Throwing Up All Over Corozal

This weekend I headed four hours north to a small town named Corozal. The road there ran through rolling hills filled with small towns and farm land where cattle and donkeys escaped from rickety fences like prisoners, walking single file down the highway like they had somewhere to go. I saw a group of ten kids, no older than twelve, trying to pull a full grown cow back into its fence with a rope small enough to use as a belt. I was throughly entertained until they disappeared behind a mountain of green.

The houses in the towns we drove through were stacked on top of each other, surrounded by mud and lakes itching to flood over. We stopped at a small resturant –really just a house with seats outside and a sign hanging from a wooden post– to eat lunch. Once our food was served a teenage boy came out of nowhere and stood behind us, staring at our plates. His face was smeared with dirt and his shoes were sizes too small. He pointed at our food for a minute without saying a word, then began muttering rice over and over. We all gave him some food and he sat down under a tree with a family of cats, eating as slowly as possible. I couldn’t help but watch him. He cleaned the plate, put it back on our table, and walked away. Before leaving he passed another table behind us, grabbed a piece of chicken off someone’s plate while he wasn’t looking, and vanished behind a house.

I was told before leaving that I would be the first gringo that many people in Corozal had ever seen. So, naturally, I put a mask on and ran around scaring little children. I kid, I kid. I decided to take another route. Little did I know the pizza I ate the night before was making its way through my intestines, pounding its war drum and sharpening its spears. A sharp pain in my colon around eight was followed by hours of throwing up. People would bring me medicine or make me drinks they said would cure me. What I didn’t give to the toilet I watered plants with. When the bathroom floor became more comfortable than my bed I decided it was time to go to the hospital. I spent the night there for 35 USD with no health insurance forms or valid ID. I rolled over in my hospital bed around 3 am to see Julian staring at me laughing. Behind him stood a small audience.

We went there to play at an event for Julian’s uncle, a famous painter who recently returned to Colombia. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to go. Later the next day I came back to life and we spent the night like most families here in Colombia do, sitting outside playing music and telling stories. Next time I’ll have a good one to share: the gringo who threw up all over Corozal.

Check out Omar Figueroa Turcios’s website to see all of his work. It’s incredible: http://www.turciosart.com/