The trip of this summer vacation has been more than just a relief from stress. Not only for me, it has been for the rest of my family that accompanied me.
Sometimes the analogy that the wires connect seems to be so real that there is no time for reflection. The summer heat and the desire to go bathing in the river cut the melancholy of «Right here it was«, For a while but after almost five hours of travel, lying in a hammock I could find the stream Immediate, at the exact pixel almost with the precision that alone Plex.Earth can do it.
This was the place where I was born, and I spent my first years of childhood. Half of what he knew and believed was magical; So much so that sometimes I thought it never happened:
- The mañanitas going up to the potrerito where my dad milked the cows; We took foam from the milk bucket using a guava leaf. In the background the mistiricuco still sang a plaintive moan for the chicken that could not eat at night and the love affairs that were lost at dawn.
- Then I ate corn tortillas, freshly made, hot, divided over a plate of fresh milk. A little salt gave them an incredible taste ... although when I tell it, my children see me again with one gacho eye.
- My dad's boys came for lunch at noon; One of them was Don Jerónimo (Chombo), the most bustling. They killed a hen, cut his neck over there by the pile and there was no lack of "More tortillas for white dona«. Just in that corridor they put a long table, before I had an absurd green rail that took away the crisp whitewashed walls with lime.
- And in the afternoon Aunt Leda's cousins came to play; Materinerero on a come and go, then they sang one that shook me with fear «Doñana is not here, he is in his garden.... »this when the premiums came. And when Wil was coming we played spinning tops in the patio, or cashew seeds in a hole under the Tamarind ... until we no longer saw through the darkness and when the Guacos began to sing there by the side of the slamming door.
I went to school in the morning, we left very early and with almost an hour of road uphill towards the town called La Laguna we arrived. Half day of classes with blackboard painted on the wall and eraser made by hand. The return was faster because we came downhill, screaming and running with friends who were staying at their homes from where Don Toño Blanco to cross the ravine where Wil said goodbye. And so we came home. A couple of tortillas with beans and butter were lunch; The rest of the afternoon was going to bring the cows that grazed in the Plan del Castaño, we bathed totally naked for a while in the pool La Cachirula and then we climbed with the cows up the hill to the Sabaneta.
This school was a consequence of the death of the grandfather, who installed in that place a free school that worked in the morning and where children from nearby towns made their sixth grade for free. In the afternoon, his clinic worked, where people attended to receive services from the only doctor in hundreds of kilometers around.
The grandfather's connection was quite strange. Most of my cousins studied with him, and he tells the unpublished story "El Cuco" that some patients with distance died on the road or had already healed when they arrived, and did not return just because of the curiosity of meeting a doctor of true. On their way back, they were surprised to learn that they didn't charge and the reprimand of not having sent their children to school this year.
Then came the civil war and abruptly the thread broke to what I thought I understood my short eight years. Everything started when the first group of subversives passed, with green backpacks on their backs and green olive caps; two of them with beards that betrayed them as Cubans, Nicaraguans or fans of that style; although in my opinion it was just a group of idiots. They took my father's 22 rifle, the dagger of the bone of a deer, and they left that feeling of being on a list with which we received little communion.
From there shots and bombs sounded everywhere, at all hours of the day but it was getting worse in the afternoon when the airplanes bombed the villages of El Tule, Las Raices and El Burillo caves. Suddenly, every day, from all the villages on the banks of the Araute River, refugees came to the house, their husbands and children had fallen in love with the Farabundo Martí guerrilla. The mothers seemed deranged, their hair tangled, some with just a sandal, watching through the windows at what time the guard came to kill them.
We lived a stress fighting our toys with flocks of children who arrived every day, who smelled strange, spoke little and cried almost for everything. Then they left, leaving a dog and suitcases in the barn with the promise of returning.
In the end there were so many dogs that my mother managed to give them poison with the excuse of avoiding an epidemic of rabies. But the truth is that there was no food even for us, with so much foreign mouth to feed, with so much war tax to pay; my mother ended up making almost a quintal of tortillas every day to feed the camp that was above the house, in front of the Nance tree.
It has been interesting to walk this same road, with 40 years in my gray hair. After having read the book Seven Sparrows and seeing that I was about to be part of the El Rosario massacre while We would flee to Honduras, many things make sense. The story connects, with another perspective. People understood things as absurd as war could not happen but that was also inevitable. At the end between the lines they identify that it was a lawsuit between the poor, while the leaders now outside the country are millionaires and owners of banking empires; while on the mountain it is impossible to return because the roads were lost.
In my view of listening to what those who stayed there think, I have spoken with many people who now no longer fear telling reality. I was able to go to the museum of the revolution, where I heard the voice of a guide who was a guerrilla from the 12 years ... history has another meaning, that of the suffering priopio.
It is no longer worth my selfish perception of why they took away the yard where I played marbles, or why they took my father's cows without asking permission.
When you listen to the version of someone who never had anything, except the dream of fighting. Convinced that the armed struggle did not leave much, except the pride of having fought for an ideal. You realize that human beings are intense in everything we do. For some heroes, for others cursed ... as divine as we are humans.
The feelings cross ... I regret the 7 cousins I lost, the 4 uncles, and other distant 6 family.
He regrets having lost his only 3 brothers, his dad, and more than 11 close relatives. She regrets that her sister has been paralyzed by a bullet in her skull, that her uncle is handicapped by stepping on a mine, that four of them could not even bury her because her grave does not appear, that her uncle's two children have been strung the air with the dagger of a bayonet and that their biggest cousins of just 10 and 12 years have violated them before assassinating them. Then, he counts one by one how his friends, militia comrades died ... in the skirt of the Volcancillo, in the Cerro
Perquín, in the descent of Ojos de Agua, in the slope of Azacualpa, in Chorreritas, in El Rosario church, in Cerro Pando, in Cruce de Meanguera, in La Guacamaya, there in San Vicente, in Usulután ...
This is how exciting our life is. As the years pass, our memory automatically defragments and sends bad tastes to the bottom. Then he brings to the surface the best moments and chains them in a basting that goes out to remind us that it was just like that. Already optimized in standards returns every time we lie in a hammock, bringing to mind scenes that seem to be part of a story, and mixes with the happiness that we now produce those who are close.
With the difference that 32 years later, there are no differences.
- I was a privileged person whom he hated. Time made me grow progressive roots until I changed engineering for a social career.
- He, a renegade willing to die for his cause. Now aware that he is a survivor for something more than a miracle.
This is how healthy it is to connect threads with the past, forget grudges and close cycles. In doing accounts, there are more lessons behind this place ...
By the way, the place is called Zatoca. As ZatocaConnect