A sharply dressed man, seated alone at a table, poured aguadiente into disposable white shot glasses. He noticed me noticing him and called me over. He introduced himself “Don Jorge, I own a Ferreteria”. He must be pulling my leg, I thought. Apparently reading my thoughts, he stared back seriously and somewhat offended by my doubt. But in a small town like Zarzal, I never expected to meet a ferret farmer.
I started telling him how as a teenager I tagged the word “ferret” on local public spaces, but he expressed disinterest and snapped viciously “I hate people like you. Writing your silly words on my hardware store. Why you tell me such stupid story?”
I looked quizzically at him “But I thought you would be proud that I used public space to push the existence of “ferrets” upon the public subconscious”.
“Why you keep talking me about ferrets. I hate this stinky animal” he quipped back.
“Don Jorge” I responded calmly “how can you farm and hate ferrets at the same time?”
He took a shot, shuffled his chair to an intimate distance from me and slapped me on the thigh like we were old friends “You stupid gringo! You think I farm stinky ferret animal!? You gotta be joking me?” And he handed me his card “Screws and Hoses”, his hand still firmly gripping my thigh.
“Drink this skinny gringo.” And he handed me a shot. While shaking off the spasm provoked by the foul taste, I searched my thoughts for hardware store related conversation. “I buy a particular irrigation piping to make hula hoops” was the first thing that came to mind.
Don Jorge looked across at me. He looked me up and down. I was wearing some colourful happy pants and a banana yellow tshirt. All of sudden he let go of my thigh and whispered:
“You gay or something? You a girl? What you doing man playing with silly hula hoop!” and then broke into hysterical taunting laughter.
I blushed, knowing that all signs led to me being a little queer, and tried to blow off his suggestion by continuing “Its just that I need a short screw by tomorrow morning. Do you sell short screws?”
Don Jorge pushed his chair back a body’s length away from me. “Hey man, what you mean? What you trying to suggest? You think my hardware store is some type of sexual lair? You think I drop my trousers for you just like that?”
I thought over what I had asked and blushed redder still. “Don Jorge, you misunderstand me. What I need is a little screw to keep my hula hoop in shape!”
Don Jorge, confused, suggested apprehensively that I passed by the following morning. “But don´t you be coming with no funny ideas!”
I promised him no funny ideas and added “You do definitely have little screws, right?”
“Listen, Mister gay girly gringo man, let me get one thing straight for you, if we don´t have it in stock, we´ll get it. And if we can´t do that, then we´ll make it up”.
“Cheers to that”, and I rose by shot of aguadiente towards Don Jorge. He winked seductively at me before downing his shot in three or four sips.
The next day, after fixing my hula hoop, the Festival directors invited me to ride with them around town to announce the day´s activities. I began clearing my throat and thinking up funny things to say. They passed me the microphone, and as I began testing “one two, one two” the director pointed at the speaker in the door. “No no, you don´t say anything, just hold the microphone next to the speaker.” And out of the speaker blared a prerecorded announcement, and my role was to hold the microphone near the speaker so the message would be amplified through to the megaphone that was taped sideways to the truck´s roof.
Some big dark clouds began encroaching over the town, and we watched people running away. I had my elbow resting out the open window, and began to feel sprinkles of rain. As I felt this we rounded a corner, and began seeing everyone running desperately through the street. I assumed they were running for cover from the fast approaching storm. The mass of people forced us to brake and that is when I saw through the rear view mirror a man advancing wearily towards the car. I twisted in my seat and watched the man approach, pale and present, with everyone´s eyes on him. He came up to my window and pled “take me to a hospital. I am dying. A gunman just put 4 pills (bullets) into me”. I now noticed blood trickling down his tattooed arm. The driver said he couldn´t help. I said I could get out to allow space for him. But the driver refused.
The wounded man, realizing he needed quick medical attention, soldiered on, and in his back I could make out the bullet holes, which were still not bleeding like in the movies. The driver went on to explain that this same man had stolen from him and had tried to kill him in the past, and that this was the fourth time some one had attempted to assassinate him. Later we found out, he had fainted on the corner, but had got rushed to hospital and survived … again.
We arrived to the town where I was to perform, and it was pouring rain. We took cover in a bakery and spoke with the baker about alternative locations in the town to perform. Right in front of us was a Church. “What about in the church” I suggested without much thought. As I spoke these words a lady came out of the church. We called out and she let us look in to see if it would be suitable. I imagined the slack rope between the pillars. The altar forming the backdrop to the show. The people seated in the pews. And the next thing I know, I am setting up all these ideas, and the lady is ringing the church bells to alert the town that there will be a special afternoon service! The church filled up with children and for the next 45 minutes, the church was filled with laughter and applause, as the tall skinny white guy danced about and eventually stripped down to his boxer shorts under the eyes of that other skinny white tall guy with the long beard.
I finished dismounting, and walked out the big church doors. “Where´s the truck?” I asked. “They take it some place else. We go on motorbike”. The way he said it to me, indicated he foresaw no complications in transporting all my equipment on a motorbike. “Look, you hold this and this and that, and I hold that and that and this, and this can rest on the handlebars and that can sit on your lap”. And in this very way, we took off. But we only got a few blocks before the motorbike began coughing and spluttering and came to a halt. Calmly, the driver dismounted and assured me not to worry, that someone he knew would pass by any minute and we could siphon. In a town in which there is a motorbike for every fourth person, we stood in the street as plenty of bikes zipped by, but no one closely acquainted enough with the driver passed by.
A phone call was then made, and another motorcyclist arrived, we swapped bikes, and were on our way again. Each time we turned a corner I pictured us sideswiping some innocent anarchist jaywalking or tailgating us, but as was often the case in Colombia, we maneuvered peacefully through the chaos, narrowly avoiding everything in our path, and arriving in one piece to the hotel.
I stretched out on the hotel bed and replayed the days events over in my head. In Colombia, rarely was anything what it seemed, and as Don Jorge had made very clear “if [they] can´t do [it], then [they´ll] make it up!”
