Magical Realism

Boyacá, Colombia
April 21, 2017

A light rain smothered the kindled warmth found in every wooden façade. The clay tiles that weave serrated rooftops bled in dull streaks. Birds abandoned their post as if the fog tugged the power lines. Potted flowers added a much-needed color in the grey mist. I could smell the fragrance of roses drip onto the dark cobblestones and down the centuries old path. Their sodden branches reached between the barred pillars like an outstretched hand, bearing the weight of the persistent storm. 

In the distance, I shared the lonely road with a silhouetted woman - featureless and indistinguishable. It seemed we were the only souls that roamed this ghost town. I was cloaked in a local disguise: a woolen poncho called ‘ruana’ to shield me from the frigid nature of the Andes. For once, I felt completely invisible. I shadowed her, preparing my camera underneath it. She had an ominous aura in her that I wanted to capture. 

The town let out a sigh. Faint church bells from the basilica towers rang out, spreading somber vibrations throughout the town. But I felt a different pulse, when all at once, the old woman turned slightly toward me with a cursory glance. She was aware of my lingering presence, but there was a vacancy in her eyes. A myriad of emotions flushed over me: terror, curiosity, bewilderment. I could not move. I did not wish to flee. In the instant apprehensive and inordinate calm, I questioned my own mortality. 

Time paused. I felt transparent and ageless. Only my eyes had any function as my body pinned where I stood. Rainwater flooded my boots with haste, a drainage carved from the burden of domesticated hooves. I watched the rose petals in the windowsill give in as the bitter rain leadened. There was an eerie attraction that stole the living as fallen flowers gathered in the pools beside her. She continued slowly down the path without hesitation and embraced the fog. When I could finally feel the dampness cling to my bones, I walked to where the woman evaporated from my view. I tried to retrace her steps, but she was gone. The crimson petals, once vibrant and full, drowned in a graveyard of pale and lifeless transparency beneath my feet.

I know nothing of death, perhaps even less so of life. To this day, I am incapable of articulating what truly happened. But there is a phantom that dwells in this unhallowed place. Maybe for a moment, it was I who disturbed the living.