By Lina Alonso
At around seven in the morning the first horns roused me from sleep straight to the window, the whistles were strung together like the beads of the mutant camandula that imitated the plastic carnations attached to the bumpers, of course, it’s July 16, it’s understand the festive, I understand the sirens, the noise, the tunics, the meters of braided ribbons, the angels of fomi, the silver garlands on the lanterns, those of the chazas applauding and with good reason yesterday in Paloquemao they devastated the flower market with whatever white or imitation blue thing existed on the flowery face of the square, the naves and the virgins who were going to climb on the roofs between their beds of lilies, carnations and gitsu had to be pimped up, too, Sonia told me, the one with the gigantic booth at bodega 6, that the daisies, coquettes, and white buttercups had run out because of the debased hordes of Floripondian Catholics, highland summer truckers, and other believers in the patron saint of drivers, I understood, late, but I understood why I had to get away just like pepa and guama until 19, because of the desire that I was going to run out of flowers for my ranch, it was not worth it, I arrived with a thousand heart and a thousand heart answered me Frescavena key ring; I saw the warm tents even though it was past 10 in the morning, something unusual for market days, later, on the 16th in the afternoon and with my mind sparkled by the clarification of the celebration, I ran the plastic that acts as a curtain and began to see the parade of mules, cars, vans, trucks, motorcycles, and dump trucks that advanced along the seventh street, those of the SITP wriggled to pass the procession, bunches of bald men climbing on the beds of the trucks pinched each other and joked without letting go, the drivers with one arm to the sun pressed their horns over and over again with the ecstasy of the fervent, of those devoted to the faith of the lady, of her lady, of her protector; I also noticed that pedestrians of both types dotted the platforms, the first type corresponds to those who whore alone and cover their ears with an annoyed face and the second, those who stopped to see the trick of each thing, took their break, they stopped to take photos, to patch it up (which is what you do when you don’t have shit to do and something on the street steals your detachment). When I stood on the side of my bed that leads to the bathroom, I saw the sand dump trucks go by, the dump trucks that reveal their muddy origin in the globs of their ribs, they come from the quarries, they are the witnesses of the bombings that hit the mountains And they gave me a lot of bugs when we went to Quiba with the cucho to visit the compadres. Would these beasts come from Soacha, from those quarries that are passing the Chucua in front of Chicaque? Or are they one of those who are by the low Owl? No fucking idea, Miguelito, no fucking idea.
That day, after getting me out of sleep, two laps came together and merged like Gogeta: the day of the Virgen del Carmen + the centenary of the assassination of Pancho Villa, without fear of success, ajisoza and evicted I took out my baffle to burst my ears alone. songs by Antonio Aguilar, the album Corridos de la Revolución began to scratch 3/4 of its beats and I went to have a good time in the living room between some eggs with arepa that I had to fry before going out, I grew up among mechanics and truckers so This party is also mine, socitos party, how fantastic, fantastic this party and everyone talks about the party according to how it went and July 16th has gone well for me: last year I played in the Orinoco river with the boatmen in her flyers hanging flags and gunpowder to whatever she marked, the fishing virgin and caste netter swayed like a liana jeto on the planks and with J. we watched the spectacle with eyes injected with rum, however before Vichada my first great carmen was in the south, in Claret, the residents of the street took out the water cans to pimp their machines, to let them see, one A, I was about 10 years old, I saw the men under the belly of their cars, whether they were their own or those of the boss, and also the women hanging all the churumbelo and sequins to the virgins who were in the frontispiece, we, the pelamenta of the block, took the opportunity to chimbear in the cycles or we bowed like wet esparto grass before the orders of the elders, the errands of the natural patrons Bring the ballet, catch the English one for your dad, buy Don Uriel an apple, run out of silicone go to the stationery store, grind from one side to the other and the ruidajal bursting on the sidewalks, Rancheras, salsas, vallenatos, Aicardis, Galis Galeanos, Rolandos La Serie and the voices of La Cariñosa, Radio Recuerdo or Melodía Estereo crowded through the holes in the houses, people rolled up and down the block with their own efforts and the parish priest from here to there he whipped holy water on the hood of the cars while letting himself be seduced by the burning waters of one or another parishioner tied up, in fact we were all tied up, no one rushed into the anguish of the following dawn. In the name of the most carnival-like virgin, the neighborhood was justified to put the streets in ruana and sit the tedium of Sundays in unoccupied baskets of beer.
But returning to the present, as if not to delay them too long, I decided to go out on the bike to follow a caravan of some manes that were taking the Lady with guaracha. With guaracha! I imagined the virgin then with a bom bom bum in her hand moving her habit as the bare girls who know the arts and crafts of the guaracha do with their motor intricacies, I imagined her like this with the little jump and her face looking at the sky! Ha! the guarachera virgin, patron saint of pilots and unpilots, then I broke into the center for thirteen to finish an earring that I had, I was going for another donkey in exchange for my panther, but the cycle in question was dizzy, maluca, mere plastic not more, the business did not come out. Since I had a satanic flu, fatigue had me breathing badly through my nose, I got off the donkey as it crossed 53rd and I pulled it by the handlebars for a while, that’s when the ordeal began, called Quejachapineruna with its cunning lamentation, the first sobs They touched me in a cigarette store, a group of gentlemen on bicycles barked a These sons of bitches believe that the virgin is deaf, Since early morning they have been making that infernal noise with that whistle, Look at those cars with that rattling music, Fulanita called me crying because of her migraine and I went to his apt to make him some tea, Those gouaches don’t respect that it’s Sunday, Marica, we left Kaput and they welcome us like this? Can you believe it? Then twitter and instagram replicated the complaints and I inside laughed sornerously with a bit of evil, with the laugh of a villain, with that laugh that makes a candle sprout and lengthens the shadows of my eyes like a demon taking a bath of patchy fire in the quemonera watching how a comment was put into their classism, meanwhile, my palette Aloha and I were happy watching the martyrs who poured out their laments about my festive spirit, my desire to get into a neighbor’s room, sit judiciously in her patched up sofa and wait for the question, does Mija want red wine? As Doña Marlen did those July 16th in the neighborhood who gave me a guayuyo before continuing to fight in the Parque de los Abuelos or on my own block.
On what day a compañera from Cartagena from the new camel told me that in Carmen de Bolívar they celebrate the lady with some novenas that culminate in the Balls of Fire, and that is that, the popular and its eclectic grace of putting religious pods with local pods always makes of hers, she makes a melo sancocho where anyone who doesn’t wants to gobbles down his two cups, so the issue, the compa told me, is that this virgin -who leaves the church to walk and get involved in the procession-, not only he leaves the traditional space of the church but gets into the vehicle of his believers: cars, boats, mules or motorbikes and downriver or uphill receives the glass of the drink that is thrown at him, and with the patch of carmers, presence to the people who make balls of fique, burned rags and wire, balls that they soak in gasoline and ACPM, light up and start kicking, rather these balls are the religious chepacorinas of Carmen de Bolívar, all because, the story goes, when The virgin arrived there, she arrived at night and since they had no light they lit torches to light her on her way to the church, the virgin kept herself safe, but the torches trilled and caught them in a joda and kicked them while dawn arrived and tied the torches In one, over the years the Bola e Fuego stayed and now there is no celebration of the patron saint without people throwing their paws between the flashes of that spherical. To the compa, in payment for the story, I told one of mine, I told her about the time my dad decided to buy the giant virgin that is still in my house today, but that’s another story and you are sleepy because the filth of 16 July put them up early.
For that day, for that Sunday in which people were celebrating their own while interrupting the yoga and morning meditation of those who cry out for silence, I bring Carmen to the ring and smile at her, I secretly give her high-fives and I imagine her kicking balls of fire in Rosales, Cedritos and Chapinero with guaracha, Antonio Aguilar, his chupiplum on the right and with his habit full of cheap glitter that splashes on the whistles at full heel, and thus in his nebulous tulle deus ex machina I say, as the inconstant penitent that I am, Madam, that these things burn, amen.
