Friday Night in Santa Marta

Back in Santa Marta from the little beach town of Taganga, I performed my evening ritual. Showering at dusk has become a habit, washing off the heat and dust and preparing my pores for the cool onshore breezes coming off the bay two blocks away. I stood on the upstairs patio and leaned over the rail. The Dole Chile was at the pier; I could see the bridge over the housetops, and cranes unloading containers to be trucked to the inland plantations and filled with fruit.

No shortage of movement in the street below. Motorcycle taxis and police vans zoomed past an old man shuffling behind a coffee cart. Black with sugar, the fuel of Colombia. The steady cries of "Tinto. . . tinto. . ." interrupted by the raised hand of a at a tiny wooden table on the sidewalk. The old man filled a plastic cup for 10 cents and shuffled on, leaving the woman to sit and sip, pausing now and then to rearrange her few cell phones, wiping them with a red cloth. The tinto man and the call desk: two staples of the Colombian street. The scene was completed by a few men down the block in plastic chairs, gathered around a table full of empties. I've used this particular lady's services many times myself, sitting on a plastic stool while she dialled, waited, and. . . "Uno momento." The phone is passed, a conversation completed, and a few coins passed. Much more personal than a gray steel payphone.

Hectór filled the doorway of the restaurant across the street. A young waiter who'd taught himself some English, he'd promised this morning to play me some of his favorite reggaeton. So popular throughout the Caribbean, I'd never taken to the thumping beats and aggressive vocal style. He was sure I hadn't heard the right stuff and wanted to bring me around. When I asked him if he liked any English music, he glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. Shania Twain. I stifled a laugh and nodded politely. But tonight, he looked both ways and strode up street, past an impromptu shoeshine, pack of dogs in tow.

I felt a little worn but wanted to take in some of the street scene, and besides I had to go to the bank. I also wanted to revisit an arepa cart I'd discovered. The night before, a little bit lost, I stumbled across a flabby, frowning woman. One hand on hip, the other fanning a charcoal fire with a scrap of cardboard. I had to stop.

Arepas may be the national dish, little discs of cornmeal mush and cheese, grilled or fried, with many regional variations and fillings. I'd given up on them in Boyacá, where the arepas are thin, oddly sweet and as dry as the landscape. Here on the coast, I felt I had to give them another try. I was motivated by memories of tortillas in Central America. Had I visited Nicaragua first, I would have sworn them off. What a shame that would have been, because the steaming, toothsome tortillas of Guatemala are solid gold.

Up the street to the bank, music blasting from every door, window and passing taxi. I stood in the square fronting the Iglesia de San Francisco. Spinning in a circle here was a kaleidoscope of Friday night street life. Collared shirts hurried home after the working week, grabbing an empanada on the way.The street market up Calle 13 was pumping full throttle as lights came of and fuses popped. The booth selling new and used blender parts was doing a brisk business. The evening liquor market was coming to life: padlocks were pulled off and panels slid aside, revealing stacks of rum, whiskey and cheap white aguardiente. Right next to a church where evening mass was being sung. People strolled, chatted, and bargained. Beers were opened and fresh, sweet limeade was ladeled into plastic cups.

The bright lights of the liquor market fascinated me. Mothlike, I drew closer. That's when I almost walked right into him. I hadn't noticed him at first. He'd staked a prime location next to the market, but a little to the side at the entrance to booze row. The Professor. The thousands of watts bathing hundreds of bottles had almost drowned his small cart in the foreground. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a small man hunched over a smoking cart with faded blue and red letters. Arepas El Profesor. He wore the loose white shirt of a short order cook. Unmiling, he worked his grill, lifting his head only to scan the crowd for potential customers. His movements were intense, quick and purposeful, birdlike. One hand fanned the charcoal while the other slid the grill back and forth. Then the cardboard square was exchanged for a flattened spoon. Fresh banana leaves were pulled from a bag while thick round patties crackled and hissed. Engulfed in a cloud of smoke, full of the scent of toasted cornmeal, I was transfixed.

I love street food, I always have, and I marvelled at the professor's system. The raw mush is hand-shaped into thick patties, placed on small squares of banana leaf. Grilled on these durable leaves, the cornmeal cakes don't scorch or burn. The leaves char and blacken, shielding the arepas and producing the perfect balance of crispness and color. Flip, hiss, slide, smack. Our eyes met briefly, recognition passed, and all I could manage was a muttered "Una, señor."

It took time to win him over, but two arepas and a few subtle expressions of pleasure softened him. I ventured small talk. I told him I was traveling American and that I write about food (both true.) I produced my notebook. I talked up the coastal version. I asked about the recipe, knowing all the while that removed from the moment they could never be replicated. As I jotted down his remarks, the tall liquor tout at next stall grinned in a wolfish but winning way. The professor kindly allowed me a photo and I thanked him.

The notes had barely left my hand before the friendly wolf launched into his pitch, which began with Amigo! and ended with very good price. He held a small stick, which he waved and tapped to draw attention. He also used it as a pointer while discoursing on the merits of this or that rum. I bargained him down on a small bottle and waited while he hit his neighbors for change. Most of the booze vendors were middle-aged women who seemed greatly amused at my presence, so I grabbed the wolf's stick, waving and tapping, whistling at passerby. "Señor! Rum, rum, rum! Whiskey, whiskey, aguardiente! Best price!" The ladies cracked up and started ribbing the wolf. Still trying to find a 10,000 for me, he tapped a girl of about twenty on the shoulder. Here's your change amigo, 10,000 pesos, take her! More laughter as the girl stamped her foot. I smiled and said 8,000. The wolf pressed a bill into my hand, the girl's eyes widened in mock fury and I walked away to the sound of shouts and laughter. Colombians are friendly people.

Back on the patio, the Dole Chile was still being unloaded. I squeezed a lime into a glass of rum and chatted with a Dutch couple and Tony the Finn. We talked about arepas, South America and hammocks. They were comparing notes on Venezuela when I excused myself and went to bed. Drifting off under the fan, listening to the night noise, the last thing I heard was "Tinto. . . tinto. . "