The City Gives Me A Beat To Tap My Walkin Shoes....

I walked into a dimly-lit, Victorian-style, theater the other night for a bit of theatrical amusement. The event taking place was known as the Teatro de Los Cuentos, or the theater of short stories. A friend and I walked down some stairs to this theater which was underground. We were 20 minutes late, but we slid in the backdoor under a large velvety curtain, and found a couple of seat tucked in the back of the theatre. On stage was a large wooden tree, made as a prop. The tree appeared as though it were in some Tim Burton film; most specifically, Nightmare Before Christmas. The tree had a ver spook, halloween feel to it. Then there was a man costumed as a frog, or rana, a women who was freaked out of her skin by the frog, and a women who was doing the narration. I said theatrical amusement, because all of these plays were were supposed to be layered in Colombian jokes. The Colombians got them. I did not. However, this aspect was even more amusing to me becaus eupon every punch-line of every joke the whole audience would start spewing laughter and I would be laughing my ass off at the fact that I was the only one in the audience who didnt seem to be getting these jokes. On top of me not getting the jojes because of the speed in which the dialogue was layed out in the first play, I felt as thoug heveryone around me knew I didnt get them. I owuld have to time my laughter for when everyone else laughed. This didn tnot work all of the time though and many times when it appeared to me as though the perfromer had said somehting funny, I would throw my head back and start laughing. Within 2 seconds, I would realize that this wasnt the right time to be laughing; nobody else was. I would have to cut my laugh short, make a serious face and pretend to be bracing myself for the next joke. It was all so much of a comical process.

Anyway, during the first play, the narrator read the story while the other 2 characters acted. The entire play there seemed to be a constant struggle between a woman wanting to avoid this frog and the frog wanting to be with the women. I didnt understand a lot of the Spanish, but it appeared to ¨me as though a prince had been truned into a frog and he was trying to get back with his long lost lover. The only problem was that the woman didnt recognize the frog as her prince charming. The entire play this grown man hopped around, in a ctachers position, saying "ribot". I could just imagine someone at an outing asking this gentleman what he does for a living. Yeah, I"m, a professional frog actor he says....

The next act was a a band playing music behind a woman, who looked like Shakira. The music started cranking and she threw her head back to give the audience her best concept of what goo music should sound like. She put in a good effort, but the music was crap. It reminded me of an 8th grade talent show. After every song the band would dissapear behind the curtain and she would sit in this spakly red, corvette-diner-style chair and tell the audience her best rendition of a humerous cuneto. I figured that this was the wrong place for a wannabe Shakira to be craving attention. She was a good looking girl, but there was nothing that appeared original or well developed. Like i said she had looks, but looks were something people were born with; they weren"t chiseled and dreamnt over like a fine act in a play.

The next act was a Spanish Comedian, performing here in Medellin. He wore dark, loose clothing and appeared to have drank a couple gallons of coffee before he got on stage. As his act prgressed his wirey, Albert-Einstien hair, continued to frizzle out. He was Robin Williams long lost Spanish brother. Within minutes he had the entire audience laughing, excpet me. Well, I wasnt laughing at his language, but his mannerisms. My Spanish has vastly improved in the past month,but when a comedian is vomiting words out of his mouth at the speed of light and an umff of strong Colombian coffee, the jokes slide right by you. What I could laugh at though were his mannerisms. The guy paralleled Charlie Chaplin, but only to me. Charlie didnt need words for people to get his act and this guy was dido. His body was so consumed in mannerisms, that even if I didnt understand a word of his speech, his Charlie Chaplin gestures were able to convey his message.

The next evening I met a friend of mine, Deisey at a seceret documentary premier. We took a cab to a part of town, which I knew I wasnt made for extranjeros, especially someone like me from the United States. I swallowed my fear and pressed on, partly because I knew the parts of town that werent recommended in the tourist books had an untouched aspect of culture that hadnt yet been documeneted in a Loneley Planet or via internet. And also partly because Deisey assured me that she had my back. She was 5 foot one and weighed a hundred and ten pounds though? We got dropped of in front of an faded white building. We were 20 minutes late she told me. Some of the windows were barred up, some with cardboard and some with wood. We entered. Inside, there were about 25 people,including about 5 girls. Everyone was wearing some sort of camoflouge, and they all appeared to be REVOLUTIONARIES from the time of Che Guevera. I walked in and felt like a naked man running through the middle of a pre-school. I was at least 6 inches taller than everyone and my old-faded jeans and white t-shirt appeared to be way too fansy for these people.
Light shot out of projector, onto a wall in a small room. Deisey and I pushed our way to the front, did a quick army crawl, and lay on our backs, ducking so everyone could see over us. We watched the flick from here. The film was done by an indigenious Colombian man who sat 3 people to the right of me. As 25 of us watched his documentary, he filmed our faces,our reactions. His camera continued to pan the audience. Shit, I thought. He would catch my face on tape, show it to his revolutionary boss and I would have a possey of 100 pissed off COlombian rebels with AK-47´s on my ass because I was from the corporate, head hauncho of the world.
Overall, the documentary was quite interesting and contained a lot of rare footage that seemed like quite a task to cover. All in all the film was about the new Colombian president trying to oust and annhilate indigenious culture of COlombia. However, the indegenious were the ones who under SImon BOlivar took their land back from Spain. NOw the new president was trying to not incorporate indegenious farming, crafts, textiles, and general cultural passions into the economy of present day Colombia. On top of this,the indegenious lands were being taking over by corporations wanting rainforest land, and vital natural resources that were on the indegenious land. The main message was, hey COlombia is what is is today because of our fight against Spain and now we are loosing it again to our own people of the higher classes. There were a lot of riots, AK-47"s in the film and justificatory speeches by the current president on how it would be beneficial for the indiegenious to adjust to a new time, a new world order. When I left the showing I felt like I had been to a Seceret Poet´s society meeting that was only advertised by word of mouth. I made it out untouched and definitely acquired a novel experience. Afterall, experience is life´s best teacher. Isn"t this wisdom?

written by

kipmaddog on August 11, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia

from the travel blog: adventures from down south

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