Amanda and I were asked to stay in La Union for 2 weeks during the holidays because the community was feeling particularly scared as the usual string to threats that they receive, had in the past weeks dwindled down to being nonexistent. Interesting how in a conflict zone when things are calm, it is a time of great preoccupation as a quiet yet awake angry dog is always more worrisome than a barking dog. So the level of tension within PC members was being pulled tighter, even the police were concerned about the National level of quiet from all the armed groups. We crossed our fingers that it would continue quiet with no unfortunate events.
Being away from home without the traditional gathering of family and friends, the usual snow-playing events (that apparently was not present for many parts of North America), the strength of the heat as we lay in our hammocks with sweat forming on our faces…it was just different and during the time of the holidays, feelings-positive or negative- always seem to be magnified in a crazy way. So here we were, feeling particularly…well the only word that seems to capture our sentiments is ‘BLICK’. This was soon interrupted by the blasting of the Vallenato music (the local type of music that is a mixture of ranchero and mariachi accompanied by an accordian) that was emanating from the usually empty brick building that stood across the ‘way’ (‘way’ because it’s not a street but more than a path) from our house. The local DJ was busy hooking up the music system and ensuring that the sound quality was just perfect. To do this, apparently it was necessary for him to begin blasting a rotation of the same 20 songs a 10:00. Even if one chose not to be showered with this music, it was inevitable because it reverberated throughout the small community.
Friends and family of many of the PC had arrived in the past few days to spend some time away from their lives in the cities to be in el campo with their family. It was wonderful to see new faces and meet the children and grandchildren of those we hear the community so often talk about. There was much sharing of food and visiting.
During festivities, depending on the grandeur of the celebration, an animal is killed and a sancocho (a stew of sorts composed of boiled meat and yucca and plantanes) is created. Today the community had killed a pig and in a house in the school yard a group of womyn were busy all day preparing the meat. A cloud of potent smoke rose from the roasting meat over the open fire, the stench of slaughtered pig was heavy in the air, sickening, torturing our noses with its death…the smoke laughing at the shades of colour our faces were turning.
This thick smoke settled over us and we bathed in the smell of cooking flesh, vallenato music and ‘blickness’.
As the evening approached, the community kids flocked to the Nun’s (who accompanied the La Union for years, but left 2 years ago) house where they had been gathering for a week every evening. Two of the youth back for the holidays had built a ‘Peservre’ and the little people of the La Union would sing songs and listen to prayers. Tonight was the last night, and we watched just a smidgen of it before being invited to enjoy some beans, yucca and rice at one of the Leaders house. They seemed to be feeding half the community, folks coming in, sitting down at the table in front of the little plastic Christmas tree and TV (showing the evening News), would eat and leave in less than 10 minutes before the next wave of people awaiting at the door flowed in to fill their bellies.
Folks prepared themselves for the dance by either put on their washed dancing boots (gumboots) or those that preferred to enjoy watching others dance found a convenient place to observe the dancers through the bared windows or on chairs. AJ and I put on our brow shirts and Santa hats and headed across the ‘way’ to the bubbling dance. The small room was filled with couples dancing and others sitting on plastic lawn chairs. The smell of copious amounts of cologne, perfume and sweat also swirled around the dancers.
Aj was immediately pulled onto the dance floor by a young non-traditionalist dancer. They bounced and jumped all around the other dancers as those sitting in chairs watching smiled and laughed at the enthusiastic pair. I was asked to dance the traditional way, pressed to my partner, his sweat mixing with mine as our shirts soaked up each others sweat. My hands on his shoulders, his on my lower back as I looked down at my little dance partner, my knees in very precarious position as I try my best to not lift it too high and put him in more pain than a dance should be. We hardly moved as he naturally giggled his hips in a way that I did not think
humanly possible and turned me in a shuffle to the left and to the right. I awkwardly and ineffectively trying to copy the hip giggle and not step on his boots, it was great. We shuffled in little circles, never making eye contact as we shared this sexual hip-dance. Despite the intimacy bodies shared on the dance floor, as soon as the song finished, couples promptly separate without looking at each other nor muttering a word and tried to squish through the one door. It is quite amusing to watch them dance and I couldn’t help but smile. Even though their bodies are engaged in a very intimate activity, the looks upon their faces appear that they could be washing the floor with a toothbrush and still show the same amount of emotion. AJ and I were apparently the only ones that thought it was hilarious that they would play the same song three times in a row.
After a while, sweat was pouring off of everyone and I had had enough of trying to manouver my hips in a way that is foreign to them so AJ and I retreated to our house. We lay in our hammocks and popped in the end of The Davici Code and the beginning of Monty Python’s ‘The Holy Grail’ as we hid under sheets from the mosquitos and tried to hear the movies over the blaring music. The music continued to 08:00 the next morning, with a few endurance dancers going strong.
!Merry Merry Day!
Being away from home without the traditional gathering of family and friends, the usual snow-playing events (that apparently was not present for many parts of North America), the strength of the heat as we lay in our hammocks with sweat forming on our faces…it was just different and during the time of the holidays, feelings-positive or negative- always seem to be magnified in a crazy way. So here we were, feeling particularly…well the only word that seems to capture our sentiments is ‘BLICK’. This was soon interrupted by the blasting of the Vallenato music (the local type of music that is a mixture of ranchero and mariachi accompanied by an accordian) that was emanating from the usually empty brick building that stood across the ‘way’ (‘way’ because it’s not a street but more than a path) from our house. The local DJ was busy hooking up the music system and ensuring that the sound quality was just perfect. To do this, apparently it was necessary for him to begin blasting a rotation of the same 20 songs a 10:00. Even if one chose not to be showered with this music, it was inevitable because it reverberated throughout the small community.
Friends and family of many of the PC had arrived in the past few days to spend some time away from their lives in the cities to be in el campo with their family. It was wonderful to see new faces and meet the children and grandchildren of those we hear the community so often talk about. There was much sharing of food and visiting.
During festivities, depending on the grandeur of the celebration, an animal is killed and a sancocho (a stew of sorts composed of boiled meat and yucca and plantanes) is created. Today the community had killed a pig and in a house in the school yard a group of womyn were busy all day preparing the meat. A cloud of potent smoke rose from the roasting meat over the open fire, the stench of slaughtered pig was heavy in the air, sickening, torturing our noses with its death…the smoke laughing at the shades of colour our faces were turning.
This thick smoke settled over us and we bathed in the smell of cooking flesh, vallenato music and ‘blickness’.
As the evening approached, the community kids flocked to the Nun’s (who accompanied the La Union for years, but left 2 years ago) house where they had been gathering for a week every evening. Two of the youth back for the holidays had built a ‘Peservre’ and the little people of the La Union would sing songs and listen to prayers. Tonight was the last night, and we watched just a smidgen of it before being invited to enjoy some beans, yucca and rice at one of the Leaders house. They seemed to be feeding half the community, folks coming in, sitting down at the table in front of the little plastic Christmas tree and TV (showing the evening News), would eat and leave in less than 10 minutes before the next wave of people awaiting at the door flowed in to fill their bellies.Folks prepared themselves for the dance by either put on their washed dancing boots (gumboots) or those that preferred to enjoy watching others dance found a convenient place to observe the dancers through the bared windows or on chairs. AJ and I put on our brow shirts and Santa hats and headed across the ‘way’ to the bubbling dance. The small room was filled with couples dancing and others sitting on plastic lawn chairs. The smell of copious amounts of cologne, perfume and sweat also swirled around the dancers.
Aj was immediately pulled onto the dance floor by a young non-traditionalist dancer. They bounced and jumped all around the other dancers as those sitting in chairs watching smiled and laughed at the enthusiastic pair. I was asked to dance the traditional way, pressed to my partner, his sweat mixing with mine as our shirts soaked up each others sweat. My hands on his shoulders, his on my lower back as I looked down at my little dance partner, my knees in very precarious position as I try my best to not lift it too high and put him in more pain than a dance should be. We hardly moved as he naturally giggled his hips in a way that I did not think
humanly possible and turned me in a shuffle to the left and to the right. I awkwardly and ineffectively trying to copy the hip giggle and not step on his boots, it was great. We shuffled in little circles, never making eye contact as we shared this sexual hip-dance. Despite the intimacy bodies shared on the dance floor, as soon as the song finished, couples promptly separate without looking at each other nor muttering a word and tried to squish through the one door. It is quite amusing to watch them dance and I couldn’t help but smile. Even though their bodies are engaged in a very intimate activity, the looks upon their faces appear that they could be washing the floor with a toothbrush and still show the same amount of emotion. AJ and I were apparently the only ones that thought it was hilarious that they would play the same song three times in a row.After a while, sweat was pouring off of everyone and I had had enough of trying to manouver my hips in a way that is foreign to them so AJ and I retreated to our house. We lay in our hammocks and popped in the end of The Davici Code and the beginning of Monty Python’s ‘The Holy Grail’ as we hid under sheets from the mosquitos and tried to hear the movies over the blaring music. The music continued to 08:00 the next morning, with a few endurance dancers going strong.
!Merry Merry Day!
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