The Storyteller

During my time here in Colombia, I have heard quite a lot about the famed storytelling abilities of these people, which are said to be the inspiration behind the fantastical writing-style of Gabriel Garcia Marques, amongst others. It is a dying skill that, nonetheless, still commands quite a following from a dedicated but small group of fans, mostly made up of old-school academics (anthropologists, literature snobs, etc.) and some youngsters from the lefty universities.

Recently I was presented with the opportunity of attending a show by one of the countries better-known cuenteros (storytellers). It was held in a small theater / bar in one of the more obscure neighbourhoods here in Medellin. Sergio knows the owner, who himself is one of the most famous cuenteros and who is also actively campaigning for the resurrection and survival of this age-old Colombian tradition.

From Colombian story telling

The evil cuentero is about to get really scary!

Sergio and I drove through the maze of little streets that lead up the north-eastern slopes of the mountains overlooking the city, and arrived at this quaint and old Spanish-style house that had been converted into a cosy-cool bar with a tiny adjoining theater.

The show kicked off in a casual kind of way, with the small group of people in the bar lazily sauntering into the theater after the third-or-so plea from the portly hostess. I must admit to not really knowing what to expect and my overriding thought was mostly centered around my fear of being singled out for being a foreigner, as some way of getting cheap laughs. I was thus hell-bent on keeping a low profile.

A neat young fellow presented himself to the crowd, gave a brief overview of the order of proceedings and then dived straight into a story that he honestly seemed to be plucking straight out of the air...with consummate ease I must add. The expression with which he was telling the story was truly riveting. I was glued to his every word, and even though I could not understand all of it, the story was not only easy to follow, but downright captivating due to all the actions and expressions he seemed to effortlessly weave into this fantastical tale, like some master chef playing with his ingredients in a trance of creativity and inspiration.

The tale mixed the magical with the everyday in a way that few movies can, for instance. As I looked around, I could not help but be reminded of the image of a group of small children sitting around a great storyteller, as one would maybe see in a nursery school. Their faces reflected every twist and turn and they gasped in unison as the tension built while the cuentero wickedly toyed with their imagination.

That is really what makes this so amazing to me: that a group of people can be gathered together, just listening to words, and yet for each of them there is a unique and fantastic tale that is unfolding in front of them, each with its own colours, smells, sounds and even emotions.

The man used basic props like small sponge balls that he would magically transform into colourful butterflies that flitted around the stage, using only his words, compelling gestures and the force of his will to pour seemingly everything into the tale. He kept us on the edge of our seats and had us participating at every turn, as we pleaded with him to release us from this suspense, whilst at the same time imploring him to not let it end just yet.

From Colombian story telling

Yes! those are knives!

For more than an hour he held as there and it felt like we could have stayed there for 3 hours more. I was truly impressed and sadly reflected on the slow death of true imagination in this age of instant-gratification. He did actually pull a couple of members out of the crowd, but, by the time this happened, I was so captivated that I felt like a small child trying to catch the teachers eye, simply wishing to be swallowed up more deeply by this tale. I had to reign myself in as I very nearly yelled out something really embarrassing like, “Pick me!”.

PS. more photies in the album below.

Colombian story telling

No dreaming for you my friend!

My house mate tonight confirmed, in no uncertain terms, that he is one with the life on the street, as he lay sprawled and shivering on the bathroom floor, pathetically covered in a Hilton-gifted blanket (I could do no more) and muttering weakly about the ex-combatant from Bogotá who had finished him with multiple beers and shots of aguardiente in rapid succession.

Those ex-combatants just always seem to have enough nightmares to keep them trapped in sobriety...and how they wish you could join them in that place of woken horrors; or maybe that they could join you in some dream world, in which there still survives some fragments of the life they must have known before they started carrying the ever-inflamed and guilt-oozing existential scab of all this violence, borne to them on the putrefying remains and fearsomely clear piles of flesh, which only the damp earth and brown rivers seem to eventually forget. Either way, drinking with them is a 'shot for shot' exercise, if you will excuse the pun.

I promised not to upload the actual photos so in an ironic twist here is Sergio looking like a Colombian terrorist...fetching indeed!

Maybe, and somewhat ironically, my friend would now appear to be dying a twisted and darkly comedic version of the kind of death that this man must have confronted on so many previous occasions...always with those searching, but ultimately soulless eyes. For both of them salvation seems so far away now, but only one wakes up with the ever-present kind of pain that only death could possibly sooth...