The Flower Parade

Jos Castaeda

Jos Castaeda, a native Colombian who practices law in upstate New York, has waited to tell this story for many years. Due to length, it will appear in three parts. Set in Medelln, it tells about the profound consequences chance meetings may have. Contact Jos at jcjurist@aol.com.

Part One: The Splendors of Medelln As I opened my window for a whiff of morning air, the sounds of the city waking up flooded my room. The church bells, the whirs of early traffic, and what I had missed the most, the relentless crowing of the roosters. It was dark, I couldn't see them, but I leaned out the window and trained my ears at the source of the excitement. I first distinguished a twitter and a hoot, then the heavy thump of wings. The deep chants of senior roosters rapidly followed, but they soon were overtaken by younger clucks of lesser status. A string of loud calls crisscrossed one another, some arriving in full strength, others as faint chirrs after traveling long distances. In the midst of the commotion, a clearthroat, baritone rooster tried to flaunt his prowess at the coop, but his chant was drowned out by the deafening replies of his neighbors. An impressive pandemonium quickly ensued, until all the calls from all the roosters floated freely in my ears in nostalgic serenade.

This was Medelln, Colombia's celebrated City of Eternal Spring. At that hour the horizon was no more than a pink rod floating on darkness, and the city a dormant mass of shadows. I distinguished a few people scurrying past the hotel doors five floors below. I had to join them soon if I wanted a good viewing spot for the parade. But it wasn't easy for me to move quickly at that hour. Not after a long flight from New York the day before, and a cheerful celebration of my first night in Colombia in several years. Still, the thought of what the day would bring conquered my lethargy. I donned some loose clothes and running shoes, threw a few water bottles in my knapsack, and off I went the shortest way I knew downtown.

I was not even a full block from my hotel when I saw a group of people sleeping on the sidewalk, their bodies shielded from the night cold by a heap of tattered blankets and old sweaters. From the exposed wrist of a young child hung a loose string that collared the neck of a fast-chewing mountain rabbit still in its fluffy baby coat. Standing next to them was a young woman with a boy of about 12. His heavy eyes confirmed hed been pulled from deep sleep. The two of them were tending to a decrepit wooden crate that held a stack of paper cups, a bag full of wet oranges, and a dull plastic squeezer.

Orange juice? the woman asked. One cup, I said, stopping short. She split several oranges with a knife, pressed them hard against the juicer, and collected the liquid that spurted through her fingers into an empty paper cup. Is that your family? I asked. Yes. We lost our farm and all we had. We come from the north coast. She looked into the darkness for a moment. They came shooting from the far side of our farm and we just had time to run away. My boy wouldn't leave without his baby rabbit, so we had to bring him too.

The juice had the bitter tang of unripe fruit, but I wasn't about to complain. In my own childhood in Colombia, I plucked mangos and guavas from their trees before they had matured to full sweetness. A gift from nature was still a gift, I learned early, even if not yet fully ripe. I placed the empty cup over the crate while I pondered my duty to help this homeless family. A large tip? A gift for clothes and blankets? The first wouldn't do justice, I concluded, no matter how incongruous with the pittance she charged for the juice. The latter wouldn't solve their problem at its root. I paid her with loose change, wished them luck and walked away.

With the sun now falling on the city, I picked a perfect spot alongside La Playa Avenue. Next to me, scores of youngsters, couples, entire families, began to stake a claim on patches of sidewalk that they prepared to defend like their own property. Soon the whole length of the avenue was packed, and the air thickened with the sounds of joyful crowds. Between the chanting and the clapping, and the laughter and the jostling, I craned my neck for signs of the parade.

Suddenly, a giant flock of screeching green-andyellow parakeets filled the sky, and the people around me rushed for cover as if a heavy downpour had broken loose. They shadowed the sun like leaves in a wind storm, making sharp, synchronized turns, plunging, diving, whirling, leaving behind a trail of floating feathers. They continued to swoop and pivot in mid-air until they settled on a giant mango tree. Once there, they added their loud chatter to the clamor of the assembled crowd below.

The birds pirouettes served as a preamble to that days silleteros parade, an event that recalled colonial days when peasants from the hills of Santa Elena descended on the city with chair-like contraptions on their backs, known as silletas, overflowing with fresh flowers. These journeys to the market led to annual celebrations so colorful and fresh that they are said to instill a poetic view of life in those who watch them. Only Santa Elenas native sons and daughters have the right to be in the parade, and they take pride in maintaining the spirit of the region.

A little over a decade ago Medelln was still in the grip of outlaw groups, suffering from a continuous wave of crime and shootings. Today, under more peaceful circumstances, the same city prepared to show the beauty of its flowers and the jovial nature of its people. The hovering smog that stung the eyes during work days now yielded to a contagious mood of carnival: clapping, laughter, vendors shouting out their fares, accordions humming songs with hip-swing rhythms, girls in peek-aboo skirts of dazzling colors, dogs looking for morsels, and everywhere, the pervasive scents of homespun recipes.

As the sun grew hotter on my head, I caught the smell of fresh buuelos, the cheese-filled fritters best known as the treat of festive days. I was about to leave my spot to sample them when a loud roar of voices announced the start of the parade. Marching slowly at the head of the first group was a graceful woman in her early senior years. A wide-brimmed hat gave her shelter from the sun, while a pair of jute sandals allowed her to walk with measured aplomb. Her provincial dress, crisp white with red embroidery made her look like a member of a country doll collection. She came within a few feet from where I stood, wiped her face with a small handkerchief, and with the poise of a gracious hostess turned around for us to enjoy a full view of her creation.

It was a stunning work of art. At the center of the arrangement she had woven a golden cushion of saw grass with arching, fluffy spigots that resembled the chest of an African plains lion. The saw grass was surrounded by a narrow band of pansies that copied in their petals the patterns of exotic butterflies. They, in turn, guided my eyes to a tapestry of violets and daisies matted with the skill of an old master. More silletas followed, some carried by men with trimmed mustaches, others by stern-faced family matriarchs, and still others by young children. In every display the sum appeared greater than the parts: in the brightness of yellow daffodils; in the purity of calla lilies and carnations; in the serenity of mimosas and petunias. I struggled to relish each design before they moved along to be replaced by new ones.

Years earlier, with the murder of Jorge Elicer Gaitn, the most revered caudillo in Colombia's modern history, the country had descended into an abyss of mayhem and injustice. Armed groups appeared on both sides of the political divide, setting off a decade of bloodshed known since then as La Violencia.

The experience was as horrid as it was ultimately senseless: conservatives (the blues) and liberals (the reds) were massacring each other for no apparent reason. Men and women who had lived on good terms for generations were transformed into enemies without cause or provocation. In the mountains and the valleys, in the towns and in the villages, the blues killed the reds and the reds killed the blues without debating goals or ideology. There was also little choice on affiliation: people were born into one party or the other. In time, a persons political alignment became a fighting word that could lead to certain death. When confronted by armed bandits, only those who quickly claimed membership in the party of the group attacking them had some chance of surviving. My own father guessed right several times, but many from his region guessed wrong and ended up as fodder for the vultures.

In the face of armed attacks from various groups, my parents were forced to flee their home in an adjacent mountain region. The abundance of the fields was soon replaced by deprivation in the city. When I turned 15 I had to quit school to work in a gold mine, a trying experience for men of any age. Low flying bats buzzed over my head as I marched into the caves every day. Water from cavernous ceilings constantly dripped on my shoulders. At night, my mother poured wax from burning candles over the open blisters that resulted as I traded pen and pencils for pick and shovels and wheelbarrows. Yet, the silence of the mountain drove me closer to the one refuge still within my reach: my thoughts. While I chiseled the rock day after day my thoughts became my own redemption, for they constantly brought back words my mother had often repeated in my childhood: Only education will some day lead to success.

After a year of work in the gold mine, I returned to my native city of Ibagu hoping to start on my ninth grade. All secondary schools charged tuition at that time, and financial aid was non-existent. With the first day of classes fast approaching, I decided to ask for help from private individuals, but the prospect that strangers would heed the calls of a shy, bony teenager seemed nil. The stream of hope I had with me when I came down from the mountain soon dwindled to a trickle, and I began to resign myself to the idea of going back to the gold mine. That changed when, in a moment of extraordinary fortune, I met a young man from Fremont, Ohio, who had recently traveled to Ibagu to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer.

End of Part One

2007-04 FOC Newsletter