What I found (and what not) about Colombia in the world of “Colombian” sonideros from the Mexican city of Monterrey.

What do you like so much about Colombia? I’m asking you.

“Mostly folklore,” says Abel Sánchez of Sonido Colombia.

“His people,” adds Francisco Ontiveros of Sonido Brasilia. “The way they behave is very friendly, they take care of you, they provide you with what they have: their home.”

I try to find an idea beyond the traditional names, but nothing: the typical dishes mentioned do not go beyond the paisa tray, they barely remember the cities they visited, and there is no trace of the political or historical reality.

On the other hand, they know much more about music than the average Colombian: unusual details of the famous record labels, biographical details of the musicians, and highlights and low points of every song, not just the famous ones.

There are references such as Andrés Landero, “the king of cumbia”, revered here and hardly going beyond the specialized niches in Colombia.

Celso Piña, the most important Mexican representative of the genre, discovered Colombia in 2010, 40 years after the formation of his important band Ronda Bogotá.

There are no Colombian grocery stores here, nor are Colombian national holidays celebrated, nor are there any football team games to watch.

But when these 60-something sonideros happen to pull out a record from Duéñez’s vast collection, they know what it is and what their best song is. They even hum a tune.

They dress in the colors of the flag, but know the same two or three cities as a tourist.

His obsession with Colombia takes place exclusively in music. They grabbed what came through the air and adapted it to their world, this world in Monterrey.

José Juan Olvera is a sociologist, journalist and doctor of cultural studies who has dedicated his career to studying the musical phenomena of northern Mexico. In 2005 he wrote a book called “Colombianos in Monterrey” in which he details the origin of it all.

“Colombian music from Monterrey is more than just a taste: it is a universe of meanings that allows the members of the group to interact, communicate, compete and at the same time differentiate themselves from the others,” he wrote at the time.

Although he notes a decline in the phenomenon two decades later due to the emergence of corridos and norteño music, he continues to believe that this phenomenon is more indicative of Monterrey and Mexico than Colombia.

Monterrey’s industrial boom, he tells me, attracted hundreds of thousands of workers from all over Mexico between the 1950s and 1980s.

“It is a marginalized population, not only economically, but also socially and politically, because they are not royal, are not accepted, have no land and find in Colombian music means of intersubjectivity that make their lives more bearable,” he tells me.

Olvera finds three elements of Colombian music that explain its roots: the lyrics that nostalgically speak of a rural environment; the instruments that, like the accordion, are part of the Mexican tradition; and the Afro element, which refers to a differentiated population like these migrant workers in Monterrey.

When they arrived, residents of popular neighborhoods like “La Indepen” were viewed as marginalized gang members, “marijuana people.” They began to be referred to disparagingly as “the Colombians” long before Colombia became famous for its drug trade.

Yasodari Sánchez, researcher and expert on the topic and the neighborhood, explains to me: “The San Catarina River (which separates Independencia from the center of Monterrey) was always a symbolic border that marginalized us, but Colombian music came to make people feel part of something, to explain this differentiation and to develop sources of employment and mechanisms of solidarity.”

When water reached the neighborhood or land deliveries were announced, it was these sonideros who announced it with their air trumpets.

Olvera adds: “Colombian music was different from the rock and roll and cha-cha that came from other parts; it was longer, more intense, and that made those who heard it feel privileged.”

Being “Colombian” was an attribute for some and an annoyance for others. A designation worthy of a separate, unequal society; indirectly linked to Colombia.

I was looking for a postcard from my country and actually found another photo from Mexico.

But as I interview this group of minstrels, I think it’s inevitable to associate some things with my country, even if their fascination with Colombia boils down to music.

The geography of Monterrey, for example, surrounded by huge mountains, is the most Colombian I’ll find in Mexico.

The same applies to the work culture in Monterrey, which is considered one of the most prosperous regions in Mexico. All thanks to an obsession with starting a business and getting ahead that sounds very much like Colombia, the country that gets up so early and responds on the principle of “work, work and work”.

Furthermore, this music came not because Colombians brought it with them, but because Mexican and Colombian migrants met in the United States, exchanged records, and then brought them back. This reminds us of another aspect that these people have in common: their condition as exiles.

This story of marginalization, social stigma and labor migration that the sonideros tell me could well have happened in Colombia, if not in any other country in Latin America.

In reality, I find something bigger in this little Colombia: a symptom of the influence the country has had on the region.

Colombian music has spread throughout Latin America as if it were an anthem that brings together vastly different people who are almost always marginalized and mistreated.

Cumbia is, above all, a mark of identity not only here, but also in Argentina, Peru and Chile, because it was the result of the mixing of African, mestizo and Spanish cultures in the Colombian Caribbean and because it also has a rhythm and melody that is easy to adapt, listen to, understand and dance.

This brings me back to the conversation with the sonideros, who insisted on the festive nature of the whole thing: “Colombian music is for dancing and moving, it gets you out of your chair,” said Abel Sánchez.

This is also what I found out about Colombia in “La Indepen”: If there is one thing we can do, it is celebrate.

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