The highest point in my city was no taller than Victor Moret, a black galley a little over six feet tall. The course of the Manakal River, the deepest, could be measured with cans and was navigable over an area of ​​about two square centimeters. According to some residents of Kemadens, it was an honor to be born in Kemado. The honor, according to Mingo Major, is comparable to being the godfather of a dwarf. However, some thick municipal pride made us consider ourselves superior to the natives of Rancho Velos, a nearby municipality, whose hill of La Vigia could look down on that bump on the ground, which we called with exaggeration “the hill” worthy of greater happiness. . We hated sagüeros, among other things, because Sagua la Grande was a judicial district, and our city was just a municipal territory. In addition, they had Undoso, its floods, its dam, and the house of Maria Camion (saguero brothel), located on the banks of the river, about which poets and writers as important as Jorge sang (towards the river, not in the bayou) Manach Robato.

There was only one prostitute in Kemado and only one mediocre poet who rhymed “Kemado” with “melado” and never knew what a conch was, a word so fashionable in the verses of other regions. He didn’t need to know. “Snail” is the perfect word to rhyme with “wave” and our winds, until the cyclone of ’33, were not strong enough to move the smooth surface of Manakal. The strongest gusts up to this point arrived like tired ones with a maximum speed of half a meter per hour. As if someone ordered the winds: Do not make waves!

The sugar harvest, the main economic activity of the city, lasted two months, and the remaining ten were idle. Since there was nothing to do, Marty Park in front of the parish church became a meeting place for residents. It was a privileged vantage point to see the beautiful faithful leaving the church, displaying their vaporous veils, leaving behind the unsettling smell of Maderas de Oriente. Gatherings were arranged at night. Domingo del Monte could not imagine what topics we discussed there. From the girl who lost her virginity after leaving the Liceo dance, to the secret visits of one of the guests to the house of a mill employee, when he left for work and left his young man alone for eight long hours.

One day, the bullying husband returned to find a document he had forgotten. Our friend was already inside. The meeting was lively. We all expected the crackling of a gunshot or the screams of a young woman caught red-handed. There were bets: “this will kill him”, “this will kill her”, “this will kill them both”. Nobody got it right.

Shortly thereafter, the bullying husband got out and got into a waiting rental car. A few minutes later our friend appeared and said to us with a smile:

“He came in, found us both naked in bed, and with the greatest calmness in the world reprimanded us: “How nice! If the one who enters instead of me enters, it turns out to be someone else, see how he finds them. Dress!”

Then I realized that if nature was not very generous to our people in terms of geographical accidents, then it was her children who should have left them in history.

To the dead of time, with its long hours of inactivity, and the hospitable shadow of Marty Park, the only place in the city with a 24-hour shade, I owe a powerful arsenal of anecdotes that paved the way for the profession I aspired to. practice throughout my life.

There are authors who, in their books, thank Borges, Lezama or Virgilio Piñera for the inspiration behind their work. This is a beautiful gesture that speaks of the modesty of these writers. I must thank Amaranto Stoker, Cayuko, Tareka, Cousita, Mingo Mayor, Pelon, Macho Kara’lpargata, Luis Puyita, Gaguing, Macho el Coho, and Raboe Gato for their valuable collaboration in the preparation of this memoir. It is true that they are not famous, but who would have thought that García Márquez would consider being born in Quemado with such a wonderful real name as Aracataca at hand.

Source: Juventud Rebelde