TWILIGHT

Searching for Macondo

Wayn (Where Are You Now) is a networking website that connects people around the world based on their locations. I was directed to this site by an email message from a few of my globetrotting friends before I left for Colombia. I added in my destination of Monteria, Colombia and scoured the website looking to see if there was anyone else in this city. Not to my surprise, there was no one. There were a few people, however, in Bogota and other large cities, but that wasn’t going to help me. For the most part I forgot about the site, but signed in after a reminder I found in my inbox.

Towards the middle of September, I got a message through the site from a Brit now living in Monteria. It was simple and full of curiosity, “What the hell are you doing in Monteria?”

We exchanged messages throughout September and October, when finally we figured we should somehow chat over a beer—it is rare to see other foreigners in this city and thus no matter how far away home is, there is some sort of solidarity in being an outsider.

First was an invitation for a beer on a weekend that I went to Covenas, I had to pass. Next was my invitation for a beer at our local watering hole, but he had to pass as he was being shipped out for the week—working with MSF.

Another message and I sent Dee’s telephone number through the site, and told him of our whereabouts that Saturday evening. Apparently the security feature doesn’t allow for a string of digits and it showed up instead as a string of asterisks. And the bar I mentioned that we would be at…he was there, so were we, but we stayed outside. So close, but still no encounter.

So, finally I discovered another message in my inbox—he and his friends would be at Macondo—a new bar in the heart of the city.

It was a Saturday night, and with a few pints resting in our bellies Dee, a friend from Colombia and I set out on our search for Macondo.

Now here is the ironic thing, Macondo is a fictional city created by the legendary Colombian Nobel Prize winning author Garcia Marquez.

We jumped into a taxi, and mentioned the name of the bar. The driver had no idea of its whereabouts, and neither did we. We knew it was somewhere in the centre—3rd Avenue with 28th Street, but we weren’t sure. The cab driver sent out a call to dispatch, and came back with a negative answer. No one knew this place. We figured we would just go to the strip of bars on First Avenue and then start asking around—at least someone would know. We arrived to the strip and began asking, and we kept getting pointed in the general direction, but no one knew exactly where it was.

We walked for a bit, and at one point I had a collection of 3 taxis chatting with each other on the location of this bar, a bar I was beginning to think was just as fictitious as the city itself. The two cabs pulled away, and one stayed behind offering a ride without really knowing where the bar was. So, in my cocky but broken Spanish, I made the deal, “OK, We try to find the bar. We go to Macondo, I pay you. We don’t go to Macondo, I don’t pay you.” I could hear Dee and our friend laughing with skepticism behind me. No one barters with cabs here, but the cab driver went for it. And now was my turn to laugh.

We piled into the cab and began what was feeling like an arduous pursuit. We wove our way through the maze of the downtown streets, through red lights, around peddlers and drunks and a few homeless kids until we showed up to another new bar in the city—but it wasn’t Macondo.

We kept going, chugging through the potholes in the street, until we pulled up to what looked like an apartment building. We asked the people out front and like the magical realism that Marquez writes in, we found it. An applause for the driver and I handed him his fare.

We climbed up the steps to the 2nd floor, not sure of what to find as our ears were filled with someone bashing out chords on a guitar and a Spanish voice that reminded me of a Sesame Street character. There were people sprawled on cushions on the floor and some occupied little seats, only mere inches off the ground, sitting a miniature tables. Into another room, and there were regular tables with funky wooden chairs and host that greeted us in English.

We took a seat, and looked around the room, trying to figure out what this place was. It would have made a fantastic apartment—the open concept, the colonial architecture, and the Juliet balconies protruding from every window. We ordered and I started talking to the hostess about the MSF guys. She knew them, in fact, she was dating the one doctor, and mentioned that although they had planned on coming tonight, they were sent out to a village earlier this afternoon and most likely wouldn’t be making it back.

It was yet again a botched attempt connecting with another foreigner, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. It was like the mission to actually find this place became more imperative than actually meeting Rob. Besides, I knew we would eventually hook up—the city is way too small for the missed chances to continue.