Manrique was born and raised in Colombia. He is the author of the
novels
Colombian Gold
(Clarkson Potter),
Latin Moon in Manhattan
(St.
Martinâs Press) and
Twilight at the Equator
(Faber and Faber). His most
recent works are
My Night with Federico GarcÃa Lorca
(Painted Leaf Press),
a collection of poetry,
and
Sor Juanaâs Love Poems
(co-translated with Joan
Larkin).
Forthcoming in
1999
is his autobiography,
Eminent Maricones.
He
has been a teacher in the MFA Program at Columbia University, and at the
New School for Social Research and Mount Holyoke College.
MERRY CRISIS AND A HYPER NEW YEAR!
I GREW UP in Barranquilla, on the Atlantic Coast of Colombia. Normally a steamy cauldron, this Caribbean port is cooled each December by trade winds that bring crisp evenings and intimations of the Christmas season. Springlike conditions prevail, the
Iluvia de oro
trees and the
matarratones
blooming golden and lavender, looking like Christmas trees hung with neon lights.
The first pre-Christmas event in Colombia is La Noche de las Velitas on December 7. Celebrants decorate their front porches with hundreds of candles and colored lanterns. The families who observe this tradition stay up all night partying. At dawn, the revelers join the procession of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, whose feast day this is.
The next three weeks are like an ongoing Fourth of July: The nights become resplendent with the voices of children burning sparklers (which we know in Colombia by the more poetic name of âBengal Lightsâ) and with the overlapping noises of the
triquitraques.
Makeshift wooden
castillos
are built, and when they are set alight, crowds gather to admire brilliant displays of pyrotechnics.
Every year, my family journeyed to El Banco, a town on the shores of the Magdalena River, to spend Navidades at my grandparentsâ house. There, the Ardilas clan (my motherâs people) assembled: my grandparents, their twelve children, and all the grandchildren. We arrived by Christmas Eve and stayed until New Yearâs Day.
I can remember congregating at night in the townâs main church to sing
villancicos,
our carols. Of course, we exchanged
aguinaldos,
and on Christmas morning there were the gifts
el niño Dios
had brought. But not all my memories of Christmas in Colombia are so happy.
Recently, I called my sister to probe her memory about our childhood Navidades. âAll I remember,â she snorted, âwas the men pulling out their rifles and guns and firing them into the sky, scaring me to death!â Yes, I also remembered this terrifying display of machismo.
My sister got me thinking. What else did I remember about these family gatherings? Then, slowly, it all came back to me: the real excitement of the holidays was provided by the seasonal family crises. Every year it was the turn of another of my young aunts to announce a romance. It seemed thatâno matter who the suitorâmy grandfather would automatically find him unworthy.
Christmas was not complete without one of the lovelorn
tÃas
trying to commit suicide by swallowing boxes of matches or dozens of firecrackers, or by slashing her wrists. When my aunts really wanted to scare us, they announced they were going to take rat poison. Fortunately, none of them ever went that far.
So while the aromas of
ayacas,
coconut rice,
arroz con leche,
and
natillas
emanated from the kitchen, life-and-death melodramas took place in the womenâs quarters. As stuffed turkeys and cinnamon-scented
enyucados
came out of the oven, and rice
pasteles
were wrapped in plantain leaves, the older women darted hysterically from the kitchen to the bedrooms of my aunts to save a life or two. It was a strain on the married women to make sure that the
pernil de puerco
was done to perfection, just before accompanying a younger woman to the hospital, or to remember to mix all the ingredients in the
pasteles
before they met with the doctors who constantly
novels
Colombian Gold
(Clarkson Potter),
Latin Moon in Manhattan
(St.
Martinâs Press) and
Twilight at the Equator
(Faber and Faber). His most
recent works are
My Night with Federico GarcÃa Lorca
(Painted Leaf Press),
a collection of poetry,
and
Sor Juanaâs Love Poems
(co-translated with Joan
Larkin).
Forthcoming in
1999
is his autobiography,
Eminent Maricones.
He
has been a teacher in the MFA Program at Columbia University, and at the
New School for Social Research and Mount Holyoke College.
MERRY CRISIS AND A HYPER NEW YEAR!
I GREW UP in Barranquilla, on the Atlantic Coast of Colombia. Normally a steamy cauldron, this Caribbean port is cooled each December by trade winds that bring crisp evenings and intimations of the Christmas season. Springlike conditions prevail, the
Iluvia de oro
trees and the
matarratones
blooming golden and lavender, looking like Christmas trees hung with neon lights.
The first pre-Christmas event in Colombia is La Noche de las Velitas on December 7. Celebrants decorate their front porches with hundreds of candles and colored lanterns. The families who observe this tradition stay up all night partying. At dawn, the revelers join the procession of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, whose feast day this is.
The next three weeks are like an ongoing Fourth of July: The nights become resplendent with the voices of children burning sparklers (which we know in Colombia by the more poetic name of âBengal Lightsâ) and with the overlapping noises of the
triquitraques.
Makeshift wooden
castillos
are built, and when they are set alight, crowds gather to admire brilliant displays of pyrotechnics.
Every year, my family journeyed to El Banco, a town on the shores of the Magdalena River, to spend Navidades at my grandparentsâ house. There, the Ardilas clan (my motherâs people) assembled: my grandparents, their twelve children, and all the grandchildren. We arrived by Christmas Eve and stayed until New Yearâs Day.
I can remember congregating at night in the townâs main church to sing
villancicos,
our carols. Of course, we exchanged
aguinaldos,
and on Christmas morning there were the gifts
el niño Dios
had brought. But not all my memories of Christmas in Colombia are so happy.
Recently, I called my sister to probe her memory about our childhood Navidades. âAll I remember,â she snorted, âwas the men pulling out their rifles and guns and firing them into the sky, scaring me to death!â Yes, I also remembered this terrifying display of machismo.
My sister got me thinking. What else did I remember about these family gatherings? Then, slowly, it all came back to me: the real excitement of the holidays was provided by the seasonal family crises. Every year it was the turn of another of my young aunts to announce a romance. It seemed thatâno matter who the suitorâmy grandfather would automatically find him unworthy.
Christmas was not complete without one of the lovelorn
tÃas
trying to commit suicide by swallowing boxes of matches or dozens of firecrackers, or by slashing her wrists. When my aunts really wanted to scare us, they announced they were going to take rat poison. Fortunately, none of them ever went that far.
So while the aromas of
ayacas,
coconut rice,
arroz con leche,
and
natillas
emanated from the kitchen, life-and-death melodramas took place in the womenâs quarters. As stuffed turkeys and cinnamon-scented
enyucados
came out of the oven, and rice
pasteles
were wrapped in plantain leaves, the older women darted hysterically from the kitchen to the bedrooms of my aunts to save a life or two. It was a strain on the married women to make sure that the
pernil de puerco
was done to perfection, just before accompanying a younger woman to the hospital, or to remember to mix all the ingredients in the
pasteles
before they met with the doctors who constantly
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