The Pensieve

As our lives have drifted back into leisure and the eating of much seafood after the madness of scuba, we stop here to tell you a tale from one of our first nights in Taganga. First though, a plug… Colette’s work is published again! You may have checked it out before on Hoboeye, a online arts journal. Check it out again, alone with some other writers, musicians, and visual artists, as she is one of the contributing poets for the April issue. Visit www.hoboeye.com. And now, Tales from Taganga. Some identities have been changed to protect the frightened.

We were new to Taganga and new to the house. We had eaten a delicious fish dinner on the beach and had a few beers with friends at sunset. As we strolled leisurely through the town, the lights suddenly cut out. As in, ALL of the lights in the entire town. The blaring speakers that are eternally present and deafeningly loud no matter the day nor the hour were silent. Oh joy. The stars we suddenly piercing in the desert sky. We know now, but didn’t then that this was a somewhat common occurrence. So then, we were a bit anxious, as we didn’t know our way back up the hill nor did we know our neighbors. So we picked our way home in the darkness and lay in the hammocks waiting. Though it was early, the lights were out, so there was nothing to do but go to bed. And that we did.

As we lay trying to sleep, the sounds of an extremely agitated man/men grew louder and louder next door. Apparently, our neighbors had pissed someone off and that someone had gotten drunk and arrived at their door to have it out. Yells, banging, curses. Then rocks and shattering glass. Some friends who were staying with us at the hostal as that time were getting a bit freaked out, as were we, so we convened in our room, sitting still and silent in the darkness, listening. The sounds grew louder, as it seemed more people had joined in on what sounded like a full on riot. Then, gunshots. We kid you not. Now don’t worry, we tell you all this now, as we have learned that Taganga is a normally very peaceful and chill town, albeit never quiet due to the eardrum shattering music. So fret not, but fret we did that night. We suddenly felt the strangeness of our surroundings, the ignorance in our Spanish, the lack of telephones, the lack of numbers like 911, the lack of electricity, hmmmm. Our hosts, whispered to us tensely not to go anywhere, as they had guns. Don’t worry guys, we’re not. But one of them did. He leapt the wall out back and ran down to the police station in town. Now, imaginations can run quite wild, and I think a few in our number let their’s go… paramilitary invasion, drug bust, all the glamorous and yet not at all so now that they were happening visions of life in Colombia. Soon, it sounded as though the entire town was out in force trying to calm it all down. Naturally, no police showed up until well after the people had done their job. Things did quiet, and it was only an occasionaly drunken yell or a falling piece of glass that we heard after that, but it took a bit for us to calm down ourselves. And then, as if timed, the lights came back on, the fan whirred to life and we stared at each other in tense disbelief and relief. Some rum went down quite smoothly to ease us down and we drifted to our separate rooms to sleep.

Next morning, Jake, the foul-mouthed Brit who had been living at the house for three months at that point had quite a lot to say about what had happened the night before. He mocked anyone that had been afraid, and explained to Blair that the townspeople were angry at the inhabitants of the house, squatters of sorts who were artisans not from around there that were known as serious drug users. The peeps were supposedly pissed at these lawless dirty hippies for sullying their quiet streets with smack and cheap jewelry.

Fast forward some months, and we learn, that yes, our neighbors like drugs, even having been known to swallow live scorpions for the high, but that they weren’t squatters so much as the son of the man who owned the house and his friends. Furthermore, they had thrown rocks at a woman’s head, not any woman though, but the one who had stolen their motobomba, or water pump. Theiving of the motobomba is a big deal, as water is pretty much the main concern of most people in Taganga. Alas, the rock throwing was a bigger deal, and it was rumored that a group of people had gotten together to cut the power so that they could attack the house under the cover of darkness. Our hosts DO love to tell tales, so we are not sure about that last part, but we do think the dispute centered around the motobomba and revenge.

All that being said, we have no plans to get anywhere near anyone’s motobomba.

The kittens are well. We may end up sneaking them across the border with us.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 18th, 2007 at 3:37 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.