Experiencing Cartagena Through the Lens of Colombia's Most Renowned Magical Realist

Having grown up in Bogotá, I frequently visited Cartagena, but my first return as an adult was in 2018. My debut novel, Fruit of the Drunken Tree, takes place in Colombia, and after wrapping up a six-month book tour in the U.S., I called a car to head to the airport.

You might think I'd be eager to rest after eight hours of travel. However, after checking into my hotel, I slipped into my bikini, braved the hot sand, and stepped into the warm Caribbean. There’s nothing quite like it: that vibrant expanse of cerulean, a hue so rich and bright it feels almost surreal. Wading in until I was chest-deep, I indulged in my favorite beach pastime, reclining into the rhythm of the waves until I was floating and simply enjoying the moment.

To me, Cartagena is inextricably linked to Gabriel García Márquez — or "Gabo," as all Colombians affectionately call him. He resided there during his time as a journalist in the late 1940s, where his articles captured the gritty, enchanting, and magical essence of the Caribbean coast. Legend has it that Gabo would frequent the public plazas, waiting patiently for inspiration to strike as he observed the vibrant life around him. He wrote about a monkey owned by an organ grinder, a woman seeking abortive medicine, and the melodies of a macaw. Though much has changed since those days, with Cartagena now boasting numerous luxury hotels, the public plazas still pulse with drama and a lively spirit.

One evening, I found myself exploring Ciudad Amurallada, the historic colonial area surrounded by the coral-stone walls of the old Castillo de San Felipe fortress. In front of the clock tower at Plaza de los Coches, a boxing ring had been set up, a remnant of the previous night’s Afro-Colombian Mapalé dance performance. I grabbed a beer from a young vendor and picked a side to cheer for. The following day, as I passed by on my way to a salsa club, I encountered a group of young Black men drumming and singing traditional Cumbia songs. The music was so captivating that I decided to stay and enjoy it.

I hadn’t intended to linger in the plaza like Gabo or follow in his footsteps around the city; it just happened organically. Over time, I’ve learned a great deal about him — even developed a bit of a fanatical admiration. I’ve read many of his novels multiple times and own the English, Spanish, and illustrated editions of One Hundred Years of Solitude, his most celebrated work, which I revisit each year. His beautiful, lengthy prose and vivid imagination never fail to invigorate my spirit, and I see reflections of myself and my family in the characters he creates. It felt natural to trace his journey.

My next destination was the former La Merced monastery located on the University of Cartagena campus, which holds Gabo's ashes. In the expansive courtyard, a bust of the author is embraced by lush greenery. I learned that his ashes lie beneath a column, so I laid down the yellow carnations I had purchased at the market and poured a generous serving of 12-year-old rum into the earth, honoring his favorite spirit.

Outside the monastery, several men were stationed by typewriters on small tables, with handmade signs proclaiming their ability to notarize rental certificates, proof of paid services, and employment documents. One man had set a single cell phone on a small wooden stool, charging people 100 pesos per minute to use it. This juxtaposition of the sacred and the everyday felt quintessentially Colombian.

It took me some time to locate Gabo's residence. The peach-hued hacienda sits on Calle del Curato, nestled within the old fort's walls. The house isn’t accessible to the public; the only noteworthy feature is a white intercom that dedicated fans examine with reverence and photograph dutifully. Not only is it visually appealing with its large, inviting buttons that I couldn't help but touch, but it also serves as a powerful symbol. This is a device through which people once communicated with Gabo — one he must have handled himself.

Gabo often enjoyed evening strolls along the seaside walkway atop the fort wall, indulging in a cigarette. I followed suit, savoring the warm breeze on my skin, before heading to El Coro, the bar at the historic Sofitel Legend Santa Clara, which was originally a 17th-century convent. Gabo had frequented this spot, so I inquired with the bartender about his drink of choice and was served a rum cocktail infused with maracuyá and a hint of ginger.

As I sipped my drink, I listened to a live calypso band and, in a writer's spirit, joyfully and reverently observed the little dramas unfolding around the bar.

This story originally appeared in the August 2021 edition of Dinogo, titled Under a Spell.