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Que todo que todo que todo que todo que

Que todo el mundo te cante

—Grupo Niche

Tierra bella birthed incognito, in corners and on stoops and across alleyway asphalt, under the halo of gnats circling beneath lakefront lampposts. It’s often said Caleñans paved the way bathed in light; on the checkered floors of barber shops and in church basements, between helpings of layman’s charcuterie, they brought the adage to life: las caleñas son como las flores. And those flores bloomed in the streets. Whole blocks grew through the roots of radio djs, whose thirst was quenched by rusted tears of illegally popped fire hydrants, and the stars bore witness without judgment. One could play salsa at a wake, and instead of ending it, a bouquet of Caleñans would say, Súbalo súbalo—¡parriba!—and it could be the song or the roof or even the dead. Sometimes the locals put their children to sleep and pobrecitos los niños as they heard the trumpet blasts behind shut eyelids, that ravenous laughter, la música spilling like light through cracks in the doorway. Not even nighttime, they realized, not even the darkness, can stop all roads from leading home.

By all means it was ingenious. You have to remember—this was before, in the frigid land of broken heaters and no money with which to fix them—when the families shared a three-story house divided into apartments, and had grown weary of dialing a landline, couldn’t be bothered to step outside, to traverse some feeble stairs on weakened knees or harder still: scaling the great and wide emotional divide. Besides, in a community like theirs, it added a flair of the dramatic—the only natural resource one ever had in abundance, when all status was forged in secrecy, and even the greatest spirits among them, whether living or dead, were kept hidden and sheltered behind walls. 

A simple strike of air vents connecting the kitchens, the metallic thrum of their worn grates in reverberation. Like an unprecedented leak, gossip and practical information trickled down through gaps in the floorboards. Should the phone start ringing it would have qualified as an emergency. But what is an emergency to a people living in perpetual crisis—since when had reports, whether of a personal or national nature, ever been quite good? 

So, to the children it was a matter of corporeality. Even before the aroma of the day’s lunch slowly wafted among dust particles suspended in sunlight, before the brother and sister grimly stomached flavors foreign to western sensibilities, that clash of sweet and savory dancing on their tongues (which tasted of dread in youth only to later become the foundations for nostalgia), they felt comfort in the muffled racket, that precise frequency of non-discipline emanating from their authorities’ hoarse voices. Those blasts came crashing into the silence of  an otherwise still room, crawling upwards to fill empty spaces, before oscillating the chambers of one’s body, the very hollow points of the household’s anatomy. 

A comer, the authorities declared, shouting the children’s names until the words succumbed to semantic satiation, until the sounds became equally material within them and the home’s bones. A comer, a comer, a comer. 

Cali is walking to the corner store with my sister to buy Tampíco in plastics bags and asking Abuela to help us tear them with our teeth even though she has none

And Cali is my father’s falsetto on Sunday morning as he dusts shelves shirtless, belting Alanis Morsette and Shakira without shame

And yes, Cali is the guilt we felt not clearing our plates, burying flavors in ketchup and salsa rosada, eulogies for the beans and lentils put to rest, and just the broth not the contents of soup, sólo agua mamá when she stands in the kitchen sucking the marrow out of bones, reducing them to ash

Cali is our names, so common they’re shared with Presidents, so colonial they may as well be Spain

Cali is the look on your face when I ask to be shown a Colombian untouched by war

Cali is adults speaking in voseo to each other but in usted to children

Cali is the palatal approximate pulling fists up as I announce myself, none of that softness, and the fatigue with which authority chastised me saying ya mijo no llore ya mijo no llore ya mijo 

Ya

But really, Cali is the dialogue of waists, the rivalry between drum and brass, a cowbell’s loyal tum tum tum keeping time with guacharaca rasps, interlocked fingers as hours pass on the dance floor, stout men who only feel behind open bottles twirling even shorter women who only feel behind closed doors, children weaving between seats through tablecloths and around legs; and absence, a view of the Andes from the periphery that no matter how much one twists and turns, remains perpetually just out of reach. 

Your cousin says, “We’re going to the Gringo water park,” and with that you’re off. From the helm of a scooter, past head-spinning roads along a mountain face with nothing between you and the forest below but 27 meters of air, he shouts, “Those are rocks,” before he points towards large hunks resting at the base of a cliff, unmoved for a generation. You bend left, then right, gripping the seat harder with each descent. “But these,” he says, slowing down until you can hear the gravel gritting against the tires, until he can grasp a palmful of orange debris and squeeze it through his clenched fist: “These are stones.”

A tire has been pinched. You know because your cousin says, “Shit—we’ve been pinched,” and later, at the gas station, where mechanics missing a suspiciously consistent number of teeth and fingers replace the tire, and about halfway between you and the Gringo water park, he concludes, “Perhaps it was the theatrics,” to which you say, smiling, “Imagine that.”

It is called the Gringo water park, not because it is occupied by Gringos, but rather because it is owned by one. As you pull up to the parking lot, a small crowd stands near the gated entrance and surrounds the mythical Gringo, who towers over them. Legend has it he is Yankee ex-military and adept at counterinsurgency. It is believed he funded the water park with spilt guerrilla blood—how else would he stumble across this jewel in the middle of The Valley?

But as you near it’s clear that’s not the case; the Gringo with his tanned flesh the color of exposed papaya pulp, the unconditioned streaks of his once platinum blond hair. My friends, he calls to the gaggle of Colombians gathered around him. My friends cash only, okay? I love this country and I love this people. But nothing good is free. 

The crowd cheers and laughs as they hand the Gringo colorful peso notes: Sure thing, Gringo. Inside the locker room while changing into swim trunks, you overhear them still talking about him. What a nice Gringo. He speaks such funny Spanish. And look did you see—the Gringo’s eyes are even clearer than the water. 

Your cousin seems different while you queue for a diving platform. But he acts the same, making pleasant small talk with strangers, cracking jokes, saying I’m here with my cousin from the States. Really from the States, they say, just like the Gringo. And even though they compliment your accent, what fills you with pride is not their recognition, but rather the Gringo’s lack thereof. How he looked past you in the throng, just another local grazed by his cold iced eyes. 

Then it dawns on you. The swim trunks your cousin is wearing: they’re yours. Discarded when you outgrew them, both in size and style. A pair shipped across the Caribbean among other articles, toys, worn electronics, and items of no use to your so called First World sensibilities. One of many such donations solicited by the family in the homeland, sprinkled throughout your youth. 

“Those are mine,” you say. 

“What was that,” he asks, distracted like everyone else, watching as the Gringo walks to the end of the platform, his gut spilling over a red speedo as he leans toward the edge. 

“You’re wearing my swim trunks.”

“No,” your cousin says, “these are mine.”

And the Gringo leaps. 

And you realize, both can be true.