Colombia, Part V: Macondo

Local bus, 1988 Trooper jeep, pickup truck, carro-taxi, bici-taxi – they all eventually deliver us to our destinations. But it is in Aracateca where, on the wings of imagination, we travel the furthest, back in time to the fantastical town of Macondo.

Having had our fill of beaches, we opt for a comfortable, air-conditioned bus ride to the towns of Cienaga and nearby Aracataca, birthplace of Nobel winning author Gabriel García Marquez (Gabo). At the bus’s door in Cienaga, a jabbering swarm of young men descend upon us. They want to take us around town on their bici-taxis.

“I’ll take you!”

“Me. Me!”

“Look. Come this way!”
Making our way through the throng, we finally settle on Jesus, sitting apart from the others, a young man with limited language skills. “Can you take us to see the plaza and the church?” we ask him. “And then to the statue commemorating the 1929 massacre of the strikers against the United Fruit Company?”

He pedals us around town on his rusty, wobbly contraption, part bicycle and part bench on wheels (with a fringe on top) made with assorted components of unknown origin, yet I feel like royalty. Jesus pedals hard, taking us where we’ve requested, then depositing us at the stop to catch a bus to Aracateca.

The short bus ride from Ciénaga to Aracataca, is lined with banana plantations as if forshadowing the setting for “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” García Marquez´ prize-winning novel.

Bici-taxi is the way to find a place for lunch in Aracateca. From there, we walk along well-kept streets, passing a wall painted with a likeness of the author and a flock of hamburgers with wings, announcing “Gabo’s Comida Rapida,” (Fast Food). I don’t recall that his magical realism conjured up flying hamburgers.

     We arrive at Gabo’s museum, a series of replica rooms located on the plot of land where only one original structure remains. His words written on an outside wall set the tone for this visit. “More than a home, the house was a pueblo.” In the first room, his grandfather’s study, I read: “The move to Aracataca was seen by my grandparents as a journey into forgetting.” There are very few visitors. We walk through silent rooms of memorabilia: his grandfather’s desk, his childhood bed, family sepia portraits. Nostalgia permeates every space. Along the walls are quotes from Gabo’s books, which give me the sensation that he is present here with me. He says: “There is not a line in one of my books that does not have its origin in my childhood.” In the kitchen filled with old utensils, I read: Nothing was eaten in the house that was not seasoned in the broth of longing. In these rooms I’m a visitor to the past where the imagination that created the town of Macondo in “One Hundred Years of Solitude” found its early inspiration.
    In a back patio stands a majestic rubber tree, its thick tangle of roots and lianas reach high above me. It must have intrigued Gabo as a child. A bright flash of color flutters by. Before I can say “mariposa!” it comes to rest on one of the gnarled tree roots, but I see no bright colors, rather a large splendidly camouflaged moth, a day-flying moth. I imagine Gabo’s crinkling, laughing eyes as he recalls the garden creatures.
    Aboard another bici-taxi, we view colorful murals lining the canal coursing through town and, finally, arrive at the town’s entrance to catch the return bus.  There I pose in front of colorful, giant letters announcing “Aracateca” and “Macondo”. The locals have opted for a double name for their town. I send this photo to my family saying “Greetings from Macondo.”

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