The Storyman
The Storyman in his storytelling hammock. Taken with a disposable camera.
The old man sits upright in the hammock as it gently sways side to side in the dark, warm evening. A flaming torch bathes him half in firelight. Marble-sized red seeds alternate with long, white cow’s teeth to decorate the rim of his upturned cowboy hat. He wears a necklace and bracelet to match. A Storyman decorated with teeth, perhaps to make up for the lack of his own.
He speaks in old, rural Colombian Spanish. Difficult to follow, even for the native Spanish speakers who sit with me in the dark, but context can go a long way. Earlier in the day we went to a festival in the nearest town, 13km away across a bumpy ranch road, that turns into a gravel road that finally turns into a paved road lined with fields of pineapple, watermelon and African palm.
The festival is held in Los Llanos, one of the five geographic regions of Colombia, and celebrates four colours that represent the story of the four peoples: white for the Spanish, yellow for the Moorish, black for the Afro-Colombians and red for the Indigenous.
The Moorish, the Arabic people, were never in Colombia, but they are celebrated for drawing the Spanish out of Colombia to fight for control of the south of Spain. The festival consists of a few hours of men dressed up as these four groups, riding horses that match the colours of the people, processing around an outdoor stadium posturing and play fighting.
The mood is high, the divisions are visible but not felt despite the crowd also being made up of the four peoples this festival celebrates. Vendors sell cool beer, snacks and toys in the hot sun. Some of the spectators wander around with pots of oil, smearing the thick, sweet, dark liquid on whoever is willing. The clouds gather, turning the sky a petrol blue but the rain doesn’t fall.
On the way back from town we stop to pick up the Storyman. He lives with his extended family in a small townhouse typical for the area. We step through the blue wooden door from the street into a space that’s half home, half garden. The kitchen opens into the green courtyard, no doors or walls to divide inside from out, only a cover to keep the rain off. It’s warm here, all year, no need to keep the weather out, every need to let it in. A young child plays with a small yellow chick, bare feet on the tiles.
We sit in silence in the dark evening as the Storyman tells us of the history of Colombia, of Los Llanos, and of course, of the four colours of the four peoples. Memories of the festival earlier in the day mix with his words. The firelight, the dark, his voice, the soft fur of the dogs at my feet. Everything draws me into the moment, carried with the momentum of a story only half understood. The Storyman’s voice rises and falls. He speaks of modern Colombia being built on old Colombia, of buried people and ways of living, of main roads that were once trade routes. He raises his voice higher, louder. Intense energy fills him and fills the air, surrounding everyone until the story crescendos. Everyone cheers about something I don’t understand.
Lightning flashes in the sky all evening but no thunder comes. This lightning is coming from the mountains, and we’re in the plains, a five-hour drive away. The flashes in the sky are matched by pinpricks of bright light flashing nearby: fireflies decorating the jet-black silhouettes of the trees that surround us. Darkness and light. The story of Colombia.
