Canberra II Chronicles.
To read the first article (Bad ass fucked and Loco, a suburb chat) click here .
drum sounds That is not strange, that's their vocation, their calling. Instead, you hear a cheap synthesizer and replace the legendary wooden box lined with leather and veal, yes that sounds like a scarecrow. As it was an eyesore on the day I danced my first " Champeta . " this noun is the term given to a dance Afro extraction of relatively recent history and rhythms of West Indian-like reggaeton , which receives the same name as the black laborers gave the machete used in the past for the most varied functions. Champeta is culturally close to the rhythms of Palenque de San Basilio, a village of runaway slaves in the lowlands of the Colombian Caribbean. In a word, is the beat champeta African evolved in its most torrid expression.
champeta resembles the rhythm and percussion that accompanied the unfortunate crew of the English galleons Africa come from distant when, with uncertain destiny, were chained to each other, due to more onerous slavery.
The champeta is like the modern version of a slave song devoid of moral and full of passion sweating, nectar bodies function, melancholy of a distant country that is trying to get through the temporary enjoyment. However, it is also a cry against forgetting underground where it has remained a people and a race contested by white-mestizo majority ruling this poor little country of shit and owns the means of production and planning.
I do not totally black, Tito Puentes felt like one day, the party called me (I believe, I like to think that my grandfather brought a gene Betancourt dark of the Canary Islands where banished to this, the land of palm trees. Moreover, even without black ancestors, I take comfort in knowing that the human species comes from Africa.)
was during a vacation in a neighborhood fair in the fiery Cartagena de Indias, where the Castilian clear of the capital gives way to a typical Caribbean accent and where a distant cousin was my guide, then also a pimp .
Saturday night, summer weather, the hottest-and paints dominguera that made me look abroad. Not yet reached adulthood, but had enjoyed certain pleasures.
With sharp mischief I was taken to the site of the dance: a clearing in the area called San Fernando.
What they said so, I 'threw' a few pieces of champeta. It does not matter (or remember) the trivial in their lyrics, what mattered was the timing of the movements and philosophy of life that I conveyed. It was like remembering the nearby rolling waves, like a ritual dance Iemanjá that escalated into a quasi-copula of bodies rub together and ignite passions.
At sixteen, at the height of hormones and half fun, my sex is tuned without difficulty to the mulatto figure and voluptuous Mary Elizabeth, who had offered willingly as my partner at the gentle suggestion of my cousin Armando. There
wanted to have the black gene, and for a moment, I got it. The will of Mary Isabel beat me.
seconded by darkness, standing, settled the matter. Pants down, with his shirt on, a little unbuttoned, buried my phallus in the flesh, trembling with emotion, damp heat and fluids.
percussion could be heard in the distance, encompassed the movement of the hips, front-back, blood boiling, forward-backward, the paroxysm of feeling, forward-backward and so on until I hit bottom (or heaven?). A dairy rain fell, not fertility, on dusky skin, plush and compliant.
But two seconds after the summit, before the sudden drop of the plateau of pleasure that always comes after love, I was surprised by Armando, who watched the Pilatuña laughing.
The scare was for me like a punch in consciousness. I felt so guilty after having danced the threshold of the sex that made me lose evaporating innocence and beauty of virginity priests who taught me from my school. My superego
made me blush, he began to remind me that it is unwise to do things a Creole own servitude, much less delivered to Vitanda passions. I felt guilty, full of scruples of a novel.
I felt a kind of need to confess and did not know with whom. Armando laughed and made fun of my way to do it, my orgasmic grimace (the neutral "it" attached to the verb do is not Puritanism but that the reader thinks it wants, what he wants ... and give you win) . My cousin
frightened by the possible consequences of my action, I painted the wedding and told me that local women were not as light as the capitals and that if yielded to the overtures of strangers was to catch them. I listened devotedly without replicating any of its tenets.
However, my moral conflict was going in another direction. The pace was still ringing in the distance. Tired
I done wrong, he thought I made unclean thing, who will absolve me of this mistake that eats my soul and makes me feel one of the neighborhood, not so much for giving me a randy female yoke, as for the fascination that caused me the member of the ghetto feel subservient champeta exalts as a dance of authentic art ...
What remedy would be for me?, musing. Do we go where Beethoven and tell him as the prodigal, "Father I have sinned against heaven and against you"? Or should I kneel before Handel and implore mercy? ...
Maybe sing the praises of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana are penitent or marching to the beat of Ravel's bolero would be the most effective way to save my aesthetic taste and ease my pain?
But what the hell!, I concluded. If I had black genes and that night he had discovered (or invented) ... what the hell!
was sure the temptation again, as always comes back. The events tend to recur. Therefore, because the temptation is avoided and at this point I can not grant these licenses, I do not plan an immediate return to the Caribbean, much less one of its modest neighborhoods where some of my genes to betray and reveal the world in those extramural where I felt bound, searing passion slave, not free, as any unfortunate victim of the old treat that both hurt and embarrass me.
Today, what I regret is having given way, albeit in brief thought to the Iberian conquistador who lives in me and pursued me. Today I salute the lands south of the Sahara, playing the red earth, smiling to see the whitest teeth and shout, dear Africa! Today I do not allow any whip that subjugates wild Kafir, latino, ladino, moving hips, sweat pleasure, fucking in the dark moon and dance champeta.
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In the photo: a detail of the Holy Trinity Square in the neighborhood Gethsemane. Cartagena de Indias, Colombia. taken from www.flickr.com
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