be careful, they robbed me before I moved out, and its very common thing in Candelaria. Don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful wonderful place, just that there are some desperate people around, and you never know!

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