12.18.2012 - 12.18.2012
In Cartagena: the sunset blazing the sky pink, golden clouds feathering every which way. And beneath, the grand, crumbling city with its crush and garble of people pushing their way through the heavy heat, through each other. In the small square in front of the church, a Christmas performance for the niños, row upon row of children squirming in their white plastic chairs or placidly sucking lollipops. A drunk man shouts curses at the church while the police look on impassively. He goes on and on. The children stare and then, one by one, turn their wide gazes away. A boring religious video begins playing on a fluttering white make-shift screen, and even the parents grow restless. Then the dancers come and we are all captured, especially by that one beauty with the plump face and dimples, her skirt twirling prettily, coquettishly, and all the performers so animated, so garishly happy, but too soon it's over, they've trooped off to a standing ovation, the religious singalongs begin, and the spectators fade into the night.