It has been an extremely complicated month, all for wanting to leave well closed administrative processes. Today, after going to collect the last messaging package that was pending, I sat for a moment to enjoy the feeling of having finished things well, and more than feel joy, I dropped the nostalgia of what happened to me long ago. I went through an express coffee, and while the foam felt remorse by the half spoonful of sugar, I felt the feeling of my 8.4166666 Junes.
The last two years I had changed location three times, from the most hidden village in the meandering of Araute River, after the army opened its bombers eliminating any sign of life in the communities of El Tule and Las Raices.
After the bombing (Spanish figurative meaning: “bombardeo” alludes at not a quiet lunch but an extremely hurried one, where food came one after another without space time) lunch, we left loading light weight luggage so as to allow the possible medium bustle race, passing down wire fences and the jump over transom doors. With four dogs and one of the three cats we crossed Llano de Vargas, following the signs left by the midnight mob; there were rubber sandals on the road, taken from the hurry and mud to that group who dared to the odyssey at night.
Looking back, it was like the end of the story of King Bera, smoke rises from the freshly bombed houses, in the foothills of El Macheton, where Los Hernandez, on the other side of the Finquita (Spanish idiom: “finquita”, little ranch) nearby El Trapiche. The only hope was that those people had had the cunning of lunch not inside their homes, as planes turned kitchens in perfect white smoke.
So I got a second home, the school had closed doors since June, after the pretty eyes’ teacher was killed; people offered us base per ball (Spanish sport Idiom: “base por bola”, in its figurative meaning, people gave us the best they could and had) and begging for mercy don’t insist on going forward. The walls were stained with messages from the Popular League- February 28, at the gate in a chain tied with sweet wire; the red rag hanging from the flagpole said everything.
After nearly three months of trying, we finally reached the border, where we took refuge in a small house, and every afternoon, at 4 PM we were at the center of the Goascorán Bridge waiting for my mother coming with the paper which confirm that the treaty peace between the two countries had been signed and we could enter. We did about 37 planes we released from the railing of the bridge, until the last page of my notebook of stories was finished, I wanted to do one with the covering but its hardness was about to make me a hangnail.
Finally the response arrived, just when there was money to eat for two days and for the transport that would lead us to a village called Minas de Oro. I crossed the border with only one from the three suitcases police didn’t seize, with pockets filled only with the hope of a new country, new teachers, new political; only aware that the dead relatives could not be replaced, nor my collection of rocks of obsidian, much less my notebook of illustrated stories.
So terrible has been the last month, about so striking is the sense of freedom, 8 scrawny post made me feel lazy, till the fact is that now I even have readers’ president wanting to build a union, Je, je. It’s left back this year with its coups, economic crisis, the political campaign, the bad taste of fieldwork. It come one again to make things bigger, with two technicians I keep, the best this crisis didn’t removed from me and for those whom I would put my hands on fire (Spanish Idiom: “poner las manos al fuego”, to entrust in someone without doubts) because I know they would do (and already have done) the same for me.
The best, the 16 supervisors who were taken from 230 technicians trained, that for six months were being tested on their technical capacity, accountability, ethical values and tusk of living. From those, at least 10 are determined, in their short age, not to leave pregnant girls or heartbroken men in inhospitable places where they were sent; proved to be made from the same timber of their instructors, ready to unveil if it’s required to do a cadastral closure and fight until finding what the topological cleanup dangle required.
There will be time to do great things with these guys in the next 25 years. Meanwhile, thanks for waiting 3 weeks a reply, 4 days a new post and 1 minute for this entry coming to an end.